Royally Matched (Royally #2)(72)

My head swims the nearer he gets.

“I . . . I’m not—”

“I mean, if he completely threw himself into the groveling. Pulled off a stupendous grand gesture, something really public and humiliating.”

He’s right in front of me now. Close enough for me to touch him.

“I don’t think she’d like that, the public part,” I say softly. “She’s still a bit . . . shy.”

Henry nods, and his voice is low and raw and desperate.

“Then what if he just stood in front of her and said, ‘I’m sorry. And I miss you. I want to be a better man for you and because I love you so much, I actually believe I can be.’ Do you think she’d give him a chance then?”

My eyes go blurry and I blink because I want to see him clearly. “I think . . . I think that could work.”

Henry smiles, and it feels like my heart is flying out of my chest.

“Good.”

I nod, crying and grinning at the same time.

Then I hear Willard on the sidelines: “Are we supposed to keep pretending they’re actually talking about the book?”

“Wait,” Annie responds, “they’re not talking about the book?”

Willard pats Annie’s head. “You’re so pretty.”





We’re stuck in the library for almost an hour after my presentation. As soon as one person recognizes Henry, the news spreads like wildfire and everyone wants to meet him. Most of the people here are visitors to Castlebrook; I don’t think the regulars would be so swept up in the celebrity of a visiting prince.

Security does their best to control the crowd and Henry is gracious, but I can tell he’s impatient. He keeps looking over at me, almost to assure himself I haven’t run off.

Though it’s only a short distance to my flat, James drives us there. When they first close the door behind us, and it’s just Henry and me in the backseat, he tells me fervently, “I’m so proud of you. You were absolutely brilliant up there.”

And my smile spreads far and wide across my face. “Thank you. I’m happy you were here to see it.”

We’re quiet then. James takes the long way around, with extra turns and diversions to lose anyone from the library who tries to follow us. And Henry holds onto my hand the entire time.

Inside my flat, I slip off my shoes and hang my coat in the closet, and Henry stands in the middle of my parlor, looking too big for it, larger than life.

And there’s something different about him. He’s still the Henry I know. The wild lad with a dirty mouth is still there below the surface. But the way he carries himself has changed, like there’s a veneer of . . . nobility that wasn’t there before.

He turns in a circle, noting my framed covers on the wall, running his finger along my prized bookshelf.

There’s so much to say, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how to start.

So I ask, “Would you like tea?”

“Yes, tea would be lovely.”

I nod, and on jittery legs move into the tiny kitchen. And just like our first real conversation by that big tree on the hill, instead of going mute, I babble.

“I have peppermint and chamomile. But that’s probably too bland for you, isn’t it?” I take the pot and canisters out of the cabinets and set them on the counter. “I have this fruity, exotic blend that Annie convinced me to try—it’s not my taste at all, but you may—”

Henry puts his hand over mine, standing so close behind me, I can feel the heat from his strong chest and smell the scent of his shirt.

“Sarah,” he says against my ear, raising goose bumps along my neck. “I like peppermint tea.”

And it’s absolutely insane, but that small, insignificant confession breaks something open in my chest—which I didn’t even realize I was keeping tightly shut.

I turn my head, looking at him over my shoulder, and he’s right there, near and real and here.

“You do?”

Henry nods.

“It’s not too plain for you?”

He shakes his head, swiping a tear from my cheek that I wasn’t aware had fallen.

“It’s my very favorite.”

His arms come around me then. And I sink back against him. I feel his lips on my hair, as he inhales deeply—breathing me in.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers. “Every day.”

“Where have you been? What took you so long?”

Henry straightens with a sigh, like he has to force himself to back away.

“Tea first. Then we’ll talk.”

I’m not sure I like the sound of that. But I put the pot on and a few minutes later, we’re seated on the sofa, drinking peppermint tea.

Henry sets his cup carefully on the table and rubs his palms on his slacks, like he’s nervous.

“I fucked up, Sarah. I thought I was doing the right thing for us at the time, finishing out the show, putting it behind us. But I was wrong. Just like . . . Mr. Rochester.”

Warmth spreads through my chest. And I laugh out loud.

“You really did read the books.”

Henry nods. “Every one.” He reaches out, squeezing my hand. “It made me feel closer to you. Knowing you had read the same letters, that you knew the words by heart.”