Brutal Prince Bonus Scene (Brutal Birthright, #1.5)(85)

The real reason he hadn’t yet proposed was because he wasn’t sure of her answer. He thought that she loved him. But he could never be certain.

Black knew that most women would consider him a catch. He was 190 cm tall, broad shouldered, blond, handsome. A decorated police officer, who had solved several prestigious cases, including saving the hostages from the bombing of the NSC building, a feat that had made him the hero of the city for a time.

Yet, Lex wasn’t like most women. He’d never seen her equal for intelligence or beauty. And she had that wildness to her.

So, he kept the ring with him at all times, looking for the right opportunity, the moment when he felt sure she’d say yes.

It was a perfect ring, just what he knew she would like. White gold and diamond, antique, probably made in 1890, or close thereto, in jolly old England. She had told him that Art Nouveau was her favorite style. He made sure the slender little band would be small enough to fit her hand.

She worked in art appraisal, so he knew it had to be something special. Something she’d be proud to wear, that fit her tastes.

Of course, he couldn’t afford the size of stone she really deserved, but maybe eventually. After a few more promotions.

He liked the finer things in life. He could tell she did too, from the few items she kept in her sparse apartment. Her place was near empty and always scrupulously clean, but what she had looked expensive and tasteful.

For his part, Black was enjoying driving this hired car. It was heavy and substantial. It handled smoothly. It smelled like new leather. Maybe they’d have a car like this someday, and a little house.

He kept no vehicle of his own, usually. He lived in the heart of London and drove a patrol car when required. But you couldn’t pull up to the Home Secretary’s house in a cab, so he’d rented something fancy for the night.

They were coming up to the place now. He’d never been in Hamstead Garden before, though of course he knew of it. It was one of the most prestigious suburbs in London. The poshest street of all was The Bishop’s Avenue, where the Home Secretary’s mansion took pride of place.

The house itself was a massive red brick monstrosity, rather squarish, with lots of chimneys and brightly-lit rectangular windows. It had a pretty, private drive up to the front, lined with trees, but the actual house seemed to have been built in stages, with a large four-story addition tacked on to the right side like some sort of growth.

“Not very aesthetic, is it?” Black said to Lex.

“Mmm,” she said, in mild agreement.

Black saw that she wasn’t looking at the house at all. She seemed to be scanning the grounds, glancing around at the gates, the guardhouse, and the valets parking the many cars for the partygoers.

It was so funny how she never seemed to be looking at quite the same things as him. There was something different in the way their minds worked.

“I heard they rushed through the purchase a few years ago to avoid the higher Stamp Duty costs,” Black told her. “Probably saved them almost two million pounds. You’d think if you could afford this place, you wouldn’t care about taxes, but the rich always seem to want to get a deal, don’t they?”

“I guess that’s why they’re rich,” Lex said.

She was ignoring the resentment in his voice. She didn’t seem to have any resentment herself, or any political leanings.

They pulled up in front, letting the valet take the keys. Lex stepped carefully out of the car, mindful of the delicate fabric of her skirt, and the revealing slit.

Black took her arm. He loved how petite she was next to him, a full foot shorter. She was the smallest woman he’d ever dated—she probably weighed less than a hundred pounds. But she still had elegance and presence, from how she carried herself.

They strode up the broad front steps and into the grand house.

It was much lovelier inside than out. They found themselves in a lavish entryway, all glimmering marble and polished mirrors.

A receptionist checked their tickets and took their coats, before they were offered a glass of champagne and ushered into the main room of the party.

It was, for lack of a better word, a ballroom, though the Home Secretary’s wife probably called it a salon or something equally pretentious. Black recognized a few of the other guests (the mayor of London and his wife, and the author that won the Booker prize the previous year, with a woman who was most definitely not his wife). They would never have recognized Black. He only knew them from television or news articles.

Because the party was already in full swing, most of the guests looked a little buzzed, if not already drunk. Black had no intention of imbibing anything other than his glass of champagne. He never allowed himself to drop his guard in situations like this. An earl might be forgiven for getting sloshed at a party, but a common cop never would be.

Commissioner Coldwell waved at Black from across the room. He strode over to greet them. He was an older man, on the far side of sixty, but still with an imposing build, only a little gone to seed. He had a big, hawkish nose and thinning black hair.

“You found the place,” he said.

“Easy enough,” Black said. “It’s lit up like a Christmas tree.”

Coldwell chuckled. “They don’t like to be subtle, do they,” he said.

He liked to be conspiratorial when talking to Black, as if they grew up in the same neighborhood. But Black knew he was from old money himself.