Royal Ruin

by Jessica Peterson

  I stared at her. I don’t know what freaked me out more—the fact that my grandmother was asking me to fake an engagement in front of the entire world, or that she wanted me to fake it with Emily Kilpatrick. The girl who’d made a complete and utter fool of me ten years ago.

  The day Emily and I had been together in my office, I’d been off kilter. I wasn’t in control of my feelings or actions. She was. She’d held me in the palm of her hand. I’d have done anything she asked. Hell, I had sex with her right there on my desk.

  Emily had been the only girl who’d ever made me reckless. Which was fine back then—I was just a PhD student. But I couldn’t be reckless now. I was next in line to the British throne. I was head of The Prince’s Foundation. My family was depending on me, not to mention the countless others who worked for us or depended on the money and awareness we raised for our causes. My every mood and move was scrutinized. I had to be incredibly careful in all things at all times. If I wasn’t, I risked hurting the people—and the country—I loved more than anything else.

  I’d been blindsided by the things Emily had made me feel. What if…God, what if the same thing happened again? What if she made me reckless? She’d gotten under my skin once without me realizing it. Not until it was too late, anyway.

  I speared a hand through my hair. Keep calm. Breathe.

  I repeated the words in my head. On cue my heart rate came down. One of the benefits of locking away my emotions was the ability to manipulate them at will. Control them. I’d had a decade of practice now. I’d built the walls inside my chest nice and high.

  Maybe they were high enough to keep even Emily Kilpatrick out. It had been ten years. I was a much different bloke than I’d been back then. I imagined the same was true of Emily.

  If our engagement was just for show, she and I wouldn’t have to hang out that much anyway. I was a professional at keeping my distance. One of the perks of being emotionally unavailable.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  The Queen grinned. “Good answer. I have faith in you, Christopher.”

  I nodded. If there was one thing I’d kept faith in all these years, it was myself. I’d risen to every challenge that came my way. I took care of business. My family, too.

  I’d take care of this. And when it was over, I’d go my way, and Emily Kilpatrick would go hers. Simple enough.

  Only Emily had never been simple. Neither had my feelings for her.

  Whatever. I was a mind over matter sort of bloke. I’d make it simple.

  Duty over desire.

  Nothing was simpler than that.

  Chapter Six

  Emily

  The Next Morning

  I was just getting out of the shower in our hotel room when my phone rang.

  “Hey, Aly? Mind seeing who that is?” I called, bending over to wrap my hair in a towel.

  “Got it!” she called back.

  I winced when I straightened. Not only was my head pounding; my back was killing me. I must’ve tweaked a muscle during my—ah—athletic encounter in the back of a cab with the hot bartender I’d picked up last night.

  Aly and I had ended up finishing our interview with Princess Jane yesterday. It had gone well, minus the whole family feud incident, and we’d decided to pub hop to celebrate.

  Having my heart chewed up and spit out by my ex-husband Luke had cured me of any desire for a committed relationship. So a hot foreign guy I’d never see again was right up my alley. Sure, he hadn’t been the most interesting person I’d ever met, or the best dressed. He was, in other words, no Prince Kit. But he’d been a safe bet.

  A very safe, very hot bet.

  Speaking of Prince Kit…I don’t know why, but I kept thinking about him. He’d looked so damn good. But he was different, too. He’d changed. Before, the blue in his eyes had been warm.

  It was icy now. Cold.

  I shivered. Had he been that way since his parents died? Their plane had crashed while trying to land in bad weather in Ireland. The trauma of losing loved ones in such an awful accident like that—hell, I’d close myself off, too. It was easier to turn your heart to stone than to let it bleed.

  I would know. I’d cordoned off the spot in the center of my chest the day my marriage fell apart. I didn’t trust anyone, even myself.

  Aly flew through the bathroom door, not even bothering to knock.

  “What the—”

  “Look!” She held up my phone. It was still ringing. “I assume ‘Kit Thorne’ is the Kit Thorne? Prince Kit? The TA you schtuped in college?”

  Yesterday after the interview, Aly had asked me about my relationship with Kit. Suffice it to say she hadn’t been expecting the answer I gave her.

  I stared at the name lit up on the screen. Sure enough, it was Kit.

  My stomach flipped. Did Kit and I really have the same numbers we’d had back in school? We’d never texted individually. But we had been part of a big group text for our Friday morning section.

  “I…yeah. I guess that’s him.” I took the phone. It felt like a grenade in my hand. “I should answer it, right? Maybe he’s calling about the School for the Arts job.”

  “When a prince calls you, yes, you’re supposed to answer.” Aly nodded at the screen. “So answer it!”

  I did.

  “H-hello?”

  “Miss Kilpatrick? This is Kit Thorne.” His voice sounded deeper on the phone. Gravelly.

  I looked at Aly. She wore this big, goofy smile that somehow only made me more nervous.

  “Hey. Hi.” I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hello, Kit. Please, call me Emily.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “All right then, Emily. I’m sorry to be a bother. I wanted to apologize again for what happened yesterday at the palace. I promise we don’t usually shout at each other like that. Except on Sundays, of course.”

  “What happens on Sundays?”

  “Monopoly.”

  I bit back a grin. “Monopoly as in you literally have a monopoly on all the things in the world? Or Monopoly the board game?”

  “My family and I, see, we’ve got a massive board game…game.”

  I laughed, even as I recognized that this was all part of a charm offensive. Kit wanted something. But what? What could I possibly offer the guy who could have anything—and anyone—he wanted at the snap of his fingers?

  “And my brothers, they’re terrible cheaters,” Kit continued. “They steal money. Sneak in loaded dice. Doesn’t help they turn the whole thing into a drinking game. The arguments can get pretty heated.”

  “Sounds like a lot of fun,” I replied. “Look, I appreciate you calling, Kit. But I’ll say it again—an apology isn’t necessary. We all have that uncle, believe me.”

  “Carlton…well.” Kit sighed, a sound at odds with the flirty warmth of his conversation so far. “Anyway. Emily. I’d like to get together and thank you in person for being so cool about everything. Just you and me. Maybe we can also chat a bit about your plans for the School for the Arts, yeah?”

  I loved that little yeah Brits tacked on to the ends of their sentences. It was cute and usually said in earnest. But this yeah had me seriously suspicious. Then again, if any of this could help us land that project for the foundation…

  “Are you free this evening for dinner?” he asked.

  Dinner. With Kit. The prince. Tonight.

  Aly was frantically waving her arms at me, mouthing yes! Fuck yes!

  “Yes. Yes, I’m free.” I turned to wipe the condensation off the mirror. Taking in my reflection, I silently thanked God for coffee and concealer. I’d be employing heaps of both today in an effort to not look like a corpse.

  “Excellent. I’ll text you the name and address of the restaurant. Seven o’clock okay for you?”

  We settled on the details, and then we hung up. I stared at my phone for several beats while I tried to process what had just happened.

  I knew better than to believe in miracles.
But I’d just gotten a call out of the blue from the future King of England. If he wanted something from me, then he’d have to offer something in return, right?

  I was no damsel. But I was certainly in distress. I was confident I could save myself—all I needed was a break. A stroke of luck that I could use to turn things around. Maybe this was it.

  I didn’t allow myself to think about the possibility that Kit just wanted to take me on a date. I’d heard the gossip. Prince Kit dated heiresses. Models. He didn’t dally with commoners like me. Even if he did, I didn’t dally with men like him. Good men. Serious men. Men who were into things like kids and commitment (Kit had told Oprah he wanted both “quite dearly” in an interview last year).

  Yes, Kit had been amazing in bed. On the desk. Whatever. He’d been intense and gentle and confident, all at once. The ardent way his body moved over mine—

  Ugh, I didn’t want to think about that. So I went to dig through my suitcase for something to wear tonight instead. Kit and I were different people now. We wanted different things.

  Business. This was about business. I had to keep my eye on the prize. And that prize was bringing EP Designs back from the dead.

  But that didn’t mean I shouldn’t cover all my bases, just in case.

  I put my hands on the tangle of clothes I’d just dug up. I had a great pair of fuck me heels to wear, but I needed a dress to go with them. Something elegant and sexy. I did have the tiniest sliver of room left on one of my cards…

  “Hey Aly?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Cancel our lunch reservation. We’re going shopping.”

  Chapter Seven

  Kit

  That Evening

  I swirled the bourbon in my glass before bringing it to my lips. It burned as it made its way down my throat. I waited for the knot in my stomach to loosen, but it didn’t.

  Maybe Emily would blow me off. Then I wouldn’t have to do this thing I absolutely did not want to do. Although if Emily turned me down, I’d just have to find someone else—someone who was probably a hell of a lot less interesting and intelligent—to be my fake fiancée. The family needed this distraction.

  And the family always came first.

  Which was why I couldn’t be with a girl like Emily permanently. My grandmother had told me about the results of the background check we’d run on her. Apparently Emily was divorced. A King of England had never married a divorcee before. It just wasn’t done. The divorce thing didn’t bother me personally. So what if Emily had a past? We all did. But sticklers for tradition, like my Uncle Carlton, would be appalled.

  Emily was also clearly obsessed with her job. I’d checked out her portfolio and website. I’d also gone through her proposal for the School for the Arts several times. She was insanely talented and incredibly dedicated; every detail was accounted for. Only someone who was truly passionate about her work would put so much time and energy into a proposal.

  But my future wife couldn’t have a career. Being my consort was a full time job. The work we did was important. It was part of our mission to modernize the monarchy so we could continue to thrive. Adapt it to the wishes and mores of the people. I was going to need help with that work from my consort.

  For our current purposes, however, Emily would do just fine. Above all else, we needed someone the people could relate to. Someone they’d fall in love with. And Emily was easy to fall for, as I’d discovered ten years ago. She was warm and friendly and had this bright, bold way of smiling.

  I finished my bourbon and raised my glass for another.

  “Something on your mind, sir?” Brendan said from behind the bar, running a cloth inside the bowl of a gigantic wine glass. He held it to the light and peered at it for a long moment. Satisfied, he slid the glass onto a shelf.

  “How many times have I asked you to call me Kit?” I replied. I was a regular here at Jacob’s Club, a members-only restaurant; it occupied a townhouse in the center of Mayfair, not far from my apartment at Primrose Palace. I liked it because it was discreet and the food was excellent. But most of all, I liked it because of Brendan. In my opinion, he was the best bartender in the city, and the friendliest, too.

  He grinned. “Many times, sir, and you’ll have to ask many more. So what’s got you drowning your sorrows in the brown liquor this evening?”

  “It can’t be a girl,” a familiar voice said. My brother Rob leaned an elbow onto the bar beside me. “Kit hasn’t kept anyone around long enough to fall in love. Which means he doesn’t have any heartbreak to drown.”

  I groaned. “Hello to you too. And maybe it is a girl this time.”

  Rob clapped a hand onto my shoulder. “I’m afraid the Queen doesn’t count, old chap. She is our grandmother.”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Something to do?” I said. “I’ve got an important—”

  “Meeting?”

  “Date, actually.” The less Rob knew right now, the better.

  His brows shot up as he sipped the gin and tonic Brendan had slid across the bar. “Really? Let me guess. Another model. No! The Duke of Pembroke’s daughter—the younger one this time.”

  “Poppy? Didn’t you date her?”

  “I wouldn’t use the word date. Ah, Poppy.” Rob shook his head, his mouth curled into a small, secret smile as he stared off into the distance. “What a minx.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I was starting to feel like I lived in a constant state of eye-roll suppression. I loved my family, but dear God were they trying sometimes.

  “Not Poppy,” I said. “Someone new. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Of course it’s my business! If she’s got you drinking bourbon, it must be serious. She could be the potential future wife of my favorite brother.”

  I sipped at my drink. “I thought Jack was your favorite brother.”

  “He was, until he stole one of my recent visitor’s clothes while we were in the shower. He’d been so amused. She, however, had not—I had to take the poor dear home wrapped in a towel.”

  This time I did roll my eyes. My younger twin brothers had been trouble makers since they were in nappies, the two of them brawling their way through their childhood. I kept waiting for them to grow up—at twenty six, you’d think they wouldn’t be amused by pranks and practical jokes anymore—but I was beginning to realize they probably never would.

  “Is there anyone in London you haven’t slept with?” I asked.

  Rob pursed his lips, like he had to give the question some serious thought. “I certainly hope so. I’ve got no plans to settle down anytime soon.”

  “How shocking.”

  “Tell me about this girl.” He sipped his gin. “What’s her name?”

  Holding my glass between my thumb and middle finger, I picked it up and spun it around on the bar. What did one say about one’s potential fake fiancée? Emily hadn’t agreed to my proposal yet. She hadn’t even heard it. And there was a chance she wouldn’t even show. The last thing I needed was Rob teasing me about being stood up.

  Thankfully the hostess appeared at that moment at the top of the stairs, followed by a gorgeous woman with bright red lips and green eyes. The woman smiled at me.

  I did a double take, my heart hiccupping.

  Emily.

  It was Emily.

  Jesus Christ, she looked amazing. She was absolutely slaying the sexy, sophisticated one-shouldered sheath dress she wore. It was black, and tight enough that I could just make out the imprint of a strappy, teeny tiny something at her hip. For a moment my imagination spun out. I imagined it was a thong, also black, lacy and delicate. Underneath, her cunt was hot.

  I remembered the feel of that cunt coming around my fingers. She’d been so tight. So soft. So sensitive and quick to come.

  I shoved the thought aside. I couldn’t think about those things. Couldn’t let her get under my skin.

  Beside me, Rob set down his drink. We were both staring at her.

  “She’s proper fi
t, isn’t she?” he murmured, pushing off the bar. “Why, hello, love—”

  “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t you fucking dare, Robert.”

  Emily was still smiling at me. “Hello, Kit.”

  “Hello,” I said. It came out hoarse. All wrong. What the fuck? I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hello, Emily. You look…beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” she replied. For a moment we stood awkwardly in front of each other. I was a master of etiquette. It had been drilled into me since infancy. But in that moment, I had no bloody clue how I should greet Emily.

  Rob elbowed me. “Introduce us, Kit.”

  “Right.” I blinked. “Of course. Emily, this is my brother Robert. Rob, this is Emily.”

  Rob offered her his cheesiest, most lethal smile as he shook her hand.

  “You’ve got my brother drinking brown liquor,” he said, all charm and confidence. My fingers inexplicably tightened around my glass. “I like you already.”

  Emily arched a brow. “Bourbon? Sounds delicious.”

  “Why don’t you come have one with us? My treat,” Rob said, gesturing to the bar.

  “No. Nope.” I stepped between them. “Emily and I have got a table for dinner. We must be off, I’m afraid.”

  Rob bit back a grin. “All right. Have fun. Lovely to meet you, Emily. I hope to see you again.”

  “You as well,” she said.

  I tried very hard not to check out Emily’s perfect ass as the hostess led us through the club to the dining room. The way her hips swayed as she walked in her towering heels—well. Suffice it to say it filled my head with very unbusinesslike thoughts. Or maybe thoughts of a different kind of business altogether.

  I blinked, focusing my gaze on the carpet beneath my feet. Rob was starting to rub off on me. That bloke was a bloody animal.

  The hostess led us to the best—and most discreet—table in the house. It was tucked into its own little alcove, the lighting soft and low. Emily slid into the green velvet booth, while I took the chair opposite.