by Zoey Oliver
“Oh my.” My mother looks visibly shaken.
“Which is exactly why he forced the hand of your ancestors. After being jilted by the Strathmore women, he could have refused to loan the money at all. Instead, he decided to punish all future generations.”
“I see.” My mother purses her lips unhappily but says nothing more.
My father turns to his senior advisor. “Sir Eldridge, have you spoken to anyone on the high court yet?”
“Quite. And it is rather unfortunate news. The Honorable Dr. Malder examined the document and said that it would most likely hold up in court.”
My father scowls. “I was hoping for much better news.”
“Well, there is one good turn — after exhaustive research, we’ve been able to determine that all the preceding generations of Beauregard have, in fact, complied with the agreement, intentionally or by happenstance, so the agreement has not been in default at any point.”
My father’s entire body sags with relief at this news. “Well, thank goodness for small miracles.”
“This is a very lucky occurrence, indeed,” Sir Eldridge continues, “as I gather many, if not most, were unaware of this document’s existence. Some did not have daughters, but of those who did, they were all married rather young, including your own mother, my Lord.”
“Yes, I am aware. She was married to my father at nineteen, but for love, not because of this ancient covenant. There has not been an arranged marriage in the Strathmore family for ages. As I’ve said before, it’s very unfair to Abigail, this situation. I’d much prefer she find her own choice of companion, whenever it suits her, rather than have to acquiesce to these ridiculous demands.”
Sir Eldridge nods. “Yes, I understand. My greatest sympathies to Lady Abigail for being at the epicenter of this predicament.” He shifts his gaze to me. “It is, indeed, very unfair to you, my Lady.”
I nod once to acknowledge his words, but otherwise I keep a neutral expression on my face. Unfair doesn’t begin to describe this turn of events, but I’ll do whatever is needed of me to ensure my family isn’t rendered penniless and homeless because of some eighteenth-century jerk’s hurt feelings.
Another adviser, sitting to the right of Sir Eldridge, leans forward. “If I may interject?”
My mother nods. “Of course, what is it Mr. Kingston?”
“Not to be insensitive or indelicate, but it is paramount that this process concludes quickly, and an engagement announced as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Mr. Kingston. We’re quite aware that time is of the essence.”
“I’m wondering how the young Lady Strathmore is finding her suitors? They have been selected to hedge our bets, so to speak. As requested, we’ve given particular attention to include any possible heirs of Master Goutley, based on the church records we’ve been able to access so far. But that is only half the battle, you understand. You will want enough time to plan a proper wedding and yet, the calendar hasn’t stopped marching forward. Her birthday is just—”
My mother interrupts, her face drawn tight, her words clipped. “Thank you for vetting the suitors, but it is important to both her father and me that Abigail has a chance to meet and spend time with these men before reaching a decision.”
“Certainly, Baroness. It’s just that…” Mr. Kingston trails off as my mother stares him down, her eyes flashing with anger. He takes a breath and tries again, his tone cautious and respectful. “The council and I are wondering if there has been any progress on that matter?”
Clearing my throat to remind the advisors that I’m still in the room — Helllllooo, I’m right here, why not just ask me directly, you fools? — I speak up. “I’ve met with all of them, I think. I’m working on narrowing the list.”
“And I believe she’s going on an outing with Finley Prescott later this week, right dear?” my mother adds, turning to me.
I give my mother a weak smile and nod. My parents and several of the advisors are smitten with Finley, because he comes from a highly-regarded family with important political connections and enough money to ensure I’ll be afforded the life of a fairytale princess. Their thinking is, if I can’t marry for love, then marry for money.
I am not nearly as enthusiastic about Finley, but to be fair, I haven’t connected with any of the suitors yet. Not due to lack of effort. I’ve given each of them far more time that they respectably deserve — early morning strolls in the gardens, light luncheons on the veranda, sunset cruises on the lake. Yet, I can’t find even a flicker of interest in any of them. I can’t get around the fact that none of them hold a candle to Prince Henry. But, if it makes my mother happy, then sure, why not — I’ll let Finley take me out to dinner.
“Mr. Prescott is a fine, young gentleman,” Sir Eldridge says, puckering his lips with delighted satisfaction.
I manage not to roll my eyes, but just barely.
“Now, wait, let’s get back to this agreement. I’m not certain we should be rushing into this,” my father says, holding up a hand. “Surely, she can’t be forced to marry because of a daft piece of paper?”
Sir Eldridge responds. “No, of course not, my Lord. In the seventeen-hundreds, women married whomever their father ordered them to, but that is far from how the world operates today. She does have the option of not marrying at all, or marrying next year, or when she’s twenty-eight, or forty, or ninety-three, should the good graces see to let her live to a ripe old age — although all those options do come with a set of rather unfortunate consequences for the Strathmore’s at large. You would lose the entire estate of the House of Beauregard.”
“It just seems like there is something we could do,” my mother says, reaching for my hand under the table. Her voice is cracking, and I know that if I show the briefest hesitation at getting married, she’ll spend the afternoon crying in her room. So, I keep a pleasant smile plastered on my face, as if none of this bothers me in the slightest and we’re just discussing the menu for an afternoon luncheon.
“As you know, our country has a long history of preposterous conditions being placed upon trusts and into covenants. Very few are ever invalidated,” Sir Eldridge replies.
Kneading his brow with long fingers, his gaze fixed on the table, my father asks, “How did this contract even come to light after nearly four hundred years?”
“We’re not sure by whom,” Sir Eldridge responds. “Perhaps a student studying old records. A member of the Historical Society, maybe, or a scholar researching for a written history.”
“And an anonymous envelope just happened to appear on the Council’s desk?” My father glares into the distance. “Someone out there knows more about this. With the timing, I don’t believe it’s coincidence, gentlemen.”
My father is silent for a long time, his head bowed, eyes fixed on the table again. Finally, he looks up and glances slowly at each man in the room. Some of them avert their gaze from my father, others stare back blankly. None of them have the answers he — that we all — want to hear. Finally, he speaks. “Are you absolutely sure we can’t challenge this?”
“We could, my Lordship,” Sir Eldridge says, speaking in a sympathetic tone. “If you choose to proceed, we’ll gather the best legal counsel the world has to offer. But, it must be noted that it cannot be brought before the court until there is an opposing defendant, which means we must first identify Master Goutley’s living representative. And that might take months or longer, by which time Lady Abigail will have reached her twenty-third birthday and—”
“And if the court doesn’t find in our favor,” my father interrupts, his voice booming with frustration, “we’ll have lost everything.”
Chapter Twelve
HENRY
“You don’t want to?” Abi asks, her bottom lip quivering.
She’s snuggled up beside me, her head on my shoulder, with my arm wrapped around her back, holding her close. Her fingers are tracing slow, teasing circles across my chest and mine are playing with her hair. We actually made it
to my oversized four-poster bed tonight instead of the bearskin rug, and we’re lying on my bed after a very passionate round of orgasms — two for her and one for me, just the way I like it.
“Hell yes, I want to.” It’s an honest answer. Even the very question coming from her sweet lips has caused a stir of excitement inside me. But I’m not going to act on my desire.
“Then what is it?” she asks, tilting her head up to look me in the eyes.
We’ve just caught our breath, and I’m enjoying holding her, which I rarely get to do. Usually, one of us must leave by this point, but not today. The festival activity schedule has this afternoon designated as a stroll-about, and Abigail doesn’t have any scheduled suitors to play yard tennis or croquet. The weather is cooperating perfectly for a fall day outdoors — sunny and warm, with a nice cooling breeze. Everyone is scattered across the grounds, making it much easier for us to slip away without anyone noticing that we’re both missing.
Our afternoon sessions are usually brief — too brief for my liking — as we never know how much time we’ll have together without creating suspicion. Today is one of many such stolen moments we’ve managed to find over the past week. But no matter how many times we sneak away to a secluded area or slip into one another’s room at night, it’s never enough for me.
I don’t want stolen moments. I want to hold her hand and kiss her, in public. In front of everyone, fuck all of them. The idea is preposterous on so many levels, yet I can’t get it out of my head.
For starters, being linked to me would absolutely tarnish Abi’s fine reputation. Spencer would never forgive me. And her parents would likely have a coronary, right there on the spot. And lastly — but certainly not the least concerning to me, personally — since when the fuck did Crown Prince of Ostwyn start fantasizing about holding a girl’s hand? What the hell is happening to me?
Since she arrived at my palace, I’ve spent every possible moment I could with Abigail, even arranging us to be sat near one another at events and making excuses to leave the festivities early whenever I could. But every moment with her just makes me want more.
I even found myself getting sucked into researching whether honeysuckle nectar comes in jars like honey, thinking it would be a lovely gift to surprise her with. But it doesn’t.
And that right there, that’s exactly what has me frazzled. I’ve never given a shit about presents before. Sure, I’ve dated women during birthdays and holidays — and Pierre or one of my assistants were sent to fetch whatever expensive trinket was in vogue at the time. But personal gifts? Not me.
Not until Abi.
I would give her every single item on her wish list if I had the power to make it happen. If I could pick up the wilds of Africa, and carry it on my back to lay it at her doorstep, I would.
While the palace guests are out admiring the various gardens, visiting the orchards and the stables, or taking the long, winding path through the woods to view the colorful autumn leaves, I have Abigail all to myself. I’m content to hold her, to enjoy her warm softness pressed against me, to smell the sweet scent of her hair as it tickles against my face. I could enjoy this for days, just lying together, her leg draped over mine, her palm on my chest, listening to her tell stories about her time in Africa and tales about the pranks she pulled on her brother and me when she was a kid. Half of that stuff I hadn’t even realized was her. I never gave clever, sneaky Abi the credit she was due back then.
But today, she’s not talking about wild landscapes and childhood mischief. Instead, she’s just asked me to do something that even I’m surprised by.
“What you’re asking is… well, it’s unusual for an inexperienced woman to want that. I mean, before other things, at least.”
She rolls toward me and wraps her hands around the back of my neck then slides herself against me, her mouth on mine, kissing me deeply. She slips her leg over my thigh and grinds against me. “I need you inside me, Henry,” she whispers.
“And God knows I want that, too. But you really have to be relaxed for me to go back there, Abi. I don’t want to hurt you.”
But she’s already away from me, with her back turned, her ass tempting me. I love the sound of her breathy voice, pleading and hungry for me. I kiss her back and shoulders, pouring every ounce of desire I can into the caress of my lips on her skin.
“Don’t you want it, too?” she asks, looking at me over her shoulder, twisting her back in a way that creates the most sensual curve across her torso.
I shift onto my side, spooning her, and bring my left hand to her face, stroking her softly with my fingers, cradling her cheek in my palm. “Are you kidding me? I want to be inside of you so much it fucking hurts. It keeps me awake at night, the need to be with you, it’s tormenting me.” More honest words have never left my lips.
“Then, do it,” she pleads.
I hesitate before answering. My cock is twitching, hard and ready just from having her next to me. It’s nestled against that beautiful, plump ass of hers, and it’s so fucking tempting, but I’m calling on every ounce of reserve I have to be a gentleman with her.
Her eyes search mine when I don’t reply. “You’ve done it before, right?” she asks.
I know she’s aware of the long list of women the media has connected me to, but I don’t want to talk about other women with her. They were then, part of my former life, and they were just flings. One-night stands, if that. It meant nothing to them and nothing to me. There is just no comparison — Abi is the best thing I’ve ever held in my arms, but I don’t know how to convince her of that.
“It doesn’t matter what I’ve done before. Every moment with you is new and exciting.”
Abi flashes me a wry smile, the corner of her lips creased with humor. “Very smooth. Does that work on all the ladies?”
I give her my most solemn look. “I swear to you, I have never said that before, to anyone.”
She swats at me playfully. “You’re just full of these lines, aren’t you?”
“I’m totally serious. You’re… you know…” I struggle to find the right words, but I don’t have experience with this sort of thing, and my vocabulary is lacking. “…special to me. One-of-a-kind.”
“Stop!” she says, laughing. “You’re just making it worse!” She plants a little kiss on the end of my nose. “But I forgive you. Now, get back on topic, mister. Are we going to do this or not?”
I stifle a sigh of resignation. In her mind, I’m a troublemaker, always looking for a good fight and hot fuck, doesn’t matter with who. I’ll never convince her of anything different.
It’s a pointless hill to climb, anyway, because our time together is only temporary. She’s still entertaining suitors and dead-set on getting married to someone with an unsullied reputation and good social graces, which obviously isn’t me.
This thing we’re doing here? It’s going to end, sooner rather than later. We both knew that going in, and it’s always ever just been about having a bit of fun — for her.
That’s all I wanted when I started this, too.
But that doesn’t make it any easier to think about now, especially with my hard-on and her rubbing her soft, round ass against me like that. But something’s changed. I don’t want to do random hookups; I just want her beside me, naked and smiling and looking at me in that sweet way she does.
I shift away from her ass and roll her toward me, her back resting against the bed. I lean on one elbow beside her, her face below mine. I run my fingers up her thigh, across her hip to her bare stomach, tickling her with a light touch.
“As much as I want to savor every inch of you that I can right now, you don’t need to offer that to keep me interested.”
“But—”
I put a finger to her lips, cutting her off. “When you’re ready, I’d be honored to be your first, in every way you can imagine, but let’s put a pin in that idea for now. I promise, you’ll thank me later — it’ll be so much better if we save that particular activity for once yo
u’re experienced.”
A cloud comes over her beautiful features, and she lets out a big breath. “We can’t. I mean, you can’t be my first like that. I promised.”
“Promised who?”
She shrugs, but I can tell it isn’t carefree. A tightness washes across her face and she sighs quietly before answering. “Myself, my family, God, the court — what does it matter? It’s the same outcome.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve known since I was girl what’s expected of young women of noble upbringing. Things are just different here, aren’t they? It’s like time never moved forward for women of nobility in Ostwyn. The antiquated views on chastity before marriage still stand — but only for the ladies, of course, it’s never really applied to the men, has it?”
I swallow hard, choking back the tide of emotions swelling inside me — sorrow for the news that I can’t be with her in that way, embarrassment at the inequalities between our genders that have been allowed to carry on in my country, and frustration at the unjust obligations laid at her feet simply because she was born female.
“Anyway, it’s all very political and far from sexy. I figure whoever I marry will want to be my first, that it will matter to him, you know?”
I furl my eyebrows, an inexplicable anger rising. I open my mouth, but think better of saying anything and shut it.
Abi notes my expression and shakes her head. She gives me this world-wise, sad smile that makes her look much older all the sudden. “You don’t believe me? You think Horrible Horace wouldn’t care if his bride were a virgin?”
I stuff down my revulsion at the thought of Abi with any other man. “Horace is nearly fifty, and he acts like he’s living in the fifteenth century. Of course he would think it matters, but he doesn’t count.”
