Royally Matched(21)

Mentally, I shake myself. I just need to think of something to say.

And now the only thing filling my mind is thinkofsomethingtosay, thinkofsomethingtosay, thinkofseomthingtosay.

My hands turn sweaty and numb.

I could ask about his mother—always a safe bet. Except . . . his mother is dead.

Damn it all to hell.

And . . . he’s here.

My eyes drop down and I freeze, like a deer caught in the biggest, brightest headlights. I stare at his boots, dark and shiny like black mirrors. I force my gaze upward, over his long legs clad in black . . . polyester pants? His hips and waist are covered by a white jacket with garishly shiny buttons, purple accents, and gold-roped tassels on each of his broad shoulders.

It’s a ridiculous outfit—like a cheap Prince Charming costume—and yet he still manages to look fantastic.

The top button is clasped at his neck, accentuating a sexy, masculine Adam’s apple. He has a chiseled chin; a strong, slightly stubbled jawline; criminally full lips; a straight, regal nose; thick, wild dark-blond hair, and eyes so beautiful they’ll steal your breath, words, and thoughts. They’re a stormy shade of green, but warm like raw emeralds heated by the sun. I remember, the first time we met, thinking how none of the pictures I’d ever seen of him did his eyes justice. And, at this moment, I second that opinion.

If I weren’t naturally speechless, I would be now.

Prince Henry’s brow furrows, looking down at me in an almost disgruntled way.

“Did someone die?”

And it’s such a ludicrous question, I forget to be panicked.

“What?”

“Or are you a witch?” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Sorry—Wiccan? Pagan? Worshipper of the dark arts? What is the PC term these days?”

Is this really happening?

“Uh . . . Wiccan, I believe, is acceptable.”

He nods. “Right. Are you a Wiccan, then?”

“No. Catholic. Not especially devout, but . . .”

“Hmm.” He wiggles his finger at my hands. “What are you reading?”

“Oh . . . Wuthering Heights?”

He nods again. “Heathcliff, right?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s about a fat orange cat?”

My mind trips as I try to figure out what he’s talking about. The comic! He thinks it’s about Heathcliff the comic strip.

“Actually, no, it’s about a young man and woman who—”

His eyes crinkle and his lips smirk, making my cheeks go warm and pink.

“Are you teasing me, Your Highness?”

“Yes.” He chuckles. “Badly, apparently. And please, call me Henry.”

My voice is airy, hesitant, as I try it out.

“Henry.”

His smile remains, but softens—like he enjoys hearing the word. And then I remember myself, curtsying as I should have from the start.

“Oh! And I am—”

“You’re Lady Sarah Von Titebottum.”

Warmth unfurls in my stomach.

“You remembered?”

“I never forget a pretty face.”

My cheeks go from pink to bright red. I change colors more often than a chameleon. It’s a curse.

“I’m not usually good with names.” His eyes drift down to my hips, trying to look behind me. “But Titebottum does stand out.”

When nervous, I typically go mute. This moment is the exception to that rule.

Just my luck.

“You would think so, although several of my uni professors had trouble with the pronunciation. Let’s see, there was Teet-bottom, Tight-butt-um, and one who insisted it should be Titty-bottom. It’s not everyday you hear a distinguished professor say the word tit. That one kept the class entertained for weeks.”

He tilts his head back, chuckling again. “That’s great.”

My face is now approaching purple. I take a deep, slow breath. “Um . . . why did you ask if someone had died?”

He gestures to my clothes. “Both times I’ve seen you, you’ve worn black. What’s that about?”

“Oh.” I glance down at my long-sleeved, knee-length black dress with a crisp white collar and black ankle boots. “Well, black is easy; it goes with everything. And I’m not one for loud colors; I don’t like to stand out. You could say I’m a bit . . . shy.”

And the award for understatement of the year goes to . . .

“That’s a shame. You’d look gorgeous in jeweled tones. Emerald, deep plum.” His eyes wander, pausing at my legs, then my breasts. “In a clingy ruby number, you’d bring men to their knees.”

I look at the ground. “You’re teasing me again.”

“No.” His voice is rough, almost harsh. “No, I’m not.”