Royally Endowed(39)

She giggles, telling me a story about her friend Willard and his wife, Laura, when all of a sudden she stops mid-sentence. And the color drains from her face—even her lips turn to chalk.

I put my hand on her arm. “Sarah? Are you all right?”

She doesn’t reply.

I’m not sure what to do. I know Sarah’s painfully shy and I don’t want to embarrass her. So I turn around and motion Logan over. He comes immediately and focuses on Sarah as soon as he makes it to my side.

“Lady Sarah? What is it?” Logan follows her gaze to where it’s frozen on the tall, gray-haired man across the room. “Him? The man by the door?”

Logan takes one step and Sarah grabs his arm in a panic. “Don’t! Don’t go near him. He’s . . . dangerous.”

I take Sarah’s other hand in mine—it’s ice cold. “It’s all right. He can’t hurt us. Logan would never let that happen. We’re here with you. You’re okay.”

She doesn’t blink, doesn’t take her eyes off the man, and I’m not sure if she heard me.

“Get Henry,” Logan tells me. “Now.”

I give Sarah’s hand a quick squeeze and leave her with Logan. Then I weave between guests until I find the blond prince talking with a small group of friends by the bar. I thread my arm through his, smile broadly and use an over-the-top Cockney accent when I say, “Beggin’ yer pardon, gents. Have to steal the Guvnah, here, for a minute.”

As I lead him away, Henry asks softly, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Sarah. Come on.”

We cross the room smooth and steady, so as not to draw too much attention to us. Henry smiles and nods along the way, but there’s a tension to his features—until he reaches Sarah’s side.

“The lord by the door,” Logan tells him. “Do you know who he is?”

Henry turns to look and his whole body goes stiff. “St. James, take Lady Sarah in the back room.”

“He’s smaller than I remember,” Sarah says, in a whispery, airy tone.

“Sarah . . .” Henry tries again.

“Do you think it’s because the last time I saw him, I was a child?” she asks. “Or perhaps I’ve built him up in my mind to be a monster, when really, he’s just a man. A terrible man.” Sarah covers her mouth with her hand. “My mother is here . . . Penny . . . they can’t see him, they’ll—”

Henry slides his hand into her hair and brings her face to his. “Go in the back with Logan and Ellie. I will take care of this.”

Sarah blinks, breathing deeply. Then she shakes her head. “No. No, I can do it. I need to, I think. Just . . . stay with me?”

Henry brushes her hair back. “Always.”

With a nod from Sarah, the future king and queen walk hand in hand toward the man by the door, with Logan and me following behind. They stop a few feet away. He bows to Henry and looks Sarah over in a detached, indifferent sort of way.

“Sarah. You’re looking well.”

Sarah squeezes Henry’s hand so tight, her knuckles turn white.

“You were not invited here,” she says, with slightly more strength in her voice.

The man adjusts his cuffs. “I’m the father of the bride. I need no invitation. I still have acquaintances in the city, how would it look if I didn’t attend?”

Sarah’s laugh is harsh. “Father? No.” She shakes her head. “No, you lost that privilege the moment you put your hands on my mother. And on me.”

My head whips around at the confession. Oh, Sarah. Logan’s face is immobile and his attention on Sarah’s father remains unflinching.

“You are nothing to me now,” she tells him. “You are not even a shadow in the farthest corner of my mind. I have put you behind me. We all have. And that is where you will stay. I’d like you to leave now. You need to go.”

The lord hesitates. “Now you see here—”

Henry steps forward, leaning in, his voice menacing and sharp—like a blade.

“Don’t go—run. While you can. If you speak to the press or to anyone—if you fucking whisper her name—I will know. And I swear, on my mother, I will bury you alive beneath the palace so Sarah can walk on your grave every day of her life.”

He stares back at Henry for a few tense beats. And then—without even glancing Sarah’s way—he turns around and walks out.

“I think . . .” Sarah almost wheezes, her voice soft and gasping. “I think I’d like to go in the back now.”

Henry nods and guides her away. Logan walks in front of them, clearing a path through the guests, and I follow. The room is small—a little sitting area with just one table and a pitcher of water, and a chaise lounge. A “fainting couch,” they used to call it, and I wonder if this is the room they used to bring the ladies for smelling salts, when their corsets were too tight.