“Why are you asking it as a question when you control my diary?” I flick her a sardonic grin.
“Just checking that you’re not planning on going rogue on me.”
“Damon is off this evening, so if I do want to go rogue, I will have to grow wings and fly myself out of here. Besides, where is there to go?” I grab my phone and call my cousin. “Matilda,” I sing when she answers.
“I’m not talking to you.”
I pout, feeling only marginally guilty for leaving her to endure the delightful afternoon tea without me. “Will you talk to a bottle of Moët?”
“I may be swayed.”
“Good. This evening we are drinking Moët and perusing the glossies.” As I declare our plans to Matilda, a pile of this week’s glossies land on the table in front of me, courtesy of Kim. “Be here by seven?”
“And how do you propose I get there?” she asks. “Unlike yourself, one does not get the luxury of a personal driver. The King’s private duchy doesn’t stretch that far, or rather he won’t let it. So I have to share my driver with the rest of the family, and Mother and Father are out this evening at a charity gala.”
“Oh. How inconvenient.”
“Rather,” she mutters.
“Then I will have Damon collect you. From Farringdon Hall?”
“Marvelous.”
“One problem.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s technically off duty this evening, so he won’t be able to drive you home.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll grab a cab.” She snorts a burst of laughter, as do I, because no royal gets a cab. Well, that’s not technically true. I did it once. I smile at the memory, remembering the last time Selfridges was closed to the public for me to shop. I saw freedom through the glass-bolted doors as I waited for my staff to collect my many purchases, and it was too much to resist. I wandered out into the night-time air, hailed a cab, and I let the lovely cockney man drive me home. He was constantly peeking in the rearview mirror, a frown embedded into his crabby forehead. He would shake his flat-capped head every now and then, and I would smile, because he was clearly wondering if it was a joke. It wasn’t. Neither was the fact that I had no cash when we arrived home. The paps had a field day, and the kickback from Claringdon Palace was ridiculously over the top. The King was livid. Damon was livid. The public, however, loved it. And I rather enjoyed my little jaunt around London in a black cab. I’d never been in one before. Just for a little while that night, I was like any other regular person. Free. My stifling existence was forgotten in that perfect hour when I saw London through new eyes while safe in the back of the cab.
“I’ll have Olive get one of the guest suites prepared,” I say, wandering through Kellington in search of Damon. “See you soon.” I hang up and eventually find him in the kitchen, sitting at the huge island that dominates the middle of the room. My cook, Dolly, is faffing over him, as she always does, and Olive is clearing a tray. Both nod and greet me formally before getting back to their tasks, and Damon stands.
“Ma’am?”
“Damon, would it be terribly inconvenient for you to collect the Duchess of Kent from Farringdon Hall before you leave?”
“Not an inconvenience at all, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Damon. Olive, will you make sure the Albert Suite is ready, please? My cousin will be staying this evening.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
“Girls’ night in?” Damon settles back on his stool. “I hear The Graham Miles Live Show has a great lineup tonight.”
My forehead crinkles as Damon goes back to his tea, like he hasn’t said something so bizarre. Graham Miles? I don’t think I’ve ever watched his chat show in my life. “He does?”
“Yes. Some popular Hollywood actor.”
“Josh Jameson,” Olive squeals, before quickly slapping her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, ma’am.”
I’d tell her not to be silly, but I am at a loss for words. He’s on the Graham Miles Live Show? I suddenly have the urge to go out this evening, because resisting not putting the television on is going to be hellish. Damn.
Olive scuttles off as Dolly shakes her head and Damon smiles into his cup.
“Will you be eating, ma’am?” Dolly asks. “I have all the ingredients for my famous chicken soup in the pantry.”
I shake my head, mentally planning the night ahead. I hope those glossies are loaded with juicy gossip that will keep Matilda and me busy all night. “That’s very kind of you, Dolly, but Matilda and I will probably just pick.” I wander over to her perfectly organized pantry and open the door, peeking inside. “Do we have things to pick?”
“There are tortillas, ma’am. And I have some freshly made salsa in the fridge.”
Oh, Dolly’s salsa is delicious. “Perfect. Thank you, Dolly.” I head off to my suite to get into something a little more comfortable. Something loose. Something that isn’t going to rub in all the places where I’m still sore.
THAT SOMETHING IS AN OVERSIZED T-shirt and some shorts, minus the knickers beneath. Matilda and I are slumped on the couch, sipping Moët, picking at tortillas, and flicking the pages of the magazines. I am being perfectly distracted by the latest in the celebrity world—the divorces, the scandal, the analyzing of famous women’s weight gain/loss. “Oh, really?” I sigh as I turn the page and come face-to-face with someone familiar. Me. “This picture is old news.”
Matilda leans over and laughs. “You look annoyed.”
“I was.” I don’t indulge in the article that will undoubtedly be divulging inaccurate details of my perfect life. “I was leaving the spring/summer launch of Stella McCartney’s new collection. There was an after-party. I wanted to go.”
“Oh.”
I curl my lip and continue to flick the pages, now a little roughly, still feeling bitter that the King conveniently summoned me just as the champagne was served. Thinking of which . . .”Another bottle?”
Matilda raises her glass in acknowledgement, and I toss the magazine aside, jumping up from the couch. “Back in a minute.” I dart to the kitchen and pull open the door of the fridge dedicated to Moët, smiling as I take a bottle from one of the racks. The empty kitchen is blissfully quiet, a rare occurrence around here. Of course, there’s staff floating around somewhere—there’s always staff floating around somewhere, but the evenings are less suffocating.
Popping the cork, I make my way back to the lounge, my pace gradually slowing when I hear a familiar voice. A familiar voice that is not Matilda and is not any of the palace staff. I come to a confused stop as I cross the foyer, looking around me for where it might be coming from, not seeing a speck of life. My buzzing skin tells me whose voice that is, even if my brain is a little slow in catching up. Josh? And then raucous laughter erupts, and I quickly follow the sound, finding Matilda standing in front of the television with a remote control in her hand. The colossal 64-inch screen is filled with Josh, and the number to the left, currently rising, tells me Matilda is turning up the volume, like I need him to be louder. My heart squeezes at the sight of him, preened to perfection, his three-piece suit pristine as he sits relaxed on a couch, one ankle tossed over his knee. The crowd, mostly women, are going potty as he dazzles them with a rather shy smile, and Graham Miles swoons along with them, gesturing his hands to Josh, like look who’s here! So Josh Jameson is not technically in the lounge, but he may as well be. My body is having its usual riot of reactions when presented with him.
“Adeline,” Matilda shrieks. “Oh my God. Adeline, quick.”
“I’m here,” I mumble, transfixed by the television. Or transfixed by him. My God, he looks heavenly.
“It’s him.”
“Turn it off.” I force my gaze away before I melt at the sight of him, frantically searching out my champagne flute and dashing over to refill it.
“What?” Matilda looks at me like I might have grown ten heads and breathed fire on her.
“Turn it off,” I repea
t, sinking my whole glass.
“Wh—”
“Matilda, please.” More champagne gets thrown into my flute.
“Okay, okay.” She points the remote control at the television, just as the crowd settles and Graham Miles crosses one leg over the other.
“I think they like you,” he says, deadpan. “I have no idea why.”
More laughter breaks out, and Josh blushes the most adorable blush. “Wait,” I blurt abruptly, winning back Matilda’s attention. “No, turn it off.” I flap a hand at the screen and she looks at me in exasperation, dropping the remote control to her side.
“Off or on?”
“Off.”
She re-points.
“No, on.”
“Adeline, seriously?”
I lower to the couch, back to being mesmerized by the divine creature gracing the screen. “Sorry,” I mumble as she joins me. I don’t need to be looking at her to know she is frowning at me.
“Whatever has gotten into you?”
“Him,” I say without thinking, feeling her stunned expression rooted to my profile. “Literally,” I add.
“Oh my gosh.”
“Shh!” I slap her thigh, trying to listen to the television. Matilda grabs the champagne and joins me in downing one glass after the other, sitting forward on the couch, as if it is not loud enough for us to hear even if we were on the other side of the palace.
“So,” Graham relaxes back, all casual, as if he doesn’t have the world’s most handsome man within touching distance. I wish I could be so cool in Josh Jameson’s company. “Josh Jameson, you’re here in London promoting your new film, The Underground.” An applause breaks out as a promotional image pops up on the screen behind Josh. My eyes burn as I absorb the image of him in all his glory, a gorgeous woman cuddled into his side, though he is not embracing her hug. “I assume from this picture it is not about trains,” Graham quips dryly.
Josh laughs a full-on belly laugh, craning his head back to see the image. “No. No trains.”
“Tell us about it. Because it’s based on a true story, right?”
“Right. I play Austin Tate, a troubled man in sixties New York. He had severe autism.”
“So despite you in all your body-beautiful glory throughout the film, and, ladies”—Graham turns to his audience—“it’s very glorious.” He fans his dreamy face and returns his attention back to Josh. “There’s a really poignant story here.”
“Sure.” Josh shuffles on the couch. “Like many people who have autism, Austin struggled to recognize and understand other people’s emotions, but on a really extreme level. He literally showed no one any mercy, would hide in the library most days researching the behavior of ‘normal’ human beings, and nearly killed himself in the gym most nights. It was like a stress alleviator for him. He interacted with no one. Until he met Wendy.” Josh goes on, detailing the character’s background, the research he did for the role, and the training to get his body in tip-top shape. “Six hours in the gym a day, man.” He flexes his bicep, which is clear through his suit, causing another stir in the audience. “And eggs. If I never see another egg in my life . . .” He shudders.
“Well, I think we all agree the discipline paid off.” Graham coughs and smirks at the camera cheekily. They chat some more, and then a trailer for the movie is shown, like my torture couldn’t get any worse. Josh, in glasses. And then naked, a full-on nude from behind. The crowd go potty, as do my insides. “Goodness gracious,” Matilda breathes, blindly smacking at my thigh repeatedly.
“So what have you been up to in London?” Graham goes on once the crowd has piped down and he’s shared the details of the release date. “Do you like it here?”
“I love England,” Josh gushes. “The food, the people.”
“A little birdie told me you’ve been keeping company with the Royal Family, no less.”
I feel all the blood drain from my face as Matilda starts to smack me again, engrossed as much as I am by the interview. How the hell does he know that? Josh fidgets on the couch, obviously trying to play it cool. “You mean the garden party?”
“Not just any garden party, but Princess Adeline’s thirtieth birthday garden party at Claringdon Palace. How did you wangle that?”
Josh visibly relaxes, and I grab oxygen to fill my shrunken lungs. “Wangle?”
Graham laughs. “Wangle. Like pull it off.”
“Oh.” Josh reaches for his water and takes a sip. “You British have some weird terminology.”
“Oh, you’ve been getting familiar with our weird terminology? Give us some words. What have you learned?”
“You call chips crisps.” His attempt to sound British has Graham falling back in heaps of laughter. “And panties are knickers?”
My eyes widen as Graham shoots up straight in his chair. “Seen any knickers while in London?”
“Sadly, no.” Josh brushes off Graham’s cheeky question with a wave of his hand.
“I’m sure we can arrange something.” He looks to the audience, and the women all shout their willingness. “Me first,” Graham tsks, rolling his eyes and returning his attention back to Josh. “Where were we? All this talk of knickers . . .”
“The palace.”
“Ah, the palace. So what did you do? Scale the walls, tunnel underground?”
Josh smiles and places his water on the table. “My father’s here on political business. He and His Majesty King Alfred met during their military days and kept in touch. I was my father’s plus-one.”
“You know, I was invited,” Graham muses.
“Then why didn’t you go?”
“I’m protesting.”
“Why?” Josh asks, genuinely interested.
“The King missed me off his honors list again.” He sighs, exasperated.
“Oh, that sucks.”
“Will you put in a word for me?” Graham asks seriously.
Josh chuckles, the sound out of this world. “No sweat.”
“Great. I’ll invite you to the celebratory party once I receive my knighthood. Now, you’re voted the world’s hottest man. You have an Oscar, for Christ’s sake. You probably have more money than God and a body that rivals a gladiator. And I’ve never met you before today, but I think you’re quite charming.”
“Thanks.” Josh laughs.
“So your love life?” Graham drops that bombshell and sits back, waiting.
“What about it?” Josh’s laugh turns nervous.
“It causes constant speculation in the press, Josh. The pictures with her, and then her, and then her.”
“You’re straight to the point, aren’t you?” Josh rearranges himself on the couch, and I feel myself go stiff as a board. I know Matilda senses it because she glances at me. I keep my eyes on the television, my grasp squeezing around my glass. Josh gets bored easily. I must remember that.
“Anyone special?” Graham prompts again.
I swear, Josh looks straight down the camera, and I sit back, my eyes on his. “There’s no one special,” he tells the world, dragging his gaze back to his host. I don’t know how to interpret that. Was he telling me there is no one special, or was he telling me I’m no one special? I don’t know, and I hate, hate, hate that I need to. “Turn it off.” I grab the remote from Matilda’s hand before she has a chance to obey my abrupt order, and aim it at the screen, pressing the on/off button with a firm fingertip. The screen dies, leaving silence. Not for long, though.
“Tell me everything.” Matilda turns to me, and I feel myself fold.
But I need to tell someone. Someone I can trust, and who isn’t my driver. Not that I actually tell Damon. The poor man has no choice but to know since he is practically my shadow. I feel like I’m going out of my mind. “When he showed up at my private party, we somehow found our way to my suite.” My eyes are pointed to my lap, but a quick glimpse up confirms Matilda’s open mouth.
“You said you were tired. You went to bed.”
“I did go to bed. With him.”
I shrug lamely. “And yesterday, he showed up at the stables.”
“You like him.”
I laugh, no counter coming to me, diving into the sanctuary of my champagne. “You know me. I don’t get attached. There’s no point.”
“You’re falling for him.” Her claim comes from nowhere, and I stare at her, flummoxed.
“That is utterly ridiculous. I hardly know him.”
“You’re falling for him.”
“Will you stop saying that?” I reach for the Moët and abandon my glass in favor of the whole bottle.
“Adeline, I know full well that you make a point of not getting attached to the men you . . .” She fades off, trying to find an appropriate word while I wait.
“Screw?” I prompt.
“Share company with.”
“This is why you make a much more suitable princess than I do.” I toast her etiquette and slurp from the bottle.
“My point is, you don’t get attached because we all know what will happen if you do. Men you see are disposed of.”
“I’ve never met a man I’d want to get attached to,” I mumble round the rim of the bottle.
“That’s because you make a point not to. But you were not anticipating Josh Jameson, were you? And now it’s driving you bonkers, because you’re falling for him and you most definitely cannot have him.” Matilda laughs, and then stops just as quickly, shaking her head in dread. “Jesus, the King would go potty.”
“Thank you for the reminder of my reality.”
“Welcome. So, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing.” I grab a magazine and casually scan the page, pretending my mind isn’t racing and my heart isn’t booming. “And I am not falling for him,” I tell her. “Just having a bit of fun, since it is seriously lacking around here. He leaves next week.”
“Well, you don’t need me to tell you that you’re on dangerous ground.” She slumps back and kicks her feet onto the table.
No, I do not, but this doesn’t feel like the usual dangerous ground I dance on. I’m not being defiant for the sake of it, to prove some kind of personal point to myself—I am my own person and cannot be told what to do and who I see. I’m dancing on this particularly dangerous ground because I really, really want to. It defies logic. I know once knowledge of my involvement with Josh Jameson is discovered by Claringdon Palace, steps will be taken to make sure he stays away. And for once, it bothers me what the King and his minions might do. Why? Because I care for him? I reach up and rub at my chest, not liking the mild ache developing. Do I care for him? I hardly know him. No, I like him. He’s fun. I grin to myself, getting a vivid and graphic playback of our time in my suite, belts, hankies, tiaras, and all. And then my grin fades when I remember our ride yesterday. He is a multi-dimensional man, and I like it all. He’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time, maybe ever, and it is real fun. Just like Josh said, it isn’t manufactured. I’m not pretending with him. I’m not fooling myself.