Royally Screwed(67)

I automatically look around the room, checking for strewn clothes—out of habit. But the maids who flit by every hour or so would never let that happen.

“Uh…sure, Fergus. Thank you.”

He dips his head and walks down the hall.

A few minutes later, a tiny, chirping, beautiful French woman walks through my bedroom door. She looks young, maybe twenty, and reminds me of Ellie—if my sister had brown hair and spoke French. Her name is Sabine, but in my head I call her French Ellie.

Half a dozen male assistants carry in racks of clothes: dresses and pants and blouses and skirts. Then they go back downstairs and bring up bags of lacy undergarments—bras, panties, garters and stockings. Finally, a tailor’s platform is carried in, I assume for me to stand on. By the time the last assistant leaves, the white bedroom isn’t so white anymore, it’s covered in fabrics of every color.

It’s like the entire Women’s department at Barrister’s exploded in here.

Sabine holds up a piece of paper. “Bridget.”

It’s a list, from Nicholas’s secretary, Bridget. A list of events that I’ll need clothes for: the party tonight, a polo match, another party, brunch, afternoon tea with the Queen.

Oh Jesus. Not for the first time, I wonder what the hell I was thinking.

But then I stop—because I’m here. And while I am, I’m going to be here. Be unafraid. Do everything, see everything—with Nicholas.





Trying on clothes is exhausting. I never realized it—until I’d done it for two hours straight. Just as I’m ready to ask for a break, the bedroom door opens—without a knock—and Prince Henry glides in. Carrying long-stemmed glasses and two bottles of Dom Perignon. He’s wearing a black cashmere sweater with a white collared shirt underneath and tan slacks. It’s a neat, preppy look that stands in contrast to his wild, wavy blond hair and the tattoo on his forearm peeking out beneath his rolled-up sleeve.

Henry Pembrook is a walking, living contradiction.

“Everyone’s working,” he says, holding up the bottles and glasses. “I’m bored. Let’s get day-drunk, Olive.”

I look down at Sabine as she fixes the hem on a pair of trim black pants, smiling around the pins in her mouth.

When in Rome…or Wessco…

“Okay.”

After the corks are sprung and the glasses full, Henry looks through the intimate apparel laid out on the bed. “This would look fantastic on you. And that one, there.” He plays with the pink ribbons that tie the front of a daring black lace bustier. “Do these open? Oh, they do—definitely this one—my brother will jizz in his pants when he sees you in it.”

He snatches a peach silk baby-doll nightie, shoving it in his pocket. “This color’s all wrong for you.”

“I don’t think it’s your size, Henry,” I tease. “Have you always liked women’s clothes?”

He smirks, reminding me of his brother. “I like women. I know women. I know one woman who would like this bit very much, and I would enjoy seeing her wearing it.”

Then he moves to the rack of cocktail dresses, going through them one by one. “Crap, crap, crap…”

Sabine is offended. “This is a Louis La Cher original.”

“Oh.” Henry wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Expensive crap.”

Then he stops at a sexy black satin number with lace trim. “This one. Definitely.” He holds it up in front of me. “In silver. It was made for you. Are you’re staying until the end of the summer?”

“That’s the plan.”

He glances to Sabine. “She’ll need a ball gown, too. Preferably something in pale blue.” Then he explains, “For the Summer Jubilee. It’s a party held every year here at the palace—a true ball—all top hats and tails and heaving bosoms. Everyone attends.”

“Then I guess I’ll need a ball gown.”

Henry approaches Sabine slowly, speaking in a string of rapid French. I have no idea what he’s saying, but I understand the blush that comes to her cheeks and the enamored glaze in her pretty eyes when she smiles and says, “Oui, Henry.”

While Sabine sorts the keepers from the rejects and sets up another round in the dressing area, Henry and I sit on the snow-white couch in the sitting room.

“So it’s just that easy for you, huh?” I ask him—referring to whatever proposition Sabine just agreed to with the naughty prince.

“Yes, just that easy.”

Then he downs his Champagne like a shot. And immediately refills his glass. In the sunlight, the planes of his cheeks cast shadows and his eyes, for a moment, take on a distant sheen. What were the words Nicholas used? Haunted. Hunted.