And whom do I want to talk to the most?
Not Nick, not my mother, not Greta, who no doubt has a fistful of things that need attending to since I’ve been out all day. No, I want to head down to Lizzy’s room and ask if she wants to have a drink with me in the library and play some chess after.
I bet she’d be brilliant at chess.
She already has me in check.
Instead, I take my scotch to my rooms alone, pass out in my reading chair, and dream of kissing my fiancée again.
And then of doing more than kissing her.
I wake with a troubling hard-on and a bad attitude that follows me through another day of pretending to be too busy to make time for Lizzy, aside from a quick lunch, during which I regret my decision to eat like a savage like few things I’ve ever regretted in my life.
I’m tired of all the pretending—mine and hers.
As a handful of days pass and the morning of the engagement ceremony arrives with no good news from Nick and no news at all from Jeffery—he’s running into more roadblocks to gaining access to the Rochat estate than expected—I realize I have to take things into my own hands.
I have to find out the truth before the ceremony.
It isn’t a marriage, obviously. I can still call off the wedding at any time, but in the five hundred years that my family has been taking part in the traditional Gallantian engagement, the ritual has led to a marriage every single time—aside from once in the fourteen century, when the bride came down with the Black Death and died.
In this day and age, Lizzy isn’t likely to come down with the plague, and I don’t want her to die. I just want to find out if she really is who she says she is.
And this time, I have a foolproof plan.
Bright and early on the day of the ceremony, I wake her with a phone call. She answers with a sleep-husky, “Hello,” that makes my pulse beat faster.
I ignore the way my body responds to her voice and resist the urge to ask if I’ve woken her. Lust and manners will both have to take a back seat. I’m on a mission and won’t be deterred. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the national museum? Get away from all the hustle and bustle for a while.”
“That sounds wonderful,” she says. “When do we leave?”
“Is fifteen minutes too soon? I’ve arranged for them to open early so we can view the more popular exhibits undisturbed. The crowds can be overwhelming in the summer months.”
“Fifteen minutes is fine,” she says.
“Wonderful. I’ll meet you in the kitchen. We can grab coffee before we leave. Oh, and wear something you don’t mind being photographed in, just in case. Tourists in the city are usually good about letting me go about my business undisturbed, but seeing me out and about with my fiancée might be too much temptation to resist.”
“O-okay.” She sounds anxious at the thought, making me add a checkmark in the “Probably Lizzy” column. But then she adds, “I’ll do my best, but I confess I’m not great at knowing what will photograph well,” and I add another check in “Probably Sabrina.”
Surely, a woman who designs clothing for a living, even if it’s lingerie, would know what looks good in front of a camera.
Christ, she’s driving me crazy.
Or I’m driving myself crazy over nothing.
I honestly don’t know. All I know for sure is that when I meet her in the kitchen, my eyes go instantly to the stunning girl laughing with our chef in a sunny corner. My chest warms, and my spirits lift.
I’m truly happy to see her.
I’ve missed her. Her smile, her laughter, the way she always seems to know when I’ve walked into a room and turns to look, an intimacy in her gaze that’s reserved just for me.
She does it now, lifting her chin as she glances over her shoulder. Our eyes connect across the still peaceful kitchen, and a sweet smile curves her lips. “Good morning, Andrew.”
“Good morning, beautiful,” I say as I cross the room. “That dress is perfect. You look like springtime.”
“I said she looked like a baby chick,” Vera, our American head chef, pipes up from the espresso machine, where she’s gone to fix my coffee. She hails from somewhere in Texas, which is absolutely unheard of for our royal court, but she’s the best thing to happen to this kitchen in decades. I don’t regret a second of the time it took to convince my mother that it’s acceptable to hire a chef who isn’t French.
“But I meant it in a good way,” Vera continues. “Nothing cuter than baby chicks when they’re still fluffy and peeping all over the place. Here you go, your highness.” She sets a cappuccino with exactly the right amount of foam on the counter beside me.
“Perfect. Thank you, Vera.” I gratefully accept the mug, hoping the coffee will help make up for all the sleep I’ve lost since my fiancée arrived. “And how’s your coffee, Baby Chick?”
“Delicious,” she murmurs in a sexy purr that makes me wish she was talking about me and not her café au lait. Days without a concentrated dose of her company have only made the pull I feel when I’m with her even stronger. It doesn’t bode well for keeping my wits about me today, but I’m not about to call off our field trip.
Within the hour, the entire castle will be in an uproar, and this peaceful kitchen will become ground zero for the pre-engagement hysteria. The best thing Lizzy and I can do for everyone is get out of the way until it’s time for us to dress for the ceremony.
“Do you want to get breakfast here,” I ask, “or wait until—”
“We can wait.” Lizzy cuts me off with a swiftness that assures me she’s in no rush to share a meal with me again. “I’m not hungry yet, are you?”
“No.” I take another sip of my coffee and add casually, “We can get something at the museum café. They have incredible oatmeal.”
Lizzy’s eyes narrow, but she smiles as she says, “That sounds wonderful.”
I’m sure it doesn’t sound wonderful, and she’s dreading another baptism in my breakfast. But I’m not about to cop to faking my wretched table manners any more than she’s going to admit that no one, not even a sheltered princess with no sense of rhythm and a pole permanently shoved up her backside, could be that bad of a dancer.
We are at a stalemate, which means I’ll either have to starve or make a scene at the museum, but I’m comfortable with those choices. As long as I nail down my fiancée’s true identity before sunset tonight, I’m good with just about anything.
Coffees in hand, we bid Vera goodbye and good luck and walk out to the black SUV waiting in the circle drive at the front of the castle.
On the way to the museum, I give Lizzy a brief history of the city, pointing out the ruins of the medieval wall around the old town and the Roman baths we finished restoring a few years ago, creating an attraction that coaxes tourists from the casinos near the river, into the heart of the city.
I prattle on, mostly to keep her in a receptive state and off her guard, but I admit I like the way she hangs on every word, nodding and leaning forward to stare out the window as we pass various points of interest.
I like seeing the capital reflected in her eyes.
I just enjoy looking at her, period, dammit. I swear she’s gotten prettier in the past few days, and I resent her for it. For making me want to touch her so badly that I jump out of the car as soon as our driver pulls to a stop in front of the museum, wanting to make sure I’m the one to help her out of her seat.