The Controversial Princess (The Smoke & Mirrors Duology #1)(48)
“I’ll have Olive get one of the guest suites prepared,” I say, wandering through Kellington in search of Damon. “See you soon.” I hang up and eventually find him in the kitchen, sitting at the huge island that dominates the middle of the room. My cook, Dolly, is faffing over him, as she always does, and Olive is clearing a tray. Both nod and greet me formally before getting back to their tasks, and Damon stands.
“Ma’am?”
“Damon, would it be terribly inconvenient for you to collect the Duchess of Kent from Farringdon Hall before you leave?”
“Not an inconvenience at all, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Damon. Olive, will you make sure the Albert Suite is ready, please? My cousin will be staying this evening.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
“Girls’ night in?” Damon settles back on his stool. “I hear The Graham Miles Live Show has a great lineup tonight.”
My forehead crinkles as Damon goes back to his tea, like he hasn’t said something so bizarre. Graham Miles? I don’t think I’ve ever watched his chat show in my life. “He does?”
“Yes. Some popular Hollywood actor.”
“Josh Jameson,” Olive squeals, before quickly slapping her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, ma’am.”
I’d tell her not to be silly, but I am at a loss for words. He’s on the Graham Miles Live Show? I suddenly have the urge to go out this evening, because resisting not putting the television on is going to be hellish. Damn.
Olive scuttles off as Dolly shakes her head and Damon smiles into his cup.
“Will you be eating, ma’am?” Dolly asks. “I have all the ingredients for my famous chicken soup in the pantry.”
I shake my head, mentally planning the night ahead. I hope those glossies are loaded with juicy gossip that will keep Matilda and me busy all night. “That’s very kind of you, Dolly, but Matilda and I will probably just pick.” I wander over to her perfectly organized pantry and open the door, peeking inside. “Do we have things to pick?”
“There are tortillas, ma’am. And I have some freshly made salsa in the fridge.”
Oh, Dolly’s salsa is delicious. “Perfect. Thank you, Dolly.” I head off to my suite to get into something a little more comfortable. Something loose. Something that isn’t going to rub in all the places where I’m still sore.
THAT SOMETHING IS AN OVERSIZED T-shirt and some shorts, minus the knickers beneath. Matilda and I are slumped on the couch, sipping Mo?t, picking at tortillas, and flicking the pages of the magazines. I am being perfectly distracted by the latest in the celebrity world—the divorces, the scandal, the analyzing of famous women’s weight gain/loss. “Oh, really?” I sigh as I turn the page and come face-to-face with someone familiar. Me. “This picture is old news.”
Matilda leans over and laughs. “You look annoyed.”
“I was.” I don’t indulge in the article that will undoubtedly be divulging inaccurate details of my perfect life. “I was leaving the spring/summer launch of Stella McCartney’s new collection. There was an after-party. I wanted to go.”
“Oh.”
I curl my lip and continue to flick the pages, now a little roughly, still feeling bitter that the King conveniently summoned me just as the champagne was served. Thinking of which …”Another bottle?”
Matilda raises her glass in acknowledgement, and I toss the magazine aside, jumping up from the couch. “Back in a minute.” I dart to the kitchen and pull open the door of the fridge dedicated to Mo?t, smiling as I take a bottle from one of the racks. The empty kitchen is blissfully quiet, a rare occurrence around here. Of course, there’s staff floating around somewhere—there’s always staff floating around somewhere, but the evenings are less suffocating.
Popping the cork, I make my way back to the lounge, my pace gradually slowing when I hear a familiar voice. A familiar voice that is not Matilda and is not any of the palace staff. I come to a confused stop as I cross the foyer, looking around me for where it might be coming from, not seeing a speck of life. My buzzing skin tells me whose voice that is, even if my brain is a little slow in catching up. Josh? And then raucous laughter erupts, and I quickly follow the sound, finding Matilda standing in front of the television with a remote control in her hand. The colossal 64-inch screen is filled with Josh, and the number to the left, currently rising, tells me Matilda is turning up the volume, like I need him to be louder. My heart squeezes at the sight of him, preened to perfection, his three-piece suit pristine as he sits relaxed on a couch, one ankle tossed over his knee. The crowd, mostly women, are going potty as he dazzles them with a rather shy smile, and Graham Miles swoons along with them, gesturing his hands to Josh, like look who’s here! So Josh Jameson is not technically in the lounge, but he may as well be. My body is having its usual riot of reactions when presented with him.
“Adeline,” Matilda shrieks. “Oh my God. Adeline, quick.”
“I’m here,” I mumble, transfixed by the television. Or transfixed by him. My God, he looks heavenly.
“It’s him.”
“Turn it off.” I force my gaze away before I melt at the sight of him, frantically searching out my champagne flute and dashing over to refill it.