by Teri Wilson
“Perhaps.” Her mother pursed her lips. “Perhaps not.”
Amelia stared. Her stomach clenched, as if she’d been physically struck. “What are you talking about?”
“Amelia, you know how important it is that everything go according to plan on Saturday.”
Of course she knew. If the wedding hadn’t been so important, she never would have agreed to it to begin with. “What are you saying? You think I’m going to leak the design of my own wedding gown?”
“Not intentionally.” The queen lifted a knowing brow. “But accidents happen. I’m simply protecting you from yourself, darling.”
Amelia didn’t know whether to feel furious or ashamed. She had a right to choose her own wedding gown. She was a grown woman, and she was saving the family crown. Her mum should be thanking her right now, not doing her best to remind Amelia of her past mistakes.
But she sort of deserved it, didn’t she? She’d been playing with fire all week, since the moment she’d first set eyes on Asher Reed.
“I need a minute,” she blurted, gathering her voluminous skirt in her hands and climbing down from the pedestal.
Amelia’s hands were shaking, and she couldn’t quite catch her breath. If she took one look at her mother, she’d burst into tears. She refused to cry. If she broke down in front of the entire design team from London’s most prestigious atelier, she’d only prove the queen right. Everyone would know she was a train wreck. The illusion would be shattered, and it would be all her fault.
“Where do you think you’re going?” her mother hissed.
“I don’t feel well all of a sudden. I think I just need some air.” Her eyes burned. She blinked furiously and headed for the door.
The designer who’d gone to retrieve the train returned with it folded neatly in her arms and stopped in her tracks. She glanced from Amelia to the queen and back again, seemingly unsure whether or not she should follow the runaway bride.
“My daughter will be right back.” The queen’s voice was smooth and serene. Overly so. “Amelia darling, don’t keep us waiting long.”
* * *
AMELIA DIDN’T REALIZE WILLOW had followed her hasty retreat until she’d reached her suite and turned around to shut the door behind her. The dog stared at her, wide-eyed. Amelia stared back. She needed to be alone for a minute. Truly alone. No stylists fluttering around her, going on about what a beautiful bride she was. No queen reminding her how she always managed to screw things up. No dogs.
Willow’s ears swiveled back, and she gave Amelia her best pitiful puppy look.
“Faker,” Amelia muttered. The corgi was a bigger drama queen than the monarch herself. “Fine. Come on in.”
If Amelia didn’t let Willow in, she’d just burst through the dog door. She held the door open until the dog waddled her way inside, and then she slammed it closed.
She couldn’t believe she was getting ready to walk down the aisle at Westminster Abbey, and she didn’t know what she’d be wearing. Her frustration wasn’t about the dress, though. It was about so much more, mainly the fact that she was beginning to realize that what she was about to do wouldn’t change her place in the family at all. She was just a body they needed to prop up at the altar and exchange vows with one of the Becketts. If there’d been someone else—anyone else—who could have done it, Amelia wouldn’t have been asked. She knew as much without a doubt.
“What am I doing, Willow? Am I making a mistake?”
Willow cocked her head at the sound of her name. Unfortunately, that was her only commentary on the subject.
Amelia sighed. She couldn’t question her decision now. It was too late. Besides, whether her mother believed in her or not no longer mattered. Because Amelia believed in herself. She believed in the crown, and she would do whatever she had to do to protect her family’s legacy.
She just wished there were a better way.
Oh, how she wished.
Keep dreaming. Have you forgotten that you’re wearing a wedding gown right now?
She tried to sit down on the purple velvet sofa at the foot of her bed, but the dress puffed up around her in an explosion of lace and tulle. She couldn’t seem to see straight either. No matter where she turned, things looked fuzzy around the edges, not quite in focus. She blinked—hard—convinced she was losing it. Then she reached up to rub her eyes and realized there was a wedding veil pinned to her upswept hair.
Ugh.
She unpinned it, placed it in a wispy pile beside her, and dropped her head into her hands.
You can do this. Nothing has changed—just the dress. Does it really matter what you wear?
It didn’t.
Amelia just wished she could have one tiny shred of control over her wedding day. She’d take anything at this point.
Woof.
“Sod off, Willow.”
Couldn’t the dog see that she was in the middle of a crisis?
Woof. Woof. Woof.
Apparently not.
“Please, Willow. I can’t even hear myself think.” Amelia looked up to glare at the corgi, but Willow’s furry little face was obscured by a giant puff of diaphanous white.
The veil.
Amelia bent to pick it up, but just as her fingertips made contact with the gossamer fabric, it moved out of reach. Oh no. Amelia flew to her feet. Willow dropped the veil long enough to let out another bark, then snatched it back up in her jaws and scurried across the room.
Amelia did her best imitation of her mum’s voice—the one she’d used a few times on Edward and Oliver with remarkable effectiveness. “Drop it right now.”
The corgi didn’t flinch. She picked up speed and ran in one continuous loop around the room, daring Amelia to chase her.
What choice did she have? The veil was dragging on the ground, tangling into a knot beneath Willow’s little paws. If it wasn’t already damaged, it would be any minute. Amelia would end up bringing it back to the fitting full of holes, which would just prove the queen right about everything. How could Amelia be trusted with top secret information about the wedding dress when she couldn’t even manage to keep the veil intact?
God, it would be humiliating, and Amelia would once again feel utterly useless.
No.
It wasn’t going to happen. Not this time.
“Give me the veil, you thief.” Amelia picked up her skirt and ran after Willow.
Chasing the dog was useless, though. Amelia kept tripping on layers upon layers of frothy white tulle. So she stood very still and let Willow zip past a few times, then dove at the dog when it seemed she might be letting her guard down.
But Willow had a solid backup plan. Because of course she did.
Just when Amelia thought she had her, the corgi made a hard turn to the right and disappeared through the doggy door with the veil still dragging behind her.
“Oh my God. Come back here!” Amelia yanked the door open and ran after her.
Willow was having the time of her life. She didn’t run down the hall. She bounced, as if there were springs in her little corgi feet. Amelia was falling behind by the second.
This is bad. Really, really bad.
What if Willow burst into the queen’s sitting room with the veil still clamped between her teeth? Amelia would never hear the end of it.
But Willow had other plans, apparently. Instead of continuing her jaunt down the length of the Queen’s Hall, she made another sharp turn and headed straight for the Blue Room.
No. Just no.
“Willow, bad dog! Terrible dog. Stop, please.” Amelia had no more shame. Zero. She was pleading now.
She kept begging right up until the second Willow plowed through the dog door of Asher’s bedroom.
* * *
ASHER HAD JUST STEPPED out of the shower when he heard a loud bang, followed by a mass of flying fur wrapped in a puff of white dart into his room.
He didn’t know what to make of it at first. It looked like some kind of barking ballerina, which could only
mean one thing.
Willow.
Asher wrapped a towel around his waist and regarded the dog. He knew better than to try to grab whatever illicit object she’d stolen. That would only ignite another game of chase, and he wasn’t exactly dressed for it. “What have you got there, Willow?”
She let out a gleeful bark.
Asher took a tentative step closer, which unfortunately left him in the direct path of the next surprise to come bursting through his door.
“Son of bitch,” he yelled, as first the door itself banged into him, followed quickly by another, larger puff of white.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the puff said. “So, so sorry. Did I hurt you?”
Asher pushed a wad of tulle away from his face to reveal the second intruder’s identity. It was Amelia, which he should’ve been able to predict. Less predictable, she was wearing a wedding dress. Not just any dress, but a grand, glittering affair covered in white lace and enough tulle to outfit an entire ballet company. A gown fit for a princess.
Naturally.
He swallowed. Hard. She looked like a cupcake—sugary sweet, decadent. Good enough to eat.
“I’m fine,” he croaked.
He wasn’t fine. In the span of half a second he’d gone from shocked to aroused. He was hard as granite and, as fate would have it, wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
Amelia’s palms were planted against his bare chest. He needed her to stop touching him. Soon. But she didn’t seem to realize she was doing it.
“Um, I didn’t mean to . . .” She blinked up at him. The tip of her pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips. Not helping. “I was following Willow. She stole my veil. I would’ve knocked, but I thought you’d left for rehearsal.”
Every drop of blood in Asher’s body had shot straight to his groin. He could hardly see straight, but he could see well enough to appreciate the way Amelia’s dress accentuated her tiny waist and the swell of her breasts. He forced himself to look her in the eye, but somehow his hands found their way to her hips.
“We have a late start today,” he said, sliding his hands upward until they found her rib cage, where he could feel her heart pounding beneath the delicate lace.
“I see.” Her voice had gone breathy. It was the sweetest sound Asher had ever heard, better than a full-blown symphony. “Well, I . . . um . . . I obviously didn’t realize you’d be here. Or that you’d be so . . .” She glanced at her hands, still resting against his pectoral muscles, and finally seemed to realize she was touching him. Not just touching him, but also digging her nails into his dampened skin. “. . . so naked.”
She took a backward step but her hands stayed put. Her gaze dropped to his towel and the conspicuous bulge of his erection and lingered there. “Wow.”
“Amelia.” Flushed to perfection, her eyes darkened with desire.
He was going to kiss her. He had to. He’d managed to stop himself last night, but not this time. He couldn’t. If it got him thrown in the Tower, then so be it.
“Oh God, sorry.” She dragged her gaze upward, but still couldn’t seem to make it past his exposed chest.
“Don’t apologize, Princess,” he groaned, and then he pressed her against the bedroom wall, touched his lips to hers, and took what wasn’t his.
“Asher.” She gasped into his mouth—just a tiny hitch of surprise at the moment his body pressed against hers—then she melted into him and kissed him back.
It was more than a kiss though. So much more. It was the soft, supple heat of her lips, the exquisite relief of finally giving in to the temptation he’d been battling for days, and the agony of knowing there was so much more to give. To take.
“I want you,” he whispered against the graceful hollow of her neck as her hands explored his back, moving lower. And lower still.
At this rate, he’d be completely naked in half a second and she’d still be standing there in her wedding dress.
“Yes, please,” she purred.
It was all the permission Asher needed.
He sifted through the miles of tulle on her dress, searching for an opening. He’d never figure out how to get her out of the thing, and there wasn’t time anyway. Amelia was kissing him with an urgency that plainly told him slowing down to unbutton a wedding gown wasn’t an option. That was a good thing as far as Asher was concerned. He had a feeling he might realize what an insane mistake he was about to make if he slowed down for any reason at all.
Best not to stop then.
He kept pushing layers of tulle aside until he finally made contact with skin. His fingertips brushed against the softness of Amelia’s inner thigh, and she made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a groan.
Asher nearly came right then and there.
“So sweet,” he murmured and slipped his hand beneath the wispy fabric of her panties.
What the hell are you doing?
His conscience was screaming at him, but Asher willfully ignored it. His body had a mind of its own all of a sudden.
Amelia arched toward him, moving her hips and grinding against his hand. Asher wouldn’t have thought it possible for his cock to get any harder, but it did. He was hard to the point of pain. Every ounce of his blood flowed straight to his erection, which seemed like a convenient excuse for his staggering lack of judgment at the moment.
He slipped a finger inside her. Someone moaned, and Asher realized it was him. He couldn’t help himself. She was so wet. So ready. She was teetering right on the edge, and he wanted to watch her fall. He wanted that more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.
He slipped another finger inside her and moved his thumb in a circular motion. Once. Twice. That’s all it took.
Amelia let out a shuddering breath and fell apart.
Asher’s heart thudded so hard that it hurt to breathe. He pulled back to watch Amelia’s face. She looked so damn beautiful—raw, real, unguarded. He could have died right then, and his life would have been complete.
Then he made the mistake of letting his gaze drop lower . . . to delicate white lace and tiny glittering crystals.
Asher froze.
She’s wearing her wedding dress.
What were they doing?
He swallowed hard and searched her expression. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, already swollen and bee-stung from their kiss. Asher’s chest hurt just looking at her. Did Holden Beckett have any idea how damned lucky he was?
“Look at me, babe,” he whispered.
They couldn’t do this. He couldn’t let it happen, even though he’d been the one who’d started it.
Amelia would probably despise him now. Good. She should.
She opened her eyes. No woman had ever looked at him the way she was gazing at him now, like he was everything she’d ever wanted. King of the world.
He shook his head, ever so slightly. “We can’t . . .”
Amelia blinked, and her eyes filled with tears. Her bottom lip began to tremble.
“How dare you,” she said. “Don’t ever touch me again. Better yet, don’t ever speak to me again.”
“Amelia, I . . .”
“Don’t.” She planted her hands on his chest again, but this time as leverage to push him away. “I said don’t speak to me.”
She gave him a final, searing glance and bent to pick her veil up off the floor. Willow let out a whine and crawled under the bed.
Then Amelia stormed out of the room in a white-hot fury.
Asher had made a royally huge mistake.
CHAPTER
* * *
TWELVE
The first thing Amelia did the next day was take over the whole thank-you note writing situation herself. All of it. No more signing her name to letters written by her ladies-in-waiting. Amelia’s engagements had dwindled to nearly nonexistent, so she had the time. And she was consciously aware of the reason her daily calendar had become so light—the wedding. Her wedding.
She was getting married the following day.
She had no business kissing a handsome American cellist. None whatsoever. Especially not while he’d been practically naked and she’d been wearing her wedding gown—a dress she’d wear when she exchanged vows with another man.
She’d had an orgasm. Every time she thought about it, she wanted to die.
She was a horrible person. What kind of bride did those things with someone else just days before her wedding? Granted, it was sort of an arranged marriage. But Holden had been nothing but kind to Amelia for her entire life. He professed to love her. And if she had hopes for any kind of a real future, a real family, she needed to learn how to love him in return. Arranged marriages grew into genuine love all the time. Or so she heard.
She and Holden would be one of those couples. They had to. She couldn’t live the rest of her life with this sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was time to stop living in denial. The wedding was happening. Holden was ready and willing to be her husband. The only thing standing between them was Amelia’s sense of doubt.
And possibly, her recent infatuation with Asher Reed.
No more of that. She shook her head as she reached for another cream-colored thank-you note. No more running around the palace late at night. No more lying in bed, listening to his music.
And no more kissing.
It had been a lot more than a kiss this time, but it was so wrong that Amelia couldn’t even think about it.
Wrong, yet so very, very enjoyable.
Stop.
She had a plan, and that plan involved staying so busy that she wouldn’t have time to even think about Asher. The thank-you notes would make certain of that. Tonight, she’d just have to use noise-canceling headphones so she wouldn’t hear his cello. Better yet, she’d issue an order forbidding him from rehearsing in the palace. She’d have James deliver the news. Those were two problems solved right there.
Which left only the biggest problem of all. The orgasm.
It couldn’t happen again, obviously. Her one saving grace had been that Asher had initiated the whole encounter rather than the other way around. But if she was being honest with herself, that was merely a technicality. She should have stopped him. A proper royal bride would have slapped him in the face.
