by Teri Wilson
Focus.
He kept his eyes glued to the floor and tried some deep breathing exercises. In for three counts, out for five counts. In for three. Out for five. In, out. In, out.
It wasn’t working. His hands were shaking, just as they had at rehearsal. A tremor began in his right foot and made its way up his shin, until his entire leg was shaking, tossing the cello to and fro. Asher squeezed his knees together, holding the instrument firmly in place. Sweat dripped down his spine.
What he was experiencing was beyond stage fright. It had to be. He was having a panic attack of some sort. Maybe even a heart attack.
He couldn’t do this.
Asher squeezed his eyes shut tight. His head spun. The music around him sounded thick and strange, like he was hearing it underwater.
He opened his eyes. His consciousness was screaming at him, drowning out everything else. Don’t do it. Don’t look at her.
But his attention was drawn toward Amelia like a magnet. He was powerless to stop it. Every cell in his body was aware of her presence.
At last, he looked at her. The church went suddenly, jarringly silent. The quiet seemed to descend from the rafters, blanketing everything below. At first, the noiselessness was a relief. Asher was on sensory overload. The sight of Amelia in that dress again had a sent such a powerful shot of arousal surging through him that he nearly dropped his bow. It wasn’t until the cellist seated beside Asher cleared his throat that he finally snapped to attention, realizing what the loaded silence had meant.
He’d missed the entry for his solo. Yet again.
He picked up his bow and let his eyes drift shut. He’d never get through this if he had to look at Jeremy. Or the television cameras. Or the posh congregation in their fascinators and morning suits. So he shut them all out. He wasn’t playing for them anyway. He wasn’t even playing for himself.
He was playing for her.
Because this was it, wasn’t it? Whatever happened now, however his performance went, would be the way she remembered him. There’d be no parting words, no drawn-out good-byes. He would never kiss her again. Never touch her. Never whisper all the things he hadn’t had the courage to say when he’d had her in his bed.
Don’t do it.
Don’t marry him.
You deserve better. You deserve the world.
Would it have changed things if he’d said it? Would she have climbed into that glass coach like this was a fairy tale instead of a nightmare in the making?
Words had never been Asher’s strong suit. But he could say those things now, couldn’t he? He could say them the only way he knew how—through his music.
He slid his bow over the D string for the opening prelude. A soulful, silky note filled the air. It was the purest thing Asher had ever heard. He paused, just long enough for it fade into silence, then he played the next note and the next one after that. One note at a time, just like when he’d sat down at the piano in the palace and started with a simple C chord.
He leaned into the music, chasing the notes and letting them swell in intensity. They began to build on one another, overlapping in the air, like birds in flight.
He could feel the melody vibrating through him, starting at his fingertips and coursing through his body. The music was in his blood, in his soul, and it was all her. All Amelia. Pictures of their time together soared through his consciousness, memories he couldn’t quite grasp onto. He could feel them slipping through his fingers, like water. So he played harder and harder, with more feeling, more fervor, as if he could drive the memories home with his bow.
The music swelled, yet it was as soft and luxurious as velvet. Perfectly balanced. Rich, but also delicate. Powerful, but at the same time, wafting and gentle.
The memories were coming fast and strong now, with the gentle beauty of a dream—Amelia’s hair fanned out on his pillow, the soft swell of her lower lip, her sleepy smile.
He could see her now, sitting astride him in the dark. He could hear her cries, feel the shudder of her spine against his palms as her body pulsed around his cock. And he realized she’d done more than love him last night.
She’d put the music back in him.
It was her parting gift.
Or maybe he’d needed to lose it in order to find it again. He wouldn’t toss it away. Not this time. He was back. Back for good. He’d learned something about loss since coming here. Sometimes it was choice. Even if it wasn’t, you could fight it. You could scream in the face of it without even saying a word.
Asher’s arm moved back and forth in a fury until his bow struck the final note, and when at last the sonata came to its shattering conclusion, he opened his eyes and fixed his gaze with Amelia’s.
She was a beautiful bride.
They stared at one another as the nave burst into applause. Amelia’s eyes were shiny with unshed tears. Her lips parted, like she was about to speak, but couldn’t quite find the words. He wouldn’t have heard her anyway . . . not over the cheers of the wedding guests.
Asher’s ears rang. His heart beat hard in his chest. Adrenaline surged through him in a continuous hum, like an electric current that made his legs shake and his breath come in shallow gasps.
But his hands were steady as a rock.
He’d poured his heart and soul into his piece. He’d said his good-byes. He’d just given the performance of a lifetime. And now . . .
. . . now he was done. Finished.
Asher stood.
With his gaze still fixed on Amelia’s, he dropped his bow. It fell to the ground and bounced at his feet.
Then he set his cello down, turned, and walked right out of the Abbey.
CHAPTER
* * *
NINETEEN
No.
No!
Amelia was screaming inside.
Asher couldn’t leave. She had to stop him. But it was too late. His performance had brought the house down. She’d never heard anything like it and never would again. People were clapping and cheering so loud that the chandeliers shook. If she called his name, he’d never hear her. The church was too noisy, and he was moving much too fast. His footsteps were swallowing up the space between the altar and the grand entrance.
And in the blink of an eye, he was gone. He’d left everything behind.
His cello.
His bow.
Her.
“No,” Amelia whispered. Her throat felt achy, raw. Like she hadn’t spoken in years.
The archbishop gave her an odd look. “I’ve never heard the cello played like that before. I wonder where he went. He’s really something, isn’t he?”
You have no idea.
Holden cleared his throat. “Shall we get on with things, then?”
“No,” Amelia said, louder this time.
The archbishop’s gaze flitted toward the BBC television cameras and then back to Amelia. “What did you say, Your Royal Highness?”
“I said no.” It felt good to say it out loud. Right. And now that she’d done it, her fears began to fall away, one by one.
Fear of disappointing her family. Fear of losing the crown. And mostly, fear of never being the perfect daughter.
She wasn’t perfect. She never would be. But if Asher could stare his fear in the face and overcome it, so could she. She could do the right thing and face the consequences, whatever they may be. She could bring the house down just like he had.
“Amelia, what are you doing?” Holden blinked. His face went pale against the deep red jacket of his military uniform, but somewhere beneath the panic in his gaze, Amelia spied something else.
Relief. Just the barest hint of it, but it was there.
He didn’t want this any more than she did. How could he when he was in love with someone else?
“I can’t marry you, Holden,” she said.
“Thank God,” Eleanor groaned from the second pew.
“Turn off the cameras!” someone yelled.
Her mother. Of course.
She was
standing in the first pew with her chin raised in defiance and pointing at the camera crews from BBC, ITN, and Sky News. “As your queen, I order you to stop filming at once.”
The journalists—who numbered nearly two dozen altogether—exchanged worried glances. One by one, the red lights went dark on their television cameras.
“Your Majesty.” The nearest cameraman from the BBC cleared his throat. “The fixed cameras are being manned remotely. We can’t control those from inside the church.”
He pointed toward the ceiling, where tiny, nearly invisible cameras continued to document the ceremony, giving the entire world an aerial view of the unfolding chaos.
The queen stood still as stone, peering up at the camera situated above the sacrarium. For the first time in her life, she was powerless.
“I’m sorry,” Amelia said. “But this is wrong for everyone involved. I can’t do this. We can’t. Right?” She lifted a brow at Holden, prompting him to agree.
He glanced toward the third row of seats, where Lady Wentworth had begun quietly sobbing beside her thoroughly confused husband.
Holden took a deep breath and turned to address the congregation, but before he could utter a word, Gregory Beckett sprinted toward the altar so quickly that his feet nearly slid out from under him. The queen was hot on his heels.
“I advise you most strongly not to say a word.” Gregory’s gaze dripped with disdain as it slid from Holden to Amelia. “Both of you.”
If he thought he could force her to back down, he was delusional. The hard part was over. Amelia had spoken up, and there wasn’t a thing Gregory or her mother could do to make her take it back. “Too late. I already said the only word necessary—no.”
“Amelia,” the queen said. But the authority had gone out of her demeanor. Amelia had never seen her mother look quite so human before.
She’s afraid. She’s been afraid all along.
Just like me.
Perhaps they had more in common than Amelia had ever realized.
“There will be consequences if you walk away from this wedding,” Gregory hissed. “I advise you to think long and hard about what you’re saying, young lady.”
Holden took a step toward him. “It’s over, brother. Maybe it’s even for the best. Let it go.”
“Never.” Gregory glared at Amelia.
She shot him her sweetest smile. “Have you forgotten protocol, Mr. Beckett? I’m the princess of England, and you are to address me as Your Royal Highness. Now and forever.”
She held out her fist and opened it to reveal the pocket watch. It flashed gold beneath the overhead chandeliers and lights from the camera crews, showcasing the intertwined initials with dramatic effect.
“Oh, dear.” Holden sighed.
“What is that?” Gregory demanded.
The queen gaped at the watch. “Amelia, how did you . . . ?”
“It doesn’t matter how. I have it now, and I won’t hesitate to hand it over to any one of the reporters here today.” Amelia looked at her mother and searched her gaze. “This gift meant exactly what I thought it meant. I can’t do this, Mother. I shouldn’t have to.”
“Is this true, Holden? Have you been lying to my daughter all along?” The queen’s voice had turned to ice.
Holden bowed his head. Defeated.
Over her mother’s shoulder, Amelia could see Lady Wentworth’s hand lift slowly to the pendant around her neck. The older woman had gone white as a sheet.
She needn’t have worried. Amelia wasn’t going to publicly out Holden and Wilhelmina. Not unless she had to. And from the looks of things, it wouldn’t be necessary.
Holden turned toward the archbishop. “The wedding is canceled. We’re sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t!” Gregory’s nostrils flared. An angry vein throbbed to life on the side of his neck. He looked as if he might be on the verge of a heart attack, which would be about the only thing that would have upped the drama of the spectacle unfolding. “We had a deal. The Becketts deserve to be close to the throne. The crown is rightfully ours.”
Holden shook his head. “It’s over. If you want to fight that battle, you’re going to have to do it on your own. I gave it my best shot, but I’m finished.” He turned toward Amelia. “May I have my watch back?”
“No.” Amelia held it close to her heart. It was getting easier and easier to say that word.
The queen stepped forward and held out her hand. “You can give it to me if you like. I’ll keep it safe. I should have done so before. You have my word this time, daughter.”
Daughter.
Amelia’s breath caught in her throat. She nodded, and as she handed the watch to her mother, tears pricked her eyes. “Here. I trust you. From now on, do you think you can trust me?”
Her mother squeezed her hand and nodded. “Yes, my darling. I will.”
The crowd was growing restless, and so was Amelia. She’d said her piece, and now it was time to walk away from her wedding once and for all.
She handed her bouquet to her mother. “I’ve got to go.”
Gregory threw up his hands. “Bloody hell. You’re running away?”
Amelia smiled. “No. I’m running toward something.”
Toward life.
Toward music.
Toward love.
* * *
IT TOOK ASHER A while to navigate his way through the mass of people who’d gathered outside Westminster Abbey in hopes of a glimpse of the royal bride and groom. The wall of people seemed never-ending, and hordes of people lined the streets for as far as he could see. But once he’d managed to push through to the other side, London was a virtual ghost town.
The silence was astounding.
Asher’s head had been so full of noise that at first the serenity that settled over the outskirts of Central London was a comfort. He’d emptied himself at the Abbey, and now it seemed only natural that he could make his way across one of the biggest cities in the world without speaking to another person.
The tube was running, but Asher was the only passenger on board. When he exited at the Regent’s Park station, the platform was empty. Desolate. There was no attendant at the ticket counter and no one working at the underground shops. It was as if the entire city was holding its breath, waiting for Princess Amelia and Duke Holden to become man and wife.
Had it happened yet?
Asher didn’t know. He’d lost track of the time, and that was fine. Being in rehearsals for the past nine days had drilled the order of ceremony into his head. He knew the exact moment that everything was supposed to transpire inside the church, down to the final I do’s. One glance at a clock or at the time display on his phone and it would be over. It would be real, and there’d be no escaping the knowledge that she’d done it. She’d given herself away.
Until death do them part.
He bowed his head and walked past the stately manors in Regent’s Park and the candy-colored townhomes of Primrose Hill—pink, yellow, mint, and robin’s-egg blue. Asher felt out of place in the middle of so much whimsy. He didn’t belong here, but this had been the plan. This had been the place—the place that was to become his and Amelia’s. And now he had nowhere else to go.
When he arrived at his destination, he reached into his pocket for a few bills, but the woman at the entrance waved him through. “No charge today, sir. The royal wedding is on! It’s a national holiday.”
A holiday. Right.
“Thank you,” he said.
She gave his tuxedo a curious glance, but then turned her attention back toward the iPad propped inside her Plexiglas booth without mentioning his odd state of dress.
Asher hastened his steps to prevent himself from glancing at the image of the ceremony on the small screen. He’d begun to believe it was required viewing in the entirety of the United Kingdom. Gravel crunched beneath his feet and colorful leaves danced and swirled in the air as he made his way down the shady path.
He settled on a park bench to wait. Surely it was almost
time.
Minutes after he sat down, he heard the rattle of a chain. He sat up straighter and peered into the distance, but as the noise grew closer, he realized it wasn’t coming from the direction of the horizon. The sound was coming from just down the path.
Asher squinted toward the sun-dappled trail, and drew in a sharp breath when he spied a corgi trotting toward him at the end of a leash. The dog’s tags were jangling and its mouth was drawn open wide. It looked so much like it was smiling that Asher’s heart seemed to freeze, then began to pound hard and fast.
He pushed to his feet and walked toward the dog, trying to catch a glimpse of the human on the other end of the leash, all the while telling himself not to hold out hope, not to believe. But when the white dress came into view, with its layers upon layers of cascading tulle and lace, he realized he’d been expecting her all along. His Amelia. His runaway bride. His princess.
He knew he was only imagining things, but he could have sworn he heard music—Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat Major, opus 9 no. 2, a piece he’d always associated with intimacy. The quiet joy of the soul.
“Hello, Asher,” she said as Willow collided into his shins in an explosion of fur and happy barks. Amelia looked much less confident than the audacious dog. Her cheeks were tear-stained, and the zoo’s gravel path had taken a toll on the hem of her wedding gown. Asher had never seen her look quite so lost before, not even the night he found her crying in the Abbey. “I realize I’m probably the last person you want to see right now, but here I am.”
“Here you are.” Asher’s hands were shoved deep inside his pockets, and he struggled to keep them there. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to touch her and never stop, but first they had things to say to each other. Things they’d been fighting to hold inside for what felt like years.
“You found me.” He glanced toward the wide, green space on the opposite side of the stone wall that lined the path as Willow settled on his foot to gnaw on his shoelace.
