by Zoey Oliver
“Abigail, Super Pest Detective. Your childhood story is really coming together in my head now,” Emily teases.
“In my defense, there wasn’t much to do around here as a teenager, except narc on other people or find creative ways to get into trouble. I chose the former, he chose the latter.”
“Well, maybe it’s time for you to choose the latter. You could use some… trouble. A nice, long, hard night of really big trouble. I mean, you know what they’ve said in the tabloids…”
My cheeks grow hot at her words. “Emily!”
She shrugs unapologetically. “I know you didn’t cut loose in college, Ms. Studious. So, you’re running out of time.”
I shake my head and walk to the closest window, hoping the cooling breeze will help return my cheeks to a normal shade. I look at her over my shoulder.
“You’ve read the papers, right? And watched all those celebrity gossip shows? Henry has women dripping off him like sugary icing on a hot cake. I’m surprised he can even manage to walk down the street without needing a police barricade with the sheer number of women throwing themselves at him. I’m sure — even if I were interested in such a thing, which I most certainly am not — that his social card is more than overflowing with plenty of ‘activities’ to keep him occupied.”
Emily sighs as I return to staring out the window. “You have a point. He is quite the playboy. But… never say never. It could happen…”
Her words ring in my mind. Soon, I’ll be saying forever and ever to some man my parents have picked out for me. Some guy eager to ensure his position of status and wealth. Some guy with the power to save my family from a sad fate simply with the words “I do.” He gets my family’s prestige and my hand in marriage, and my family gets to keep our titles and our ancestral home, Beauregard. It’s a story that goes back eons. These next three weeks, they aren’t about being wooed and falling madly in love with a handsome suitor.
I’m not here to be swept off my feet and kissed passionately, much less carry on like a starry-eyed teenager with a head full of lusty thoughts and impossible dreams. I’m here to make an important decision for the future of my family, to pick a husband and assume my duties as Lady Strathmore of Beauregard. My entire existence has come down to this, to uphold tradition and fulfill my responsibility to the estate.
My eye catches movement in the garden below. I look down and let out an audible gasp. Speak of the devil. Prince Henry, walking amongst the fall mums and late-season fruit trees with my brother.
Henry looks up at the sound of my gasp, searching along the exterior walls of the castle for the source of the noise. His face is so familiar and yet so different than I remember — even from here I can tell that the pictures I’ve seen in the press are true — time really has enhanced his smoldering good looks. His jawline is firmer, his cheekbones more chiseled than I remember.
His haircut is different than the most recent photos of him in the press. Gone is the length; now it’s much shorter, and is currently being tousled by the evening breeze just enough to give it that enchantingly messy just-woke-up look.
As I stare down at him, his eyes fixate on me. I quickly step back from the window, clutching my hands against my chest, vaguely aware that my heart has been skipping beats for the last few seconds.
After all these years, the mere sight of him can still take my breath away.
Emily’s right.
Whether I like it or not, I’m in trouble.
Big, big trouble…
Chapter Three
HENRY
Bright splashes of silk and satin swirl in every direction as gentlemen lead their partners across the grand space. A small orchestral band on one end of the ballroom is playing through a greatest hits list of classical dance music. People dressed in formalwear are milling about the edges of the room, sipping from dainty teacups and tall champagne flutes as they chat agreeably.
Speaking of formalwear, my tightly tailored pants — burgundy to match the fitted, gold jacket strewn with regal symbols in the form of ribbons and cords — are much more restrictive than the simple jeans I’ve grown fond of. While I can’t adjust, I do allow myself to pull at the high, tight collar of my jacket, pulling it away from my neck to get some breathing room, and my heated skin thanks me.
Standing around stiffly all day in colorful, tailored suits straight out of the nineteenth century, smiling graciously at people while making idle conversation about banal topics — these are things I’ve never enjoyed. But my father is ready to retire and I’m next to take the Crown, if I’m able to convince the Royal Council I’ve knocked off my notorious ways and am worthy of assuming the title of King.
The crowd gathered here tonight is a much different scene than the dance floors of the trendy nightclubs and private dives I frequent. Well, used to frequent.
Pounding music, pulsating lights, women wearing next to nothing, grinding against one another. Powerful men skulking about, eyeing each other warily, looking to establish dominance. Blowjobs and designer drugs passed around like party favors.
Every weekend was a string of sex, hundred-dollar shots, and unsavory behavior. I used to love it.
Now it’s just the memories of a former life, one that came with relentless media coverage and scandalous headlines. I didn’t use to care. Let them take their pictures and write their stories. It just brought in more women and more salacious connections. It was a life before my self-imposed seclusion. There are days I yearn for it — the excitement, the energy, the constant pursuit of pleasure. But tonight, here tonight in this ballroom, I don’t miss it.
None of it holds a candle to Abigail.
I watch her being swept across the dance floor — a study in elegance and beauty. She’s changed into a light blue ball gown with flowing layers. When she sashays across the dance floor, it’s like she’s channeling the waves of the ocean, the crystals on her gown sparkling in the lights like the kiss of sunshine on the sea.
An elbow nudges me in the left side, pulling my attention away from Abigail.
“Henry, the scotch in the study is calling my name,” Spencer says, his voice agitated. “Come on, man, let’s go.” He nods his head toward the intricately carved wooden double-doors under the arched entrance to the ballroom.
We’ve been here for over an hour, which is entirely my doing. I said we’d just stop by long enough to make a quick appearance then feign an excuse to leave as soon as possible.
But I didn’t expect to be so mesmerized by her. Abigail’s sweet smile and grace are enchanting, and I can’t bring myself to exit the room and retreat to the study where she’ll be far away from my sight.
Over the past hour, I’ve willingly entertained more conversations with visiting dignitaries than I normally tolerate in a year’s time and found numerous other excuses to stay, but Spencer is quickly reaching his limit. If he’s noticed my fixation with his little sister, he’s not letting on. But if I keep standing here gawking at her, it’s going to be painfully obvious — to him and everyone else in attendance.
Yet, I’m still dragging feet about leaving.
“I think I should dance at least once before I go. It seems the proper thing to do. It would please my mother, at the very least.”
Spencer lets out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, whatever. You do that. Meanwhile, no one expects anything from me, so I’m leaving. I’ll be in the study sampling your extensive collection of rare liquors, if you come to your senses and decide to depart from this circus show.”
“I’ll be there soon,” I promise, but the words feel empty even as I say them.
He makes his way through the onlookers clustered in groups around the edge of the room and through the arched doorway.
It’s a relief to see him go. I’d looked forward to his arrival, eager to catch up and reconnect with a good friend. But now that he’s here… things are different. I’ve realized I don’t have new, scintillating tales of conquest and wild stories to share. I don’t know what we’d talk abo
ut if I were to join him in the study.
I’m not the same man Spencer remembers — the guy who was up for anything, ready to keep the party going for a week straight, from trendy night club to some tech hipster’s penthouse to a mogul’s billion-dollar yacht, never slowing down, a different woman at every turn.
I return my attention to the activity in the room, and my eyes are immediately drawn to Abigail. My pulse races at the view — not just because she’s a sight to behold, but because she’s dancing with Finley Prescott.
Fucking Finley.
The arrogant, conniving bastard who’s been trying to out-do me since birth. The man who would behead his own mother if he thought it’d help him gain a smidgen of power. The man I wouldn’t piss on if he were on fire.
It shouldn’t surprise me that he’s here — of course my parents invited him. He’s managed to deceive most everyone into thinking he’s God’s gift to the court, a noble man of fine breeding and impeccable character. His family has risen precipitously over the last couple generations, thanks mostly to the small fortune they have accrued. I’m one of the few who knows who he really is and his current proximity to Abigail is enough to set me on high alert.
My jaw tightens as I watch him lean in and whisper something to Abigail. Her eyes go wide, and she pulls back from him a bit, but he leans in again. God, I hate everything about that man. What others pass off as his smile, I know is a sneer; what they call charisma, I recognize as aggression. His hand slides down Abigail’s waist, getting dangerously close to the curve of her ass. Her eyes dart to the side, and she stiffens.
He’s either oblivious that his advances aren’t welcome, or he doesn’t give a shit. Knowing Finley, it’s the latter.
Another dancing couple move in front of them, blocking my view. I make my way to their end of the room, keeping my eyes trained on the flashes of Abi’s sparkling blue gown that I can spot through the crowd. The song winds down, and there’s a brief lull in the music. I get a full view again as several people leave the dance floor.
Finley has his arm wrapped securely around her waist, but her forearms are pushing against his shoulders, her hands curled into fists. They’re close enough, Finley’s bigger body can disguise her resistance, but she twists her face away from him as he leans in to kiss her and grimaces as his lips miss their mark and meet her cheek, instead.
That does it. I don’t want Finley’s slimy hands or lips anywhere near her, and clearly, she doesn’t, either.
I make a beeline for them, and a second later, I’m standing behind Finley. I resist the urge to sucker-punch him in the back of the head. That’s exactly what I would have done last year, no hesitation, just knocked him clean out. But I’m trying to rein in my temper and be a proper gentleman, especially here in the palace, with a room full of guests attending at my parent’s invitation. I take a calming breath and tap him firmly on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, I’m cutting in.”
Abigail looks up at the sound of my voice, and her eyes light up, her mouth parting in surprise.
Finley turns toward me. “Henry,” he notes sourly.
I glare at him. “Hello Finley.”
He glares back. “Ms. Strathmore is occupied at the moment.”
“It’s Lady Strathmore, you jackass. And I think she’s ready for a new dancing partner.”
Abigail nods in agreement, but fucking Finley’s beady eyes are fixed on me.
He steps forward, one hand still clutching Abigail’s arm. “I don’t give a shit what you think, Henry,” he sneers.
“It’s not your call,” I say, looking at her over Finley’s shoulder. Her eyes are darting from me to Finley. “This is the Lady’s decision.”
He tightens his grip around her arm, and she winces.
I want to rip his arm right off for that. I tear my eyes away from Abi and look back at Finley. His lip is curled into a snarl, and he’s glowering at me threateningly, but he has no idea. He thinks I’ll back down and play the gracious host.
He’s mistaken. I step closer to him. “Let go of her, now, or I will end you.” Every muscle in my body is poised to snap into action, years of experience with full-tackle bar brawls and street fighting at the ready.
His gaze falters, and he stiffens in disbelief, but he doesn’t release Abi. I push closer, practically nose to nose, and he swallows hard.
“Think I give a shit about making a scene?” I growl in a low whisper. “I won’t hesitate to fucking flatten you, right here. Try me, I beg you.”
I’m holding back as much as I can, out of respect for my parents. I don’t want to cause the King and Queen embarrassment, but I’m not backing down. If we were anywhere else, I’d have already smashed Finley’s face in.
His nostrils flare furiously, but he finally steps away from me and lets go of Abigail, flinging her arm away in disgust. He straightens his jacket and gives me a tight smile, his eyes dancing fiendishly.
“Enjoy your dance, Henry. But don’t get too attached — she’ll be permanently by my side soon enough.”
My hands curl into fists, ready to knock that self-assured smirk off his face. Finley’s wisely steered clear of me for the most part, running in different circle than I did, which means hasn’t been introduced to this side of me yet, except for what he may have seen in media reports.
Abi steps around him and comes to my side. Without pausing a beat, Finley uses the opportunity to duck through the crowd of dancers. He disappears out of sight as she uncurls my fist and slips her hand into mine, her skin soft and warm.
A surge of electric heat races up my wrist and into my forearm from her touch. I turn to Abi, all thoughts of following Finley forgotten the moment I look at her.
For a moment, I forget that we’re standing in the middle of the ballroom with dozens of people. I search her face, finding a comforting familiarity, but also a trace of mystery… a foreignness that makes my pulse race.
Looking at her now, all grown-up and womanly — it’s like I’ve drawn close to a luminous star that I’ve known of my whole life. No matter how many times I stared up at the sky as a child, no matter how well I’ve memorized every speck of its light in the heavens, it’s clear there is still much to be discovered. Her beauty had pulled me in, but now that we’re face to face, desire is holding me here, digging into me.
Abi’s uncharted territory. I need to explore all of her, to know her in all the ways a man can.
She’s staring up at me hesitantly. Her eyes, bright and warm, are the color of soft green grass on a late summer day. And those lips... so full and kissed with a touch of red lipstick. They’re just begging to be given something naughty to do.
Chapter Four
ABIGAIL
Without even thinking, I’ve slipped my hand into Henry’s. He’s staring into the dancing crowd around us, watching Finley’s back like a hawk as he heads away from us.
I debate how to casually pull my hand away and play it off, but a moment later, his hand tightens around mine and then he’s looking at me, his eyes searching mine. His expression is full of concern and a hint of something else. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m intrigued.
“Are you okay?” he asks, gently rubbing my arm where Finley had his death grip on me.
I swallow and nod. I can’t form words right now, not with Henry looking at me like that. Not with him touching me so tenderly. His hand is leaving a trail of tingles across my skin as he caresses the red marks Finley’s grip made on my arm.
“If he left a bruise on you, I swear to God,” Henry inhales sharply and glances into the crowd again, anger flashing in his eyes.
“No, I’m okay, really,” I say finally.
He turns back to me; I could get lost in his eyes — deep pools of sparkling blue staring at me so sweetly.
The intense anger seeps from his features, and his words come out with faux formality. “Well, in that case, perhaps you would do me the kindness of a dance?”
“Of course,” I say. I was
tired of dancing long before Finley insisted on a turn, and I’ve managed to sprain my ankle in my clumsy return to high heels tonight, but I’ll do anything to stay in Henry’s company.
He smiles and gently places his hand on my waist. I straighten my back and try to steady my legs, but all I can think about is how close we’re standing and the look in his eyes when Finley had ahold of me — I’ve not seen that expression on a man very often, and certainly not because of me.
Fortunately, he’s an excellent dancer, leading me expertly across the dance floor, and my feet manage to untangle themselves before I trip us both. Muscle memory from years of formal dance training kick in as we move through the long, sweeping lines of a waltz — a dance which seems to be forgotten by the rest of the world. Soon we’re moving in perfect sync, floating through the ballroom as if we’re dancing on air.
One hand is holding mine, the other is on the small of my back, guiding me gently but firmly. His gaze never leaves mine. That mysterious look in his eyes is growing stronger, and I like it, whatever it is. It makes my cheeks flush, and my instinct is to look away, but I don’t; I can’t. It’s intense, but comfortable in a way I can’t explain.
He speaks casually, as though guiding a woman through a dance is second nature. “It’s nice to see you again, Abigail. You’re looking very lovely.”
“You, too,” I say. What? “I mean, it’s nice to see you, too.”
He smiles at me, a twinkle of mischief in his expression. “So, I don’t look lovely as well?”
“Yes, of course.” I’m blushing furiously now, and my mouth is forming words without input from my brain. “I mean, you look handsome, as always.” Just stop talking!
Henry raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth puckered with amusement. “As always? Well, that’s good to know.” He steps into me, and my years of dancing lessons snap into place as we cascade into a backwards spin.
