by Teri Wilson
“If I may, sir.” James cleared his throat. “I don’t think you want to miss this.”
Asher exhaled a tense breath. “Is refusing going to do any good at all?”
“Not really, sir. No. I have my orders.” James at least had the decency to look contrite.
“Fine.”
James nodded. “Very well. I’ll inform Her Royal Highness and return momentarily to escort you.”
Once he’d gone, Asher slipped back into his suit jacket, which he’d shed when he’d been under the assumption he was in for the night. The state rooms sounded formal, and Amelia had seen enough of him shirtless in pajama bottoms.
Maybe the summons was an official thing. If she’d wanted to see him alone, why wouldn’t she pop into his room? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t done so before.
But exactly thirty minutes later, James walked Asher halfway across the massive building and opened a set of gilded double doors to reveal Amelia waiting for him. Alone.
“Hiya.” She gave him a little wave.
Asher didn’t say anything. Just the sight of her was enough to take his breath away, as always. But the surroundings were so picturesque, he almost felt like he was looking at a portrait of Amelia.
Instead of being framed by four walls, the room was curved into a wide semicircle at the far end, swathed with plush red velvet. Black marble columns separated the row of tall, bowed windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. The ceiling itself was a huge dome, inlaid with shimmering gold leaf. A massive chandelier fitted with slender white candlesticks and draped ropes of crystal teardrops hung overhead.
Asher had thought he’d gotten a good glimpse of royal opulence during his first few days at Buckingham Palace, but he’d been wrong. Dead wrong. This was like nothing he’d ever seen before.
And yet, nothing in the lavish room compared to the sight of Amelia bathed in shimmering candlelight, leaning against a glossy black grand piano and grinning at him like the cat who’d gotten the cream.
The effect was rather dizzying. Asher wasn’t sure where to focus. The piano looked like it might be a nineteenth-century Steinway, but he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from Amelia long enough to search for the maker’s emblem.
She was wearing flowing black satin pants and a fitted, plain white T-shirt, and her hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head. If not for her rich red lipstick and dramatic winged eyeliner—remnants from her earlier princess ensemble—she would’ve looked ready to crawl into bed for the night. Asher found the striking dichotomy oddly erotic. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he envisioned sweeping her off her feet, setting her atop the piano’s keyboard, and claiming her crimson mouth.
He swallowed. “Where are we?”
“This is the music room.” She waved a graceful hand at the piano. “I thought you might enjoy it. James mentioned you seemed uncertain, though. So feel free to leave if nothing here interests you.”
He had a good mind to turn around and walk out the door. He would have, but he couldn’t seem to make his feet move.
“You got me. I’m intrigued.” She no doubt thought he was talking about the spectacular piano, which was only partially true.
She slid onto the piano bench and patted the empty space beside her.
For a split second, Asher hesitated. The leopard hunt had been a bad idea, no question. This seemed far worse.
But if he’d been capable of leaving, he would have already done so. He strode across the expansive parquet floor and sat down next to Amelia.
Immediately, he was enveloped in her heavenly scent. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was—something floral and clean, reminiscent of fresh peonies on a dewy morning. His thigh brushed hers, and even through their layers of clothes, he could feel her softness. Her warmth.
He didn’t dare look at her. She was too close. And Asher was already starting to forget why he’d been angry, why being in the same room with her was such a colossal mistake.
He swallowed and fixed his gaze on the black-and-white keys in front of him.
“Do you play?” she asked.
“Yes. I learned on a piano, actually. It was the first instrument I could play.” He rested his hands on the keys. They were cool to the touch. Smooth. Familiar. “My mother was a piano teacher.”
“Was?”
He pressed down, and a buoyant chord filled the air. C major. The first, most basic chord of the musical spectrum. “She died when I was in college.”
“I’m sorry.” Amelia’s hand crept closer to his arm, but stopped short of his sleeve. “I’m sure she would have been very proud of you.”
“Not today, she wouldn’t.” Asher shook his head. “She was quite the perfectionist.”
“I understand.”
He swiveled his gaze toward her and for the first time, noticed the tiny gold flecks in her eyes. Somehow she looked more regal up close. Vulnerable. Honest. “Do you?”
“I’ve spent the better part of my life trying to live up to my family’s expectations. Sometimes I wonder if I ever will.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You sounded lovely today, but it wasn’t the same as when you played for me.”
“No, it wasn’t.” There was no use denying it. She’d heard the difference.
“Why?”
He sighed. He hadn’t talked to anyone about the stage fright before. Somehow, saying it out loud made it seem more real. “I’ve had some issues playing in front of people lately.”
“But not me?” She bit her lip.
Asher’s gaze dropped ever so slowly to her mouth. “Not you. No.”
Her lips curved into tender smile and this time, he could see it in her gaze. It seemed to shine from every part of her.
Asher had never wanted to kiss a woman so badly in his life. If she hadn’t been engaged . . . if she hadn’t been a princess . . . if there’d been no Holden Beckett, no crown, no royal wedding . . . he would have cupped her face in his hands, run the pad of his thumb over that decadent bottom lip of hers, and kissed her again. And this time, the kiss would only be the start of things.
It took every shred of self-control he possessed not to do it.
“Should I ask why you don’t have a problem playing for me in particular?” She swallowed, and Asher traced the movement up and down the exquisite column of her throat.
“No,” he said roughly. “You shouldn’t.”
That particular conversation was so full of land mines that no one would come out of it intact. Least of all Holden Beckett.
She’s not yours. Back off.
He slid a fraction farther away from her. “We need to talk about what happened at rehearsal today.”
She nodded wordlessly.
“You can’t come to my defense like that again. Things between Jeremy and me are . . .” Asher sighed. “. . . complicated.”
She blinked. God, she had the most beautiful eyes. Eyes that made him say and do things he knew he shouldn’t. “Complicated how, exactly?”
“He used to be my mentor.”
Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “Until?”
“Until two months ago when he took up with my fiancée.” Asher dropped his gaze to the piano again and he did his best to focus on the contrast of the ebony and ivory keys rather than the fact that what he was doing with Amelia felt too much like what Jeremy and Serena had done behind his back.
He couldn’t touch her. He wouldn’t. Granted, Asher had his doubts about Holden Beckett and the true nature of his relationship with Amelia—a whole host of doubts—but that shouldn’t matter. He didn’t want to be that guy. The betrayer. Not when he knew what it felt like to be on the other end of the equation.
“I knew I despised him for some reason,” Amelia said.
Asher let out a laugh. “That makes two of us.”
“Is the reason you’re having trouble playing because of what happened with this horrid Jeremy and . . .” Her voice trailed off at the end.
“Serena.”
“Serena
,” Amelia echoed. She looked as if she were trying the names out in her head. Serena and Jeremy. Jeremy and Serena.
Asher shook his head. Why in God’s name was he telling her any of this?
“Probably.” Asher shrugged. “Definitely.”
Stick to the subject at hand.
Asher cleared his throat. This wasn’t a therapy session. He was supposed to be telling Amelia to keep her royally cute nose out of his business.
“Like I said, things are complicated. He thinks the only reason I’m here is for revenge. I can’t have you jumping to my defense. It’ll only raise suspicions.” He gave her a sideways glance. “For both of us, most likely.”
She dipped her head until her dark fringe covered her eyes. “Right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said.
Then, in flagrant violation of his own No Touching rule, he reached for her chin with his fingertips and forced her to meet his gaze. “It was nice. But I don’t need rescuing.”
Her lips curved into a small smile and she lifted an accusatory brow. “Willow and I disagree with you on that one.”
“Point taken.” He released her chin and was suddenly unsure what to do with his hand, so he balled it into a fist in his lap. “If Willow holds me hostage again, feel free to intervene. But outside the palace . . .”
She nodded. “I get it. It’s just like when I told you to call me Amelia.”
How had she put it?
You can call me Amelia. When no one else is around, I mean.
Asher remembered it as clear as a bell—her bittersweet tone, the tug in his chest, the apology that glittered in her eyes.
“Exactly,” he said, realizing he no longer felt angry or guilty or confused or any of the other myriad emotions he’d experienced during the course of the day.
He felt sad all of a sudden. Inexplicably, profoundly sad.
Amelia looked at him, long and hard. Long enough for Asher to wonder if perhaps he wasn’t as virtuous as he’d like to believe, if under certain circumstances, he could indeed become the betrayer.
Her eyes grew shiny. “Play something for me,” she whispered.
So he did.
He didn’t think about it. He didn’t mull over his song selection. His hands began to move over the keys before he realized what he was going to play. Asher was two bars in before he recognized the tune as “Your Song” by Elton John.
It was more than a song. It was a story. One with words so familiar they seemed to rise up from the keys and hover over the grand room, without anyone singing them.
My gift is my song and this one’s for you.
When he reached the end, he waited until the final note faded into silence before he spoke.
“Sir Elton,” he said, just to ease the tension that had wrapped itself around them. He could barely force the words out. He could hardly breathe.
“He’s played this piano before, you know,” Amelia said in a voice just shy of a whisper.
Asher hadn’t known. But it made sense. Nothing in the palace was ordinary.
“So have Andrew Lloyd Weber, Paul McCartney, and Adele.”
He gave a little shrug, feigning nonchalance. “That’s all?”
“It seems like I’m forgetting someone, doesn’t it? Who could it be?” Amelia’s forehead creased in mocked concentration. “Oh, I remember. Asher Reed. Do you know him? American. Quite charming when he’s not scolding the palace dogs.”
“He sounds delightful.”
“You have no idea.” Her cheeks went pink, and she looked away.
Asher gave her shoulder a little bump with his. “Thank you for this. It’s been a while since I played anything just for fun. Maybe I should do it more often.”
She smiled. “My castle is your castle.”
Only when no one else is around.
Asher didn’t say it, of course. He didn’t want to ruin the moment. She’d done something kind for him, something that might actually help. He’d been so caught up in his career that he’d forgotten the joy of playing a song, the simple delight of a C chord.
But the words were there—beneath the lingering glances, the wistful smiles. Beneath the music.
Always, always there.
CHAPTER
* * *
ELEVEN
The following day, Amelia had her final wedding dress fitting with the designers from Alexander McQueen.
As with everything else involving THE WEDDING, as she’d come to think of it, the fitting was a team event, necessitating three stylists, two seamstresses, and the queen of England. Possibly an MI5 agent or two as well.
The six corgis were also in attendance. Obviously. They were in a big furry pile on the tartan dog bed, swiveling their heads back and forth in unison as the dress designers flitted about the room.
Amelia would have loved to go to the Alexander McQueen flagship store in Mayfair to try on her dress. She was beginning to get a bit stir-crazy, and returning to Cadogan Hall was out the question for obvious reasons. But of course, a trip to Mayfair was also impossible. The design of her dress had become the most closely guarded secret in London. Several decoy gowns had even been made, just in case someone within the design house succumbed to temptation and leaked information to the press. Rumor had it that the Daily Mail was offering a ten-thousand-pound fortune to anyone who could provide a simple sketch of the gown. An actual photograph of the dress would bring in five times that amount.
Only Amelia and the queen knew which of the gowns she’d wear on the big day. As such, the fitting was a major ordeal. The queen’s sitting room had been transformed into a bridal showroom, with a rack filled with half a dozen frothy white dresses, a pedestal, and oversized dressing room mirrors. There was an alterations station, complete with two sewing machines, and several plastic heads sporting wedding veils. Amelia’s calendar had been blocked out for the entire day. She was basically living an entire season of Say Yes to the Dress in real time.
“Amelia, stop fidgeting,” her mother said, as she examined Amelia’s reflection. “And for goodness’ sake, stop humming.”
“Sorry.” Amelia clamped her mouth shut.
The Elton John tune that Asher had played for her the night before had been spinning through her head on constant repeat. She hadn’t realized she’d been humming along out loud.
“I’m sure she’s just excited.” The lead designer gave the queen a knowing smile. “She’s getting married in two days to her royal groom. It’s like a dream come true.”
Not exactly. “Indeed it is.”
It was probably wrong that she couldn’t quit thinking about Asher while she was trying on wedding dresses. Scratch that. It was definitely wrong.
“It’s so good to see a happy bride. You look lovely,” the designer said as she arranged the train on gown number three into a dramatic swirl at Amelia’s feet. “Just lovely.”
“Thank you.” Amelia made a point to examine her reflection in the full-length mirrors that had been set up in her mother’s sitting room for the occasion. The current gown wasn’t the real deal. It might be lovely, but she’d never wear it again.
Just as she’d never sit beside Asher at the piano again.
She shouldn’t have done so the night before. But after interfering where she didn’t belong at rehearsal, she’d told herself she was simply making amends, even though she knew good and well it wasn’t true.
She was running out of ways to deceive herself. And that was fine. Because she hadn’t actually done anything wrong, had she?
She’d promised herself she’d stop turning up in Asher’s room, and she’d remained faithful to that vow. They’d met on neutral ground. Granted, she’d been the one to pursue him . . . yet again . . . but there’d been no romantic agenda. She’d simply wanted to help him, one friend to another.
Mostly.
Amelia closed her eyes, pressed her palm to her abdomen, and took a deep breath. She was making a terrible mess of things. What was wrong with her?
> Asher had nearly kissed her again. He hadn’t, but he’d wanted to. She could see it in his eyes. She could feel it in the way his gaze raked over her, hot and wanting.
Holden had never looked at her with such blatant longing before. No man had.
And when her gaze fixed with his, Amelia had caught a glimpse of her reflection in the beautiful blue of Asher’s irises and what she’d seen had terrified her.
Desire.
It was written all over her face. She wanted Asher. And she’d apparently given up on trying to hide it.
Thank God she’d come to her senses and asked him to play her a song. Who knows what she would have done if he hadn’t shifted his attention to the piano? Even after he had, she couldn’t stop watching his elegant hands as they moved over the keys. There’d been such reverence in his touch. Pure and humble adoration. Amelia would have sacrificed the crown itself to be touched by those hands, even once.
What must he think of her? She was supposed to be in love with Holden. She was Holden’s bride. The long white gown she was wearing at the moment was a pretty powerful reminder.
Amelia cleared her throat and focused on the delicate lace fabric of the dress. Holden is my future. He’s the one I should be thinking about. Not Asher.
“I think we’re ready to move on to the next one. Do you agree, ma’am?” The designer met the queen’s gaze in the mirror.
Amelia’s mum shook her head. “Not quite. Can we see what this one would look like paired with the longer train?”
“Certainly, ma’am.” The designer scurried off to retrieve the sweeping, cathedral-length train that had already been fastened to the gown she would actually wear on her wedding day.
Once she was out of earshot, Amelia fixed her gaze with the queen’s in the mirror. “Was that really necessary? I think they’re confused enough. I’m not sure we need to go any further to make it look like this is the real dress.”
The monarch arched a brow. “How do you know it’s not?”
“Because the dress with the gold trim and the glass beading is the one I’m actually going to wear.” They’d settled on that one two weeks ago. It had a huge tulle skirt that made Amelia look like she was floating when she walked. If she were blonde, the dress would make her a dead ringer for Cinderella.
