Royally Matched (Royally #2)(47)

It’s “Hallelujah.”

And then she starts to sing, and I’m so fucking proud of her, I want to climb a mountain just so I can shout from it. Sarah’s voice is clear and hauntingly gorgeous. In that moment, every person in the audience falls in love with her. And when she sings about standing before God with nothing on her lips but Hallelujah—I fall in love with her a little bit too.

When she gets to the part I’ve always interpreted as talking about sex—moving in each other and gasping—Sarah opens her eyes, but she only looks at me. And it’s like those piercing eyes of hers could capture my soul.

Then they’re closing again and she finishes the song as it’s supposed to be finished—poignant and unashamed, with broken emotion ringing in every syllable. “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Halle . . . luuuu . . . jah.”

When her lips close and the final note is still ringing in the air, quiet little Sarah Von Titebottum brings down the house.





And the night doesn’t end there—not even close. When we get back to the castle, Vanessa has a surprise. “I thought we needed to up the fun quotient around here, so . . . we’re having a party.”

She leads us to the great room, where, holy hell—Bartholomew Gallagar, Hannibal Lancaster, Sam Berkinshire, and about half a dozen more of my best lads and old schoolmates are waiting.

“Surprise! Have fun, Henry.”

Emily, the host, does an intro to our new guests for the cameras—which are still rolling, rolling, rolling. And then I’m greeting the boys, smacking backs and pouring drinks.

Nicholas despises Lancaster, but I’ve always found him to be game for a good time.

“You lucky bastard,” he tells me, surveying the room. “Have you fucked them all, or are you pacing yourself?”

Sarah’s eyes cut over her shoulder, hearing Hannibal and frowning at what he said.

He flips his brown hair out of his eyes and seems to zero in on Cordelia. “I haven’t stuck it to a virgin in years. If there are any left, point me in their direction.”

I clap him on the shoulder when there’s suddenly a noisy row near the door . . . because Sam just saw Elizabeth.

“Lizzy?” he chokes. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Elizabeth unleashes hell.

“Fuck you, Sam! You don’t get to ask me questions, you cheating tosser!”

I push my way over to them.

“Henry?” And there’s so much accusation in Sam’s one word.

“It’s not how it looks. I can explain.”

But Elizabeth beats me to the punch. “Just wait until the show airs and everyone you know watches me boffing Henry.”

It’s not true, but she seems to get a thrill over the agony that flashes across Sam’s face.

“Get a big bucket of popping corn and watch it with your granny,” Elizabeth hisses.

“Are you saying you don’t like my granny?” Sam asks, brokenly.

“I’m saying I don’t like you!” Elizabeth screeches, hair flying out like Medusa.

Then Sam turns my way. “I’m going to rip your balls off.”

I hold up my hands. “It’s not like that, Sam.”

Then, with a roar, he tackles me.





HENRY LOOKS HAPPY. Well, he does now. After he and Sam Berkinshire rolled around on the floor for a bit, security broke them apart. Sam swore to Elizabeth that the things she’d found—the rubbers and receipts—were items he’d bought for her, to use with her. Then he confessed that the panties . . . he’d bought for himself.

I didn’t see that one coming.

And it would seem, neither did Elizabeth—she didn’t believe him and is still refusing to speak to him.

But Henry’s laughing, teasing, and talking with everyone in the room. He’s in the middle of a circle of people, both men and women, recounting stories of his and the lads’ antics while they were at boarding school together. The chuckles are loud and plentiful and genuine. He’s the center of attention and he basks in it, stretching and blossoming like a lush plant in the sun.

Then, instruments are brought in. Henry grabs his guitar and Sam slips a harmonica out of his pocket. And it seems Simon Barrister, the Earl of Ellington, plays the drums. His wife, Franny—a lovely, lively character—watches him intently, worshipfully, ready to yell and clap like a teen at a concert. I can see why.

Because when they start to play, when Henry begins to sing the Tom Petty song “You Don’t Know How It Feels—wearing low-slung jeans and a plain white T-shirt, his hair devilishly mussed, his arms flexing as he strums the chords, his tattoo on display, his smile sinful—it is the damned sexiest thing I have ever seen.

I couldn’t imagine anything hotter.

But then his eyes meet mine and he winks at me, and I’m proven so wrong.

I want to jump him. Literally—throw myself at him. My breasts ache for the touch of those strong hands and long fingers. My thighs clench with raw, randy desire. I want to do things to him—things I can’t put into words—and my cheeks flame just thinking about them. I want him to do things to me—everything. Anything he wants.

As the song ends and they start another, I tear my eyes away. I feel light and drunk and just a little bit crazy. My hand fans my face and I pour myself a drink, gulping it down my parched throat. And it’s all so overwhelming—wild, but wonderful.