Royally Matched (Royally #2)(19)

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.”

My eyes snap up to his, and hold.

There are meetings in books that stand out, that alter the course of the story. Profound encounters between characters when one soul seems to say to the other, “There you are—I’ve been looking for you.”

Of course, life isn’t a novel, so I’m probably just imagining the slipping, sliding feeling inside me, like things are shifting around before finally snapping into their rightful place. And I think my mind is playing tricks on me—fancying that it’s interest alighting in Prince Henry’s eyes.

Heated interest.

My breath catches and I cough, breaking the moment.

Then I gesture to his jacket. “Do you really think you’re qualified to give fashion advice?”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought I looked like an absolute tool—now I’m sure of it.”

“Did the producers pick that out for you?”

“Yes. I’m supposed to ride down to the castle on horseback. Make my grand entrance.” Briskly, his long fingers unbutton the jacket. He shrugs it off, dropping it on the ground, revealing a snug white T-shirt and gloriously sculpted arms.

“Better?”

“Yes,” I squeak.

The teasing smirk comes back, then he grips the back of his T-shirt, pulling it off. And my mouth falls open at the sight of warm skin, perfect brown nipples, and the ridges and swells of muscles up and down his torso.

“What do you think of this?” he asks.

I think this is worse than I thought.

Henry Pembrook isn’t a Fiyero—he’s a Willoughby. A John Willoughby from Sense and Sensibility—thrilling, charming, unpredictable, and seductive. Marianne Dashwood learned the hard way that if you play with a heartbreaker, you can’t be surprised when your heart gets shattered into a thousand pieces.

I shrug, trying to seem cool and unaffected. “Might look a bit too ‘Putin’ on the horse.”

He nods, then puts his shirt back on, and my stomach swirls with a strange mix of relief and disappointment.

“Why aren’t you down with the other girls?”

“Me? Oh, I’m not part of the show. I couldn’t imagine . . .”

“Then why are you here?”