Royally Matched (Royally #2)(46)

“New looks really good on you.”

She seems as if she’s about to say something else, but then the director calls for filming to begin. Sarah heads off to the sidelines, while Penelope comes down the stairs, with her shoulders back, tits out, and blond head high—in a nice little royal-blue number.

When she reaches the bottom of the steps, I bow and kiss her hand. Penny giggles for the cameras, then takes her spot near the door.

Laura descends the stairs next, in a light-pink, swishy-skirted dress. She looks better than she did a few weeks ago—her cheeks are fuller and her pallor is all but gone. She gives me a peck on the cheek and I return the favor.

And while Penny and Laura are gorgeous girls, my eyes keep drifting over to Sarah, where she chats with Franny and Simon.

I can’t stop looking at her.

Then there’s a commotion at the top of the landing as Cordelia and Elizabeth argue over who’s supposed to come down next. And even better?

They’re wearing the exact same dress.

For ladies—especially noble ladies—it’s the cardinal sin. You can screw their man and insult their mother, but you’d better not fucking be wearing their dress.

Cordelia and Elizabeth don’t notice right way, but you can tell the moment they do—because right after, they start screaming and tearing each other’s hair out.

Vanessa Steele watches the drama with glee—looking like a kid in a candy shop on Christmas Day.





The restaurant is a low-key pub—comfortable like The Goat but more upscale, with a small stage at one end. It’s crowded, nearly every table filled to capacity, and there’s a loud din of chatter—like background static noise. The reactions of the patrons to me are . . . off, strange. They glance my way but continue their conversations as if they’re not surprised a prince just walked through the door, as if they know they’re not supposed to be noticing me. And they don’t look at the cameras at all.

“Who are these people?” I ask Vanessa as we take our seats.

“Extras. American extras—we flew them in this morning, but the audience won’t be able to tell.” She wiggles her fingers. “The magic of television.”

I sit with the girls at one table, where the cameras focus, while some of the other crew, as well as Sarah, Simon, and Franny take a table beside ours.

I order shots for all of us—tequila. Three rounds later, Elizabeth and Penelope are playing a rock, paper, scissors drinking game. When the drinks don’t come fast enough, they wager bets instead. Loser has to pop up on that little stage and sing her heart out.

Penny loses. And then she starts to flip out. “Oh my God, oh my God, I can’t sing . . . I’m a terrible singer . . . I can’t sing on television—I’ll look like a fool. Maybe I can dance instead, a snappy tap number?”

“No.” Cordelia points her finger. “We said singing. That was the deal. If you welch, we get to cut your hair off.”

Penny frowns and preemptively grabs at her scalp.

“No one’s cutting off my sister’s hair.”

Every set of eyes turns toward the end of the table in surprise. Because the voice is firm and semi-threatening. And it comes from Sarah’s lips. I wonder if this is part of her “trying something new” resolution.

Sarah stares Cordelia down. “I’ll go up and sing for her.”

“You?” Cordelia scoffs mockingly. “You can barely speak. And it’s against the rules, anyway.”

Sarah doesn’t back down—not an inch. “The rules have changed.”

Good girl.

Cordelia shakes her head, her face twisting with spite. Then she picks up a glass, holds it out with a straight arm, and drops it on the floor, where it shatters.

When nothing happens, when Sarah just continues to gaze dismissively, the vicious confidence fades from Cordelia’s eyes.

“You ought to clean that up,” Sarah says, walking past. “Someone could get hurt.”

Franny clicks her tongue. “All that arse fucking has made you quite a Nasty Bitch, Cordelia. You should break the seal already—it may help your disposition.”

Have I mentioned that I fucking love Franny?

But I’m focused on Sarah, in her little red dress, on the stage, muttering to herself and twisting her fingers into knots and generally looking like she’s about to keel over or spew.

I stand and walk up beside her. “How are we doing? Is this going to be Davey 2.0?”

Her throat convulses when she swallows. “Probably. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking about sticking up for your sister.”

Sarah stares out over the crowd, who haven’t really noticed her yet—her eyes infinitely big and dark, her face paling by the second.

And she whispers, “I can’t do this, Henry.”

I disentangle her fingers for her. “Yes you can. I’ll be right here the whole time.”

Her eyes turn to me and I give her a wink. Then I bring a chair forward and I pick up the guitar that’s propped up at the back of the stage, testing the strings and adjusting the amp.

The room goes quiet, everyone watching. Waiting.

Sarah takes the deepest breath and she closes her eyes—not tightly or squeezing—gently, like she’s dreaming. And I play the opening notes, soft and sad and consistent.