Royally Matched (Royally #2)(35)
The other evening when I walked into the room, Sarah was in the bath. I stood outside the locked bathroom door, listening to the drip and swish of the water as she moved, washing herself—touching herself—and I almost came in my pants like a sodding twelve-year-old boy.
It’s becoming a problem.
But I don’t consider, for even a moment, staying in my own room. Because the best part and the hardest part—pun intended—is that after we’re in bed, with Sarah in her plain cotton sleeping clothes, both of us bundled under the covers to keep out the drafty frigid air, and the lights are low . . . we chat. About everything and nothing and all the things in-between.
She talks about her mother with her greenhouses and flowers; Penny with her Hollywood dreams; her grouchy boss, who sounds like he could be a relation of old Fergus; her library and tidy little flat and simple, organized life. I tell her about Nicholas and all the misplaced faith he has in me, though Sarah insists it’s not misplaced at all. I talk about spunky, spirited Olive and how I wish they didn’t live so far away. And in soft, shamed tones, I tell her about Granny—and how thoroughly I’ve disappointed her time and again.
And Sarah Titebottum, as timid and bashful as she appears to be, is an honest-to-God optimist. She has no patience for self-pity or regret, but instead, like the little train that could, she believes in onward and upward, in moving forward one small step at a time.
Though I’m familiar with the basic history, Sarah tells me excitedly about Lady Jane Grey, the nine-day Queen of England, whom she read a book about once. It was a romanticized account of how she ended up falling in love with Guildford Dudley, the man her family forced her to marry. And when dark-intentioned powers illegitimately propped Lady Jane up as Queen, it was that love that gave her the strength to dream grand dreams about the things she could do for her people and her country. Sarah’s smile is so delightful, her face so animated as we talk, I don’t have the heart to point out that young Lady Jane never had the chance to implement any of her plans. Because they cut her fucking head off.
Sarah doesn’t ask me about my own future, my thoughts on becoming King, and I’m grateful for that. Because I still don’t want to think about it. But there’s a light in her eyes and an admiration in her voice that makes me feel, deep inside, that Sarah believes I could be good at it.
And it’s different than with Nicholas. Or Granny.
For reasons I can’t put my finger on, the fact that this pure, unadulterated lass believes it—that she believes in me—makes me think that the day could come when I believe it too.
Midway through the second week of filming, we wrap an outdoor shoot on the balcony at around eight p.m. As soon as the director calls cut, Elizabeth twines herself around me like a vine of poison ivy, whispering the deviant things she wants to do to me on camera—some of which I’m not sure the laws of physics will allow.
I disentangle myself and charge toward my room. Well . . . Sarah’s and my room. But when I walk in, I find her filling her worn satchel with her books—looking like she’s on her way out the door. I saunter over to the nook, bracing my hand on the wall behind her, and lean in.
“And just where are you sneaking off to so late at night?”
She looks up at me, her mouth tightening into an amused bow.
“I’m not sneaking and it’s hardly the middle of the night, Henry.”
She smells like sweets and I want to lick her. Up, down, and all around.
So I pretend she hasn’t spoken and continue with my train of thought—it’s much more interesting anyway.
“Are you on your way to a hot date with a secret lover, perhaps? Or maybe you belong to a sex club? A seedy, back-alley place you visit every chance you can, but not nearly as often as you’d like, where every fetish—no matter how depraved—is rapturously indulged.”
My eyes travel down her body, visually caressing the sumptuous curves beneath her tight black turtleneck and leggings. “Maybe a naughty librarian fantasy? Or is it a cat-burglar role play? You’re caught sifting through some wealthy, well-hung aristocrat’s bedroom and have to beg, ‘Oh please don’t turn me in, My Lord—however can I persuade you? I’ll do anything . . .’”
Delicate eyebrows rise above the wire frame of her glasses. “That’s very . . . specific. Seems like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“You have no idea.” I lean in closer. “Where are we going, love?”
“We?” Her eyes are darker—dilated, and her chest rises and falls in quick, excited pants. I wonder if she even realizes it. “I have a meeting. Mother’s sent her car to take me. You can’t come, Henry.”
“I can come lots of times. My stamina is legendary. Do you want me to show you?”
Her voice comes out soft, husky. “You can’t come with me.”
“That sounds like a challenge.” I smirk slowly. “I bet I could time it just right.”
Her mobile pings, alerting her to the text that her car is out front. She blinks and ducks under my arm, scooting away—and like the dog I am, I want to chase her.
“What kind of meeting?”
Sarah slips into her coat. “A club meeting.”
And I’m about to bring up the sex club again and ratchet up the raunchy—but then it all becomes clear.