Royally Matched (Royally #2)(48)

With the sounds of the music following me, I step out of the great room into the cooler hallway, wanting to catch my breath just for a moment. And here I used to think all the swooning heroines in my novels were over the top.

But now I know their reactions were spot on. Now I understand.

And I hope before this night is over, I’ll also understand all the sensations—the erotic tastes and touches—I’ve read about.

The music room is just a few steps from the great room, and the song and chatter from the party still comes through clearly. I run my finger over the shiny black lacquer of the piano, close my eyes and dream of what could happen tonight. I imagine Henry’s satisfied groans, his panting breath in my ear, his glorious dirty mouth speaking in a rough voice laden with desire.

And then a voice comes from behind me—and it’s not Henry’s.

“At first glance, there’s not much to you. But close up, you’re actually sort of pretty. I like that.”

It’s one of Henry’s friends—the rude one. He’s standing between me and the door. And though I want to tell him to go away, or move past him, my feet are frozen. Because there’s a look in his eyes that I know well—that I’ve seen more times than I ever want to remember.

Cruelty.

And it paralyzes me.

“Are you afraid?” he asks, moving closer.

And I can’t move.

Then he smiles slowly.

“I like that too.”





THIS IS WHAT I’M TALKING about. The music is loud, the drinks are flowing, the room is alive with smoke and chatter, and everyone is laughing. Everyone is having a good time. Christ, I’ve missed this. Hello. old life, long time no see.

I tighten the strings on my guitar, debating what we should play next. Black Crowes? Lumineers, maybe?

That’s when one of the cameramen backs into a table. It tilts on two legs before going over, sending the clock, vase, and porcelain dish sliding to the floor with a sharp, loud crash.

Instinctively, I look around for Sarah.

I scan the room once, then again slower and more carefully. But I don’t see her. And the unease starts as a whisper, a gentle caress. I lean my guitar against the chair and stand up, turning in a circle, surveying, searching for the dark head and pretty form I’d know anywhere.

But she’s not here.

And the unease turns to concern. My palms start to sweat and my heart accelerates . . . because Hannibal Lancaster is nowhere in sight either.

Hannibal, whom my brother hates.

Hannibal, whom Nicholas won’t tolerate even looking at his wife, let alone be near enough to speak to her.

Concern surges into panic—the kind that churns and pokes in my gut and makes the hairs on the back of my neck spike. And that’s when I make the connection my idiot brain was too stupid and self-absorbed to figure before: My brother would never, ever hate someone . . . without a very good reason.

I walk over to Penelope, my hand on her upper arm. “Where’s your sister?”

She blinks at me before glancing around the room. “I don’t know.”

Without needing to be told, Penny walks over to where Elizabeth and Sam are arguing in hushed, animated tones.

“Have you seen Sarah?” she asks. When both of them shake their heads, I have to grind my teeth to keep from shouting.

I approach Franny and Simon. “Did you see where Sarah went?”

Franny’s sharp eyes dart around. “I just saw her a moment ago.”

I tug at my hair, ready to start tearing the walls down, and Simon puts his hand on my shoulder. “She couldn’t have gone far, Henry.”

My throat tightens, making my voice hoarse.

“But . . . the crash. She’s not good with loud noises.”

Simon nods, even though he probably doesn’t understand. “We’ll find her.”

“Prince Henry.”

It’s James. Watchful, eagle-eyed James.

“Lady Sarah went through there.” He points to the far door that leads to a short hall and then the music room.

And I could fucking hug him right now. Instead I smack his arm. “Good man.”

Then I rush past him.

When I get to the music room, my panic is burned up by rage at what I see.

Hot, blistering rage, the likes of which I have never known.

Because Sarah is on the sofa, her face pale as death and just as lifeless, her eyes blank, with that flat, fucking horrible dullness. And Hannibal Lancaster is beside her—with his hands on her, touching her breasts.

I heave him up and throw him across the room. “Get the fuck away from her!”

And then I’m kneeling, patting her cheek. She’s so pale. I would give anything to see her blush right now.

I stand up when Hannibal moves nearer, facing him with Sarah behind me. And I feel the others rushing into the room, but I don’t take my eyes off Lancaster.

“What did you do to her?’

He shrugs, tugging on the cuff of his shirt. “Not a thing. One minute she was fine and the next she was totally out of it. I think she’s on something, maybe a bad trip.”

The vein at my temple throbs.

“A girl goes catatonic and your first thought is to grab her tits?”

“Oh please, she loved it. Look at her, for fuck’s sake—it’s probably the most action she’s ever gotten in her life.”