His fingers stroke my wrist. “I’m not a prince.”
“Not yet. And you won’t be without a Can Do Attitude.” I use the most cheesy motivational speaker voice I can muster. “Think of me as your coach.” I raise my hands like I have fake pom poms, and channel an obnoxious cheerleader. “Go team!”
“I’m going to regret this,” Benedict mutters. He doesn’t say it like he regrets it. He says it like he’s consigned to his fate. Even bemused that he doesn’t hate it.
“It’s going to work out,” I say more seriously. “Our engagement doesn’t need to last long after Midsummer. We fake it until then, you get crowned, then you focus on your duty, and I sit at home and watch Elvis. A year later, we quietly break it off.”
“Daniel coached you well.”
“I’ll stick to the contract.”
“Mmm.” He still hasn’t let go of my hand, and it’s getting distracting. “You’ll have to spend time with me, of course. Act like a fiancée. We can’t sell it otherwise.” His voice deepens. “Perhaps you should move in.”
I swallow. “All right. As long as I can bring Elvis.”
All softness drops from his expression. “I’ll add an extra ten thousand ducats to the contract if you’ll allow me to hire a sitter for him.”
“But that’s my job. Lady Drey hired me.”
“And if you’re too busy?”
“You’re keeping me that busy?”
“I might need you at my side, morning, noon and night.”
Oh my. “For what?” I fight to keep my voice nonchalant.
“Reasons.”
“I don’t know, dearest,” I say sweetly. “The contract is temporary. You're going to have to learn to live without me.”
“Tomorrow is important,” he warns me softly. “If it doesn't go well, we need to call the whole thing off. And pray no one breaks the scandal.”
“Why? What’s tomorrow?”
“You meet one of my relatives. Lady Ursuline.”
“She sounds like a bear.”
His lips quirk but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “She’s my great aunt. The queen’s mother’s sister. Very important.”
I swallow.
“Think of it as a practice session for meeting the queen.”
“That important, huh?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll do fine, Frankie. Just remain fully clothed, and you’ll be fine.”
“You bastard.” I swat his arm, laughing until I see his expression. “What is it?” I drop my hand. “What did I say?”
A slow breath out, and he visibly relaxes. “Nothing. It was nothing.”
“Sorry. That was rude. I’m sorry.”
“No, I…” He turns, and my breath catches at the sight of his beautiful profile. “It wasn’t your fault. I overreacted.”
“Daniel’s making me memorize all sorts of protocol. Entries in Kingman’s Book of Peers. But I think I’m better off keeping my mouth shut. I don’t want to say the wrong thing, and ruin everything.”
“You won’t ruin everything.”
“Do you really think so?” I whisper.
“You said it yourself: we’re a team now. I won’t let you fail.” He offers me his arm and I take it. We’re out of the room before I ask where we’re going.
“Not far.” He turns the corner, and I gasp. Set up in the middle of Lady Drey’s room of antique horrors is a table for two—white tablecloth, fancy candelabra, the works. In the corner, Sir Fred stands guard, wearing a chef’s hat atop his helmet.
“I asked Daniel if we could have dinner together. He thought it was a good idea.” Benedict holds my chair and I sit carefully, praying I don’t spill anything on my fancy ball gown.
Of course the first thing Benedict does is uncork and pour us wine.
“Oh, none for me,” I protest as he fills my glass halfway.
“You must. You need to raise your tolerance. There will be plenty of wine and spirits at state dinners. It’s the only way one gets through them.”
I roll my eyes again, but successfully keep from telling him to fuck off. Progress.
Dinner is simple—fillet of fish, potatoes, and asparagus on a single plate, kept warm under a heavy silver dish cover. I pace myself and manage not to spill. The wine fills me with a warm glow, and with the candlelight flickering over Benedict’s stunning if severe visage, I find myself enjoying myself.
After dinner, he leads me to yet another room—a study I haven’t been in before—and pours a brandy for himself, limoncello for me.
“What else is on Daniel’s checklist?” he asks, lounging on the couch next to me.
“Uh, how to curtsey, when to curtsey, when to bow. The proper way to eat, drink, address an earl versus a queen.”
“One doesn’t address a queen. You sit and let her talk. My aunt won’t bite.”
“I hope not.” I fake a laugh. “A biting monarch. That would be a headline.”
“Speaking of which, there will be a few more of those. Headlines. We stopped the naked pictures from running, but Daniel had to promise an exclusive story about us. And pictures from the engagement photoshoot.”
“We’re doing a photoshoot?” I put a hand to my stomach.
“Unfortunately. We’ll be the biggest news of the summer. Until the queen announces her pregnancy.”
“And then names you official heir.” I swirl the final bit of my limoncello and set the glass aside.
“Yes.” Benedict downs the rest of his brandy. “I can’t wait for it to be over.”
I almost chime in, ‘Me neither,’ but it wouldn’t be true. Because after this is over, there’ll be no more Benedict. He’ll be busy with affairs of state, and I’ll be back to my reclusive life. He’ll trot me out for a few ceremonies, and then we’ll announce our breakup, and that will be it.
The clock in the corner ticks loudly, and I realize how long the silence has been.
“So…” I cast about for a neutral topic, one that won’t start a fire. But my tongue gets the best of me. “Why aren’t you married?”
“No time.”
I bite my tongue. Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t do it—“You’re not a virgin, are you?”
“No. Are you?”
“No.” I wave my hand. “I’ve had boyfriends.”
“Good.” He sets his glass down and slides closer. Suddenly it is very, very warm in here. “You’ll have had some practice.”
“What?” I squeak.
“Kissing, Miss Beaumonde. Practice kissing.” He’s looking closely at my mouth.
Automatically, I lick my lips. “Should we practice?”
“Kissing?” He sounds thoughtful. “Not a bad idea. We are affianced.”
I glance down at the ring. When I look up, his face is close to mine.
“Perhaps we should practice, just a little,” I whisper.
He tips my face to his, fingers light on my jaw. Our lips meet, his close-clipped beard brushing my cheeks. A slow warmth spreads through my limbs, the sensation like the one I get after sipping brandy.