by Teri Wilson
“No, I wouldn’t.” It’d be a cold day in hell before he agreed with Jeremy about anything, especially his playing. Even if it had indeed sounded like garbage.
“Well, you’re wrong. And for God’s sake, Asher, the princess is here.”
“I’m aware.” More accurately, Asher was aware of little else.
Every nerve ending in his body was still on high alert. She lingered somewhere in the building, milling about. Every so often, he could hear the lilting sound of her laughter drift through the partially opened door. It had a floating, effervescent quality, like Mozart’s Sonata no. 17 in C.
Jeremy jammed a hand through his hair. “We talked about this, and you told me everything was fine. I vouched for you, Asher. If you screw this up, it’s not just your head on the chopping block. It’s mine, too.”
Asher highly doubted that. If he botched his performance on the big day, he’d probably never book an important gig again. Jeremy, on the other hand, might be finished in royal circles, but he’d still have the rest of the world clamoring at his feet.
“You have some balls, I’ll give you that.” Asher glared at his former mentor. “But if you think trying to blackmail me with your reputation is going to work, you’re fucking crazy.”
Jeremy’s face went red, either from rage or shame. Asher wasn’t sure, but he wouldn’t have bet any money on the latter. “You gave me your word. Are you mucking this up on purpose? Do you have some kind of twisted, self-sabotaging revenge plan?”
Right. As if Asher had canceled all his commitments and squirreled himself away for weeks on purpose, in hopes that the British royal family would come knocking at his door so he could take a huge, humiliating dive in front of billions so that people would blame the conductor.
“What you’re suggesting is not only insulting, but also categorically incorrect. If you think I’m still hung up on Serena, you couldn’t be more wrong.” Seeing her again had confirmed it. There’d been no hint of awareness, no attraction whatsoever.
He had more important things to worry about than his love life, or lack thereof. Although, his floundering career hadn’t kept him from devoting a great deal of thought to Amelia . . .
“Get it together, Asher. This is the last time we’re going to have this conversation. Understood?”
* * *
AMELIA LINGERED IN THE lobby longer than she should have, chatting with the Cadogan Hall staff and patrons from the London Symphony, who’d made the arrangements for the wedding’s orchestra rehearsals. She managed to keep up with each exchange, despite continually scanning the space for another glimpse of Asher.
She didn’t even know why she was holding out hope of seeing him again. It wasn’t as though they could have any sort of real conversation in public. But that didn’t seem to matter. Every time she thought she spied him out of the corner of her eye, her breath caught in her throat and her face went warm.
It was ridiculous, really.
And improper on every possible level.
She needed to leave, before she managed to forget about Holden and her engagement altogether.
“Amelia?”
She jumped at the sound of someone calling her name. Clearly she had an even guiltier conscience than she realized because whoever had said it sounded a lot like Holden, her elusive fiancé.
Amelia turned around and froze. It was Holden. He was there, now, striding toward her from the other end of the lobby.
Of course it’s him. Who else would be calling you by your first name?
“Amelia.” Holden bent and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. It was only then that Amelia registered Lady Wentworth’s presence beside him.
Holden took a step back and gave Amelia a questioning glance. “What are you doing here, darling?”
What was she doing there?
Amelia wasn’t quite sure. She just knew that having Asher in the room right next door to hers, yet not setting eyes on him for two days was slowly driving her crazy.
There’d been no reason to pop into his room. No more corgi disasters. No calls for help. Either Willow had somehow become a model of obedient canine behavior, or Asher had decided to avoid contact with her. Knowing Willow as well as she did, Amelia settled on the latter. And she didn’t like it. Not in the slightest.
They’d had something, hadn’t they? He’d kissed her. He’d lied for her. To the queen of England. That at least made them friends, didn’t it? Partners in crime, if not more? It seemed that way at the time. And then . . .
Nothing.
She didn’t quite understand it. Granted, she’d been avoiding him, too. With good reason.
She liked him quite a lot. He was handsome and charming. And somewhere beneath his tortured musician exterior, he was kind. Kind in a way she hadn’t experienced before.
Most people she met were so enamored by the whole royal thing, they fawned all over her. Asher was the opposite. He somehow left her with the impression that he liked her in spite of her royal status rather than because of it. It was a refreshing change.
Still, she knew her place. She was getting married. She really shouldn’t pursue any kind of relationship with him. Not even friendship . . . not when she’d somehow developed the annoying habit of going breathless when they were in the same room together. So she’d gotten ahold of herself and given him up.
She’d just never expected him to do the same.
“Amelia? Is something wrong?” Holden’s voice broke through the fog in her head.
She nodded, pasted on a smile, and glanced back and forth between him and Lady Wentworth. “Not at all. I had an opening in my diary, so I thought it’d be a nice idea to visit the orchestra, especially since so many of the musicians are from other countries.”
Like America.
She swallowed. Was she making any sense? For all she knew, Asher was the only non-Brit in the entire building.
Lady Wentworth nodded and said something about one of the violinists being from Italy. Amelia had forgotten she was a patron for the orchestra. That explained her presence at the rehearsal, but now that she’d had a moment to recover from the shock of running into Holden, she realized she didn’t know why he was there either.
“And you?” Amelia asked.
He smiled, but took a moment to answer. “Same as you, darling.”
“I see.” She tried to force a similar endearment out of her mouth, but nothing happened. “I’ll let you get on with it, then. It was a lovely surprise running into you both.”
Amelia moved to hug Lady Wentworth. She was ready to get back to the palace. This little escape had suddenly become the epitome of awkward, and it was all her fault. She should have known better than to come here.
She’d just wanted to watch Asher play. She still heard him sometimes at night. Even through the thick Buckingham walls, if she listened very hard she could hear the plaintive strains of his cello. Sometimes she recognized the tune from the list of songs on the wedding repertoire. But more often than not, it was the song he’d played for her in the Abbey. She liked that one best of all.
Hearing wasn’t the same as seeing, though. She liked the look of furious concentration on his face when he played. She liked to watch the muscles in his shoulders and upper arms ripple beneath his suit jacket, moving in time with the strokes of his bow. There was a beauty to his melody that had nothing whatsoever to do with sound.
“We should be getting inside. Mr. March is expecting us.” Holden’s gaze darted toward the auditorium.
“Mr. March?” Amelia said absently. She wanted to leave so very, very badly that half of what Holden said was flying right over her head.
“He’s the conductor,” Lady Wentworth said. “Surely you met him during your introductions to the orchestra?”
“Right. Of course.” Amelia’s face went hot. “Silly me.”
Would this conversation ever end?
“You two go on. I need to get back to the palace. So many things to do before Saturday!” Saturday. The wedding.
&n
bsp; Oh God.
“Good-bye, darling.” Holden reached to give her arm a pat, but over his shoulder she could see the conductor and Asher engaged in a terse conversation in a small room off the lobby.
“Enjoy the music. It’s quite wonderful,” Amelia said, drifting toward the exit.
She paused for a moment while Holden and Wilhelmina headed to the auditorium, silently forbidding herself from glancing in Asher’s direction until they were fully out of sight. Once they were gone, she allowed herself a tiny peek.
Whatever was happening in the small room didn’t look good. The conductor—Mr. March, apparently—was talking and gesticulating wildly while Asher stood listening, stone-faced and silent. She couldn’t tell what was being said, but she got the distinct feeling Asher’s performance hadn’t been up to par.
She disagreed. Strongly.
Granted, his playing hadn’t had the same magical quality that it had in private. It had been a little tentative. He seemed to be holding back for some reason. But he was a genius. Couldn’t this horrible Mr. March see that? And this was rehearsal. She was sure Asher would be brilliant on the big day.
Her wedding day.
For a moment she envisioned the Abbey overflowing with flowers and guests in brightly colored fascinators and felt a familiar yet annoying pang of . . . something. Dread? Disappointment? Guilt?
All three probably. But she squared her shoulders and ignored it. She didn’t like the way Mr. March was talking to Asher. She was halfway tempted to do something about it.
She wouldn’t, obviously. That would be inappropriate. Borderline crazy. Simply showing up at rehearsal unannounced had been risky enough.
Risky, but worth it.
Asher hadn’t made any outward indication that he knew her. But that simple skin-to-skin contact had been unmistakably intimate, especially when he’d taken his thumb and run it slowly along the hidden inside of her palm. That’s the moment she knew she hadn’t been imagining things. They had a connection of some kind.
They still did.
Not that it mattered. After the wedding, she’d certainly never see him again. But at least now she knew.
He cared.
So did she. Why else would she be standing there in Cadogan Hall at the moment?
Why was she still standing there?
Amelia sighed, turned, and headed for the door. She was a princess. People stalked her, not the other way around. The fact that she’d manufactured an excuse to crash Asher’s rehearsal shouldn’t be satisfying on any level. It should be humiliating.
She squared her shoulders and marched across the smooth tile floor. Her security officer, Ben again, nodded as she approached and reached for the door. But as he held it open for her, her footsteps inexplicably veered off-course.
Ben frowned as she walked right past him, toward the room where Asher and the conductor were still having their awkward tête-à-tête.
What am I doing? Had she lost her mind?
Yes, apparently she had.
“Excuse me for interrupting, gentlemen,” she said brightly, joining their meeting without bothering to knock.
At the sound of her voice, the conductor’s head whipped around quickly enough to give him a case of whiplash. Good. Amelia didn’t particularly like him at the moment.
“Your Royal Highness,” he blurted. He gaped at her for a second before bowing at the waist.
Amelia took the opportunity to glance at Asher. As usual, she couldn’t get a read on what was going on in his head. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word. He stayed put with his arms crossed and an impassive look on his face. Their eyes met, and something in his gaze hardened.
She felt very silly all of a sudden. Asher was a grown man. A world-class cellist. He could take care of himself. This wasn’t the palace, and Mr. March wasn’t an unruly corgi. It wasn’t just the two of them in their pajamas anymore.
She’d miscalculated. Clearly.
Too late. Here I am.
She glanced around, and realized the three of them were standing inside some kind of supply closet. Odd.
“Can I help you with something, Your Royal Highness?” the conductor asked.
“Yes.” She took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed rehearsal today, particularly the cello solo.”
Over Mr. March’s shoulder, she could see Asher scrubbing a hand over his face and sighing. Whatever was going on, it didn’t seem as though she was helping.
“Oh.” The composer’s brows crept up his forehead. “That’s . . . ah . . . marvelous. This is the cello soloist right here, actually. Mr. Asher Reed.”
He gestured toward Asher, whose suddenly tense jaw and razor-sharp eyes made him look somewhere between angry and mortified. Possibly both.
“Yes, I remember.” Amelia nodded. If he’d been anyone else, she would’ve offered her hand again. Given his a shake.
She didn’t dare. The air in the room was already thick with unspoken emotion. She was certain Mr. March could tell that she and Asher knew one another. If not, he was as blind as he was deaf.
Amelia smiled at Asher. Her lips twitched, the way they usually did when she realized she’d said something indiscreet to the press. “Your playing is exquisite, Mr. Reed. It means a lot to me that you’re here.”
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness. I’m honored to play for you.” He dipped his head, and when he looked up, his gaze softened. Just a little, but enough to make Amelia feel warm all over, like she’d just stepped into the sun after a dreary London winter.
Then she blinked, and in a flash, his expression was neutral again. Amelia thought that maybe it had never changed to begin with.
CHAPTER
* * *
TEN
Against his better judgment, Asher stopped at a pub on his way back to the palace after rehearsal. For the better part of two hours, he sat at the bar with his cello case propped conspicuously on the barstool beside him. He probably painted quite a picture.
He didn’t care. He needed to think—and drink—before he went back to the Blue Room.
Asher wasn’t sure what to make of Amelia’s surprise visit to Cadogan Hall, but it gave him good reason to believe he’d find her waiting for him again when he returned. He desperately hoped he was wrong. At least he thought he did. He wasn’t sure anymore.
Three pints later, he wasn’t any clearer on the subject.
But he’d managed to avoid the hustle and bustle of palace life. The day before, a tour group had been making its way past the grand staircase when he’d returned. Two days ago, there’d been some kind of award ceremony going on. The place was like Grand Central Station.
He couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Amelia growing up there. No wonder she was as a nutty as a fruitcake.
Asher grinned as James escorted him through the dimly lit Queen’s Hall toward the Blue Room. He’d always been partial to fruitcake.
But Princess Naughty had overstepped her bounds this time. She’d injected herself into his career. How was he supposed to explain that to Jeremy? Still, when James opened the door and there was no trace of Amelia anywhere among the sea of blue, the tug in Asher’s chest felt more like disappointment than relief.
Woof.
As usual, Willow was situated on his pillow. What was it with that dog, anyway?
Asher frowned. “How does she keep getting up there?”
The bed was huge, a good foot or so higher than his king-sized bed at home.
”She barks until someone picks her up and lets her on the bed. Apologies sir, but . . .”
Asher held up a hand. “The corgi rule. I know.”
James nodded. “How was rehearsal today, if I may ask?”
”You may. It was . . .” Where to start? “. . . eventful.”
“I see. Due to the late hour, am I to assume you’ve already eaten, or shall I bring you dinner before I escort you to your meeting with the princess?”
His
jaw clenched. “What meeting?”
“Princess Amelia requested your presence in one of the state rooms upon your arrival. Shall I let Her Royal Highness know you’ve returned?” James looked like he might be struggling not to smile.
At least someone found the situation amusing.
“No, thank you,” he said tersely.
Willow let out a snort, and Asher shot the dog a dirty look.
James’s smile faded, and he tilted his head. “Sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”
“No, thank you. As in, no. I’ll pass.”
“But I have instructions.” James cast a worried glance toward the wall Asher’s room shared with Amelia’s bedroom.
Asher sighed. “Look, I don’t want to get you into any more trouble. I promise. But I really don’t want to see the princess right now.”
Or ever, if he was smart.
He’d let her presence get to him. He’d paid more attention to the way her auburn hair fell down her back, the elegance of her supple spine, and her delectable, impertinent mouth than he had to his music. It hadn’t gone unnoticed. Not by anyone, least of all Jeremy.
Asher deserved the dressing down he’d gotten. He hadn’t appreciated the accusation of sabotage, but his playing had been lousy. Still, being interrogated as he stood next to a collection of cleaning supplies had been unpleasant enough even before Amelia decided to crash that gathering, too.
Jeremy had been dumbfounded. And more than a little suspicious.
Whatever Asher and Amelia had going on in the palace was one thing, but taking it outside the castle walls was another entirely. He had a career to worry about. A career that was already on rocky footing, without adding rumors of royal nepotism to the mix. She’d been trying to help, he realized that. But he didn’t want an explanation or an apology or whatever she had in mind. He wanted to stay angry with her. That was the best thing for both of them.
“Perhaps you’ll be ready to meet with Princess Amelia in half an hour?” James said.
Asher leveled his gaze at the page. “I doubt I’ll feel differently in thirty minutes.”
