Royally Matched (Royally #2)(37)

She sounds confident, efficient, and sure, almost businesslike. I wonder if it’s this place, if it’s because this is her domain, and she thrives here. It almost reminds me of my grandmother in her office or while addressing Parliament.

When it seems as if they’re wrapping up, Mick and I duck into a room next door. It’s filled with odd-smelling boxes, a bag of ski masks, cans of red paint, poster boards and signs—one says “Free the Butterwald Ducks.”

What in the bloody hell is a Butterwald Duck?

When the last trickle of bookworms slinks down the hall, and only three distinct voices remain in the room—and I know who those voices belong to—I have Mick wait outside while I pop my head in.

“Don’t tell me I missed it? Over already—damn.”

Sarah’s entire face lights up. It makes me feel a bit drunk.

“Henry! What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t stay away.”

And I’m only half joking.

A gorgeously round little piece with bright blue eyes and blond hair approaches from across the room and curtsies, sighing, “Wow. Wow, wow, wow.”

This must be Annie—Sarah talks about her and Willard often.

“This is Annie,” Sarah says.

She’s the type I’d usually go for—perky and easily happy with a look of pure hero worship on her face. The funny thing is, she’s Sarah’s friend, and that fact puts up an immediate roadblock in my brain, muting any attraction to her.

“And this,” Sarah gestures to a short bloke in a large chair with an enormous smoking pipe between his lips, “this is Willard.”

Willard doesn’t stand, but dips his head instead of bowing. It’s not proper—but given my own derision for all things “proper,” it doesn’t bother me.

“Impressive pipe,” I tell him. “Should I call you Sherlock?”

He grins. “Only if I can call you Princess.”

My head toddles as I think it over. “I’m secure enough in my manhood to stand that.”

“Excellent.”

Willard motions to the decanter of amber liquid on the table beside him.

“Brandy? It’s cheap, but it gets the job done.”

“Please.”

While he pours me a glass, Annie chirps, “For God’s sake, Sarah, when you told Haverstrom you had official Palace business to tend to, I was sure you were pulling all our legs. What kind of business does Sarah do for you, Your Highness?”

“She’s helping me reorganize the Palace library.” I press my finger to her lips and she almost passes out. “But that’s a secret—a surprise gift for the Queen.”

I glance over at Sarah where she’s packing up a box of papers, and she smiles gently at the lie.

“Did you have a good meeting, love?” I ask her.

And there’s that pretty pink blush again, though I’m not sure why it appears this time.

“Yes, it went very well.”

Sipping my brandy, I tease, “Do you open the meeting with a sacrifice to the book gods? An animal or a nonreader, perhaps?”

Smoke puffs from Willard lips as he answers, “Only on Tuesdays.”

“Have you ever thought about writing a book, Prince Henry?” Annie whispers. “My ex-boyfriend, Elliot, always said he wanted to.”

Willard checks his watch.

Then Annie goes on.

“You could write under a pen name about the behind-the-scenes secrets of the palace. Or,” a sly look comes over Annie’s face while she glances at Sarah, then back to me, “it could be a sexier tale. About a young virgin who tames the wild, worldly prince—like Fifty Shades but with royalty.”

“I’d read it.” Willard shrugs.

Come to think of it, so would I.





Back at Anthorp Castle, Sarah and I get ready for bed—we each brush our teeth and change in the bathroom. Me, in my usual sleeping pants and bare chest, Sarah in her cotton pants and simple top—it’s a thin-strapped tank top tonight, and her tits look amazing. Then we sit on the bed. I pick up my guitar and strum a few notes.

“By the way, what’s a Butterwald Duck?” I ask. “I saw supplies and a sign mentioning it in one of the other rooms at the library.”

“Oh, those are for next month.” She takes off her glasses and sets them on the bedside table. “For the protest we’re holding to allow the ducks penned in at Butterwald Park free rein.”

“Protest?” I ask.

She nods. “The Austenites are very active in the community.”

I set my guitar down, leaning it against the wall. “You’re terrorists?”

Sarah rolls her pretty eyes. “Don’t be silly. We’re . . . an organization committed to bringing awareness to social issues, through what may be seen as semi-controversial methods at times.”

“Exactly.” I nod. “Terrorists.”

Sarah pinches my arm.

“Ow . . . violent terrorists,” I tease.

She tilts her head up and laughs, her dark hair falling over her shoulder and down her back. And it’s mesmerizing. Was there a time when I actually thought she was plain? I’m an imbecile—she’s stunning. I’ve never known anyone like her.