by Teri Wilson
He’d seen that gesture dozens of times—when her cat died, when she’d botched her Philharmonic audition, when she’d broken her wrist and had been unable to play her viola for the entire spring concert season. She’d even done it when Asher had found out about her and Jeremy. Now she was doing it again, and the circumstances were exactly the opposite.
I want you back.
Asher would be lying if he said he’d never fantasized about this moment. He had. Especially in the early days, right after she’d gone. He’d missed her. He’d missed Jeremy. He’d wanted everything to go back to the way it had been before.
But that wasn’t possible. And even if it were, Asher wouldn’t go back. Not anymore.
He still hadn’t conquered his stage fright, but he’d realized something in England. Something he’d forgotten along the way to becoming Asher Reed, Cellist.
There was more to life than music.
“Don’t be sorry. You were right, Serena,” he said quietly.
“No.” She shook her head. “I was wrong. Jeremy isn’t the man for me. You are. I know that now.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, and Asher stiffened. He felt nothing. Not even the tiniest spark of revenge. If anything, he pitied Jeremy. He pitied them both.
“I’m not.” He peeled Serena’s arms off of him and took a backward step. “I meant you were right about the music. I was too wrapped up in it. It was everything to me. You were right to leave.”
It was probably even for the best that she’d chosen to leave him for Jeremy. If it had been anyone else, he might not have ended up here. He’d lost everything again this morning. But he was still standing. Still breathing. And for one bright, shimmering moment, he’d felt alive. More alive than he had in decades.
“Go back to Jeremy, Serena.” Or don’t. He gave her a grim smile. “It’s almost showtime.”
CHAPTER
* * *
EIGHTEEN
Amelia had a whole new respect for Cinderella and fairy-tale princesses everywhere after being in the glass coach for less than a minute.
The carriage was wobbly, which was probably to be expected since it was more than 135 years old. The fact that it was being pulled by four white horses through Buckingham Palace’s cobblestone quadrangle didn’t help matters. The coach lurched and dipped with every trot of the horses’ hooves. Amelia felt sick before they even reached the east gate that faced the Mall.
“I don’t feel well,” she said. “It’s hot in here. Are you hot?”
“That’s because there’s no air in this bloody thing.” Her father rolled his eyes. “But the glass coach paints a pretty picture. You look lovely, Amelia.”
“Thank you, Dad.” She didn’t feel lovely. She could barely breathe.
The coach was smaller than it looked, and her tulle skirt filled most of the small space and overflowed onto her father’s lap. From the outside, they must have looked like they were sitting on a cloud.
The clip-clop of horse hooves slowed to a stop when they reached the gate. Uniformed palace guards moved from their stations to unlock the massive iron fence, and the horses pranced in place, tossing their heads. Sunlight glinted off the gold hardware on their bridles.
“Dad.” Amelia swallowed. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything, Amelia. What is it?” He collected a pair of white gloves from the pocket of his uniform and began pulling them on. They had nearly a mile of royal waves ahead of them.
Am I doing the right thing?
She couldn’t force the words out. Her mouth was dry as a bone.
She took a deep breath and licked her lips. But before she could speak, the carriage lurched forward and crashed into a wall of sound.
The roar from the crowds lining both sides of the Mall was deafening. Officers from the Queen’s Guard, dressed in crisp red coats and their famed bearskin hats, formed a protective barrier. But beyond the impossibly long line of familiar guards, it looked like the entire population of the United Kingdom had turned up to see her off for her wedding.
It was a sea of people. Amelia had never seen anything like it. Not even when her brothers got married. Then again, she’d ridden to the Abbey hours beforehand on those occasions—in the sedate interior of a Rolls Royce rather than the ceremonial pomp and circumstance of a glass coach. She’d also been heavily into the champagne by the time the weddings began. Princess Naughty always managed to live up to her reputation.
“What?” her father yelled, cupping his ear.
Amelia shook her head. This wasn’t the time or place for a heart-to-heart. She couldn’t hear herself think. Besides, the time for making decisions had passed. She was marrying Holden. The millions of Union Jack flags waving as far as she could see were a very real, very potent reminder. The wedding was happening.
The ride to Westminster Abbey passed in a blur of patriotic red, white, and blue. Even once the glass coach rounded the corner onto Dean’s Yard and the church came into view, all Amelia could see were its spires. The streets overflowed with happy, cheering Brits.
What would they think if they’d known what a farce all of this was . . . if they’d known that the night before, she’d given herself to Asher? There would be riots. They’d probably storm the gates of Buckingham Palace. It wouldn’t just be the end of the Amcotts, it would be the end of the monarchy altogether.
The coach door opened, and an attendant in military dress greeted her with wide grin. “Your Royal Highness.”
“Um.” She couldn’t seem to make herself get out.
“Amelia,” her father prompted.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go outside and face all of those jubilant people. This was a lie. All of it. And she was so tired of pretending. Tired of denying the truth. How could she stand at an altar and tell the biggest lie of her life in front of the entire world?
Worst of all, how could she exchange vows with Holden while Asher sat just mere feet away?
The guard cleared his throat. “Take my hand, Your Royal Highness. I can help you.”
No, you can’t. Couldn’t he see that? No one could help her now.
Her father gave her a nudge, and she took the officer’s hand as if she were in a daze. The only way she would get through the ceremony would be if she could put herself in some sort of trance. She did her best not to focus on anything in particular—not the wide red carpet that led to the front door of the church, not the roar of the people as she stepped into view, not even the archbishop himself as he walked toward her in a shimmering gold cloak. Maybe if she stared hard enough, it would all blend together in a spectacularly terrible blur and she could somehow get through the day and never remember any of it.
But it was no use. She was already noticing tiny little details—the archbishop’s shiny black shoes peeking out from beneath his robes, the sickeningly sweet smell of the hyacinths in the flower girl’s baskets, the way seeing it all through the weave of her veil made it seem like a fever dream. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t block anything out. She was going to have to experience every excruciating moment as painfully as if she were going into surgery without anesthesia.
Edward and Jane’s children—Amelia’s page boys and flower girl—led the way into the church. Up ahead, in the shadows of the sanctuary, Amelia could see Jane motioning to them to be quiet and behave, just like they’d practiced.
Or maybe those stern warnings are actually meant for me.
Be quiet.
Behave.
She let out a hysterical noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
Her father shot her a sideways glance as they entered the building, just out of sight of photographers. He whispered, “Take deep breaths, Amelia. This will all be over before you know it.”
But it would never be over. This was her life now. Her future.
She should’ve never slept with Asher. If she hadn’t, maybe she would have been able to hold her head up high and walk into the nave like a real brid
e, even knowing what she did about Holden and Wilhelmina. At least then she would’ve only been betraying herself.
Now she was betraying Asher, too. She felt as if he were still moving inside her, still running his hands through her hair and pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat. She should have kissed him more when she had the chance. She should have told him again how much his music meant to her.
She should have said good-bye.
But she didn’t, and now she was betraying them both.
Amelia looked up at her father and searched his gaze. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for—a sign of some sort. Some kind of assurance that Asher had been wrong. There was a simple explanation for the watch, the incident at the Abbey . . . for everything. It was a silly thing to hope for. Asher hadn’t been mistaken. She knew that, and if she hadn’t, her father’s reluctance to meet her gaze would have convinced her.
Did he know about Holden and Wilhelmina?
Did everyone know?
“I’ll be right back, darling.” Her father gave her arm a pat and headed toward the corner of the church where Holden’s brother Gregory stood, beaming as if he’d just won the lottery.
For all practical purposes, he had. He’d managed to take a rumor from an old diary and spin it into a place in the line of succession for his family. History would be made here today.
Amelia’s bouquet began to tremble in her grasp. It shook so hard that one of the English tea roses fell out of place. Amelia caught it before it hit the floor and tucked it back inside the arrangement.
As she did, she caught sight of the little lace square Eleanor had given her back at the palace. She’d forgotten all about it.
“Your Royal Highness, it’s time.”
Amelia looked up. The officer who’d helped her out of the coach nodded toward the sanctuary.
“I can’t . . . the sixpence . . .” She shook her head. Panic gathered in a tight knot in her chest.
The officer gave her a tight smile. “The ceremony has begun. It’s time for you to walk down the aisle.”
“Wait just a second,” she said as she tugged on the end of the slender blue ribbon that held the small lace bundle together.
“But there’s no time, Your Royal Highness. The music has already started.”
He was right. Amelia could already hear the opening bars of the anthem. Her father was walking straight toward her with his arm bent, ready to escort her into the nave.
Oh God, it’s really time.
She thought about Asher sitting alongside the other musicians, waiting for his solo. What was he thinking right then? Was he remembering their night together—the things they’d said, the things they’d done? Was he dwelling on the memories, holding them tight, lest they slip away?
She doubted it.
He was probably furious with her. Furious and hurt. With good reason.
She’d tried to tell him, but deep down she knew she hadn’t tried hard enough. James could have helped her. If she’d insisted, he could’ve helped her find a way to say good-bye. She just couldn’t do it. She couldn’t look Asher in the eyes and tell him she was going through with the wedding. It would have killed her.
Forget him.
He’d probably never give her or this farce of a wedding a second thought after today. The ceremony was as much of a performance for him as it was for her. A job. She knew all about the stage fright he’d been battling since his fiancée and mentor had betrayed him. Right now, he was certainly more concerned about his music than anything else.
Not that she blamed him.
She didn’t deserve his forgiveness. Not after what she’d done, after all that she’d failed to do.
“Shall we?” Her father smiled and offered her his arm.
“Just a second. I promised Eleanor . . .” Amelia’s hands shook violently as she worked to untie the lace bundle.
“Amelia, the world is waiting,” her dad said wearily.
“I know. But I’ve got to put the silver sixpence in my shoe. For luck.” The lace square flopped open, and for a second, Amelia thought Eleanor had made some sort of mistake.
There was no sixpence. No silver horseshoe, either. Instead, the gold pocket watch engraved with Lady Wentworth and Holden’s interlocked initials rested in the palm of Amelia’s hand.
“Now, Amelia!” her father barked.
Her fist closed around the watch. Heart pounding, she bent and pretended to insert the nonexistent sixpence inside her stiletto.
“Everything in order now?” Her father raised his brows and offered her his arm again.
No.
Her head was spinning. How had Eleanor gotten ahold of the pocket watch? And why had she given it to her?
“Yes.” She swallowed. “Absolutely.”
She slipped her arm through her father’s elbow as two Beefeaters dressed in traditional red regalia opened the doors to the Abbey.
The congregation stood. Amelia had never seen so many people inside Westminster Abbey before. They were packed in, shoulder to shoulder, from the back of the church all the way to the front. Rows of guests were even standing around the outer perimeter of the nave. Nodding. Smiling.
There were flowers everywhere. The aisle seemed impossibly long, and as soon as Amelia stepped into view, a hush fell over the crowded church.
Amelia was barely conscious of any of it.
She stared straight ahead through the wisp-thin, gossamer veil, and the scene before her blurred like a watercolor painting. All of her awareness was centered on the pocket watch in her hand—its smooth, round surface, its elegant engraving, the solid weight of it in her palm.
The things Eleanor said back at the palace rose to the forefront, imbued with new meaning.
We’ll always be friends, Amelia. Always.
Remember that.
She’d made Amelia promise to unwrap the little lace square before she walked down the aisle. She’d been so insistent.
Eleanor had given her a way out. She’d somehow gotten her hands on the one thing that might give Amelia the chance to keep her family on the throne without marrying Holden. Along with it, she’d given Amelia a promise. A promise to stand by her no matter what.
But the ceremony had already started. And she wasn’t even sure the pocket watch would work.
What if no one believed her? Her mother hadn’t.
Eleanor did, though. And Asher.
Asher believed her. He believed in her. He’d believed in her all along.
Amelia turned her head as her father escorted her past the orchestra, seeking Asher out. There were so many musicians. She couldn’t make out any of their features behind her veil. She slowed her steps, desperate for a glimpse of him.
Amelia’s father cleared his throat. She’d stopped walking altogether now. She was standing completely still in the middle of the aisle. Her father reached for her hand and gave it a hard squeeze.
“Amelia.” He said her name in the same tone her mother had always used when reprimanding her as a child.
She still couldn’t see Asher. She took a tentative step forward. Then another.
Then at last, she saw him. He sat in the chair closest to the altar, dressed in a dashing tuxedo with his cello balanced between his knees and its neck resting against his chest. Right against the beating of his heart.
Look at me. She pleaded with him with her eyes. See me.
He never looked up. Not once. Not when she walked right past him and the hem of her gown nearly grazed the tip of his shoe. Not when her father lifted her veil from her face and kissed her cheek. Not when Holden moved to stand beside her and her hand closed around the pocket watch in her grasp.
Holding on for dear life.
* * *
ASHER COULDN’T WATCH.
He’d sit there in the church as promised. He’d play his solo as best he could. He’d signed a contract pledging to do so. But no piece of paper could make him look on, helpless, as Amelia married another man.
He
couldn’t believe it had come to this. After everything that had taken place over the past ten days . . . she was actually going through with it.
Asher felt as if he’d failed her somehow. Yet at the same time, he knew how irrational that seemed. He’d been the only one in the palace to tell her the truth. The only one who seemed to care that she was throwing her life away. And for a brief, shining moment, he’d gotten through to her. She’d admitted the truth.
Then she’d given herself to him in ways he’d been dreaming about since the moment he’d set foot in London.
Something had happened. The queen had somehow convinced her she had to marry Holden. It was the only explanation.
But how? Why? Holden was a cheating son of a bitch. He didn’t deserve her. He most certainly didn’t love her. Not like Asher would, if given the chance.
So, what? You think you’re in love now?
Of course he wasn’t. The idea was ludicrous. She hadn’t even seen fit to tell him to his face that she was going through with it. No explanation. No good-bye. He’d be a fool to love her. He’d been enough of a fool with Serena. He wouldn’t do it again.
That was bullshit, naturally.
Feelings didn’t work that way. And he definitely had some feelings where Amelia was concerned. He just wasn’t altogether sure what those feelings were.
Or maybe he couldn’t deal with the truth. Last night, he’d been idiotic enough to believe that he’d stopped the wedding of the century. At last, he’d been the one to rescue Amelia rather than the other way around. He’d even let himself believe she might have loved him for it.
How could he have been so wrong?
Stop.
Just stop.
He couldn’t keep dwelling on last night. He couldn’t keep remembering what it had felt like to bury himself inside her, to watch her as she came apart. Not now. Not when he had to give the performance of his life in less than five minutes.
Asher swallowed. He tapped out the fingering for his solo on his knee, but kept getting stuck on the second movement.
Amelia was standing less than two feet away in a wedding dress—the same wedding dress she’d been wearing when Asher had nearly taken her to bed. How could she stand there and let another man slide a ring onto her finger when hours ago, Asher had watched her shatter in his arms?
