Royally Matched (Royally #2)(20)

“Penelope. Mother wouldn’t let her participate unless I tagged along to keep an eye on her.”

“Every family has a wild child. Penny’s yours?”

Takes one to know one.

“Yes, definitely.”

He tilts his head, the sunlight making his eyes a deeper green, almost simmering. “And what about you? Is there any wild in you, Teet-bottom?”

My cheeks go up in flames. “Not even a little. I’m the boring one. The good one.”

His teeth scrape his lower lip and it looks . . . naughty.

“Corrupting the good ones is my favorite pastime.”

Oh yes, definitely a Willoughby.

I hug my book to my chest. “I’m not corruptible.”

His smile broadens. “Good. I like a challenge.”

A crew member suddenly appears, trailing a large white horse behind him. “They’re ready for you, Prince Henry.”

Keeping his eyes on me, he places one foot in the stirrup and smoothly swings up onto the saddle. With his hands on the leather reins, he winks.

“See you around, Titty-bottom.”

I cover my face and groan.

“I never should have told you that.”

“Can’t blame me. It makes you turn so many lovely shades. Is it just your cheeks that blush?” His gaze drags down my body, as if he can see beneath my clothes. “Or does it happen everywhere?”

I fold my arms, ignoring the question.

“I think you might be a bully, Prince Henry.”

“Well, in grade school I did enjoy pulling on the girls’ braids. But these days I only tug on a woman’s hair in a very specific situation.” His voice drops lower. “Let me know if you’d like a demonstration.”

His words cause images of slick, entwined limbs and gasping moans to flare in my mind. And as if on cue, the blush blooms hot under my skin.

Henry laughs, the sound deep and manly. Then he spurs his horse and rides away, leaving me glowing like a damn Christmas tree. I open Wuthering Heights and press the pages against my face, cringing.

It’s going to be a long month.





HERE’S SOMETHING I DIDN’T KNOW before: reality television isn’t actually real. I mean, it is in the sense that there are actual people speaking and moving, as opposed to artificially intelligent human-like robots that will eventually become self-aware and kill us all.

Instead of castle-walking in the middle of the night, I’ve been watching the Terminator series. The first one is still the best.

But my point is, Matched and its ilk aren’t genuine. The scenes are staged, the shots planned, and “takes” are done multiple times. A few minutes on film could take a few hours of real-life time to shoot.

This is the fourth time we’ve gone through my “riding up to the castle on horseback” scene, and we haven’t even gotten to the front of the castle yet. Something to do with lighting and shadows or whatever the hell. The horse is now cranky and I’m bored.

While the director and Vanessa and the cameraman go over the next shot, I glance toward the hill, thinking about the funny little blusher at the top of it. The way she peeked out from behind the tree, then tried to hide as if I’d caught her doing something dirty.

I could show her what dirty really looks like.

The thought makes me chuckle, imagining the pretty pink her cheeks would turn if she heard what was running through my head. I wonder if her arse would turn the same sweet shade after a good, warm spanking?

I bet it would.

I shift in the saddle, getting hard at the prospect.

Lady Sarah Von Titebottum. A cute, odd bird with—from what I could tell in her well-fitted but drab black dress—a very fitting name. Pretty face, too: big, dark, long-lashed eyes that sparkled behind those prim glasses and a lush mouth made for moaning.

I’ve known girls like her before. The aristocracy is actually a very small group, and some of the families are all about keeping their offspring—particularly their female offspring—sheltered from the rest of the world. Hidden away in private, all-girl academies where they interact with only their own. It makes for reserved, intelligent, but generally plain and tediously proper young ladies.

Although she’s obviously the quiet type, Sarah held her own with me. She was clever, charming in a bashful way—different. People are so disappointingly predictable that being surprised by that shy slip of a girl feels almost . . . tantalizing.

“Just like that, Prince Henry,” the director calls. “That smile right there—that’s what we’ve been looking for. Whatever put that look on your face, keep thinking about it.”

Well, that’s not going to be difficult.





Unlike the show itself, the host of Matched is the genuine article. She’s authentically crackers. As mad as a box of frogs.

She’s Emily Rasputin, an American stage actress who was known as the Queen of Broadway in her prime. A notorious cocaine addiction, a hit-and-run scandal, and a contemptuous divorce in the nineties knocked her off her throne. But she reappeared a few years back as the host of television’s newest, hottest reality show. Her suspenseful hosting skills and the bold, prying questions she poses to the contestants have become as big of a draw as the show itself.

And everyone loves a comeback story. I should know.