Engaged to London's Wildest Billionaire
Author
Kali Anthony
Reads
16.2K
Chapters
13
Chapter 1
‘EARTH TO EARTH, ashes to ashes, dust to dust...’
Sara stood at the edge of the royal mausoleum as the priest intoned the committal service. A small group of mourners and official witnesses, as required by Lauritania’s constitution, huddled round on a day that outside was too bright and beautiful to contemplate the three grand coffins of King, Queen and Crown Prince, waiting to be interred.
She paid little attention to the people around her, her focus entirely on the coffin holding the earthly remains of Crown Prince Ferdinand Betencourt. Their country’s flag was draped over the top, bedecked with lilies, their scent cloying in the still morning air. A mere ten days ago she’d been Lady Sara Conrad, his fiancée. A woman one day destined to ascend the throne by his side...
The hysterical sound bubbled from her before she could stifle it. She clutched a handkerchief to her mouth to try and cover up the barely suppressed laugh at how foolish she’d been. She’d never believed ignorance could be bliss, but had learned a powerful lesson.
‘You’ll be by his side, you’ll bear his heirs, but you’ll never have his heart...’
Poisonous words whispered in a ballroom just a few months earlier. Words spoken by some woman, tall and elegant and worldly and everything Sara wasn’t, telling her exactly where her place was in the hierarchy of Ferdinand’s needs.
She frantically dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, pretending her laugh was a grief-stricken sob. Had anyone noticed the sound of near hysterical disbelief? Because, in truth, she’d grieved the loss of Ferdinand months before his untimely death. The destruction of her immature dream that once they were married he might find the time to love her. She kept the handkerchief to her face, chancing a furtive glance at the assembled group. As she did so, a prickle of awareness tripped along her spine. She turned to her right and caught a man she didn’t know staring at her. A stranger in the tiny band of familiar faces. She hadn’t noticed him before in the throng of black-bedecked mourners and cronies at the funeral.
There was no missing him now.
He stood out. From his imposing height to the perfect cut of his dark suit and his undeniably authoritative presence. All screaming bespoke tailoring and old money. The only thing out of place was the expression of bored indifference on his face, while those around them were in the clutches of sorrow. A face that was square-jawed, cleft-chinned, sculpted perfection. His intense focus made her feel too small for her skin. As if she wanted to split from it, shed the dour black clothing she wore and morph into something brighter, more beautiful. Changed.
How inappropriate, considering she was supposed to be mourning her fiancé today. Yet there was no controlling how her body reacted to this captivating stranger. Much like she couldn’t control the seething anger that twisted down to the pit of her soul—anger at the charade everyone had maintained around her. Perpetuating the vicious lie that she could ever have had a ‘devoted’ relationship with the Crown Prince. Theirs had been no growing love match, as she’d kidded herself to believe, but one of absolute indifference—on his part at least.
And then the stranger cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, the curve of his perfect mouth hitching in a way that said, I see what you did.
That look flashed over her, hot and potent. Petrol thrown onto the smouldering coals of her long-suppressed desires. She went up in flames, the heat roaring through her, incandescent and overwhelming. He knew she wasn’t grieving like the rest of them. Her heart tangoed to an inexplicable thrilling beat in a way it had never done before.
Sara looked away before her lips quirked in return at his knowing look, which would have been highly improper and a complete disregard for her now worthless royal training.
Sometimes you knew things about yourself, and Sara knew she wouldn’t have made a good Queen. It was no wonder Ferdinand couldn’t love her. Not with all the ‘unseemly’ emotion that threatened to burst from her, which her parents, and the courtiers who’d been tasked with turning her into the perfect future monarch, had required her to ruthlessly contain.
‘You need to try harder, Sara...’ Their constant refrain at some misplaced smile or, heaven help her, laugh. All of them had seemed intent on squashing the joy right out of her.
They’d very nearly succeeded.
The same problem didn’t appear to afflict her best friend, the only surviving immediate member of Lauritania’s doomed royal family. Annalise stood across from her, expressionless, a slender, lonely figure. Did she suffer the same drowning sensation as she faced being Queen that Sara had experienced at the mere prospect of taking on the role? The frantic desire to escape the golden handcuffs of the palace?
Sara couldn’t tell. The Lauritanian Queen was required to marry. Now, Annalise was unlikely to find the love match she’d once dreamed of. And yet there she stood, stoic and impassive, as a queen should. Not noticing Sara’s inner turmoil at all.
Sara stared at the floor once more as she twisted the now tortured handkerchief in her hands, not willing to risk her friend seeing the ugly truth. That she’d been overcome by emotion, just not the one expected of her. Sara should be mourning the loss of her future, yet everything seemed lighter because she was...free. Of the expectations that had bound her for as long as she could remember.
She’d been betrothed to the Crown Prince at birth. Sara had known from the moment of first conscious thought that she was destined for one man, fated to be his Queen. Now, for the first time in her twenty-three years, her life was her own. Not tied to a person she’d come to learn was many things, but none of them what he seemed. It had been on the night of that ill-fated ball when she’d finally realised he would never love her. Any naïve hope that he could, quelled by his words when she’d confronted him. How he saw their forthcoming marriage as a duty to his country and nothing more. No promise of fidelity, just an expectation of long, lonely years trapped in a marriage without any feeling. Back then, there’d been no escaping the juggernaut of a royal wedding bearing down on her.
Now? Relief she shouldn’t feel wrapped round her like a blanket. It made her a wicked, wicked person. Thinking of herself when her country’s monarchy had almost been obliterated. Yet when had she ever had that luxury? Being a queen sounded nice when you were a little girl craving tiaras and ball gowns, until the reality of it hit like an avalanche. The relentless press, the jealousy of others, the absence of true friends. Till all you could foresee was a lonely future buried under the cold weight of expectation...
Still, that blistering sense of awareness hadn’t lessened. She lifted her gaze once more. The man’s eyes remained fixed on her, his mouth still holding its amused curve. A honeyed heat drizzled over her and she basked in it, the sensation new and illicit. What would it be like to kiss that mouth?
If another future had been hers, she might have been brave, done something about it. But as much as she craved to give in to it, such feelings screamed danger. Because powerful men like Ferdinand and this alluring stranger didn’t really see women as individuals. She was more than a mere accessory, despite how she’d been treated when her engagement was formally announced. The sacrificial virgin for the royal dragon. The monarchical behemoth had threatened to swallow her alive the longer she’d stayed in its clutches. And she’d concluded that was all people saw for her future. To be a pretty little bauble on the Crown Prince’s arm. To smile on cue, to bear equally pretty children and quietly fade into the background when not required.
No more.
She shut down her random musings. Turned away from yet another handsome man who made her dream of things that would remain better in fantasy than reality. Instead, she focused on her friend. Annalise walked forward to her family’s coffins, yet as she reached them she looked at Sara. Eyes strained and weary. Mouth pinched and trembling from suppressed sobs. Tears forbidden to fall. Sara wished the world wasn’t watching and she could console her friend rather than being required to stand remote from her Queen. And for a moment the weight of it all threatened to crush her.
Because they were both young women who’d lost the world they’d expected to wake up to each day. Their lives had changed for ever.
Sara bowed her head, saying a silent goodbye to the monarchy she’d thought she’d known but now realised she hadn’t ever really understood. There was no fairy tale to be found here, no happy ending. Still, life was hers for the taking. All she could do was bide her time until her chance came. And now she had all the time in the world.
Lance loathed funerals. It wasn’t the sadness that bothered him. Life was an unending parade of grief and lost chances. No. It was the hypocrisy. The exalted dead bearing little resemblance to the people they’d been in real life. The three individuals whose lives they’d been remembering today were that sort. Beloved of their people, but a mere fantasy. One he had no interest in remembering or promoting.
He’d been invited to be official witness to the interment, as the antiquated Lauritanian constitution required. Returning to the place of his blighted high school education during his father’s long tenure as British Ambassador here. Lance supposed he should have felt privileged. His not so dearly departed dad had cultivated a close friendship with Lauritania’s royal family, thinking it might assist his son’s fortunes as the future Duke of Bedmore. But in truth Lance would never have returned to this conservative little country, even with a direct invitation from the Queen, had his best friend and business partner Rafe De Villiers not requested it.
He and Rafe had met at the prestigious Kings’ Academy here, both fighting against the Lauritanian aristocracy in their own way. Those bleak years had forged an unassailable comradeship and a rule that if one asked for assistance the other would always answer the request without question. A promise made when they’d been abused at the school because they were ‘other’. Rafe for being a commoner. Lance because he wasn’t from here.
So here he stood, sipping champagne at the wake surrounded by a dour sea of people. Tasked with reporting back to Rafe on the political machinations of the aristocracy because, as a commoner, his friend would never have been allowed to grace this hallowed occasion. Lance had no desire to reacquaint himself with these people, many of whom had tried to bully him at school, before he and Rafe had joined forces—and the other boys had realised they were a force to be reckoned with. It was a stultifying task, especially since a few of them tried to rewrite history and talk to him as if their past disdain didn’t matter. Anyhow, his lineage was finer than the rest of them put together. Because inheriting a dukedom had some advantages, no matter how determined he was to squander them.
Still, being here pricked at Lance’s keen senses. Rafe was up to something, hinting at a curious interest in the new Queen—a monarch who needed to find a husband, and quickly, as the constitution dictated. Right now, all the royal family’s hangers-on were surrounding her with knives carefully sheathed, waiting to stab each other’s backs at the earliest opportunity in a fight to be named King. He catalogued their names, the ones watching her with avarice, jockeying for an auspicious marriage. Some things never changed. Lauritania was steeped in the past. The future terrified the people here, and it was staring down at them with both barrels today.
Lance downed the dregs of his champagne and grabbed another frosted flute from a passing waiter. The young Queen, pretty as she was, held no interest for him other than an academic one. As his deliberately lazy gaze drifted over the room what he sought was something far more alluring. The flash of golden female brilliance he’d glimpsed earlier at the mausoleum.
Even swathed in black like the rest of them, she’d been impossible to miss. He supposed laughing at a funeral tended to draw people’s attention, but it seemed no one else had noticed the well-covered slip. Lance hadn’t been able to help himself. She’d stood out because she seemed so unaffected by the misery surrounding them. A diamond amongst these lumps of coal, and he adored bright, sparkly things that grabbed his attention and held. Only because in his life they were so very rare.
When he’d caught her eye she’d almost smiled. On a day when there was not a glimmer of hope to be had, she seemed filled to the brim with it. He’d sensed something a little wild and unbridled about her that in ordinary circumstances he’d like to get to know for a few hours in a large bed of tangled sheets. Or maybe the not so ordinary circumstances were perfect...
Another glance across the room and he spied her, the bright beacon he’d been searching for, golden hair an unruly tangle under her black hat. He began to move, dodging the crush to get to her. Luckily, he was a head taller than most of them so it was hard for her to disappear even as she slipped in and out of the groups of people around her. He quickened his pace, his heart thumping hard at the pursuit. There was no way he’d let her escape him. The universe should allow him some small compensation for coming here.
She wasn’t looking in his direction, staring somewhere into the crowd with a soft, almost questioning look on her face. Watching the throng of people circling about her as if she was somehow separate from the grief here. Yet for all the oppressive misery in the room, her back was ramrod-straight and she held her head high as if the room was hers to own and rule.
A perfectly fitted conservative black dress skimmed her gentle curves, the skirt ending at the backs of her knees, showing off the swell of her calves. Her hair was pulled up from the back of her slender neck, curls drifting loose. Lance wanted to brush them away and drop his lips to the elegant sweep of pale skin at the junction of her shoulder. Skim his mouth along the warm flesh. See if he could get a smile out of her then. Or, even better, a gasp of pleasure.
Lance realised now, as he made his way closer, how small and delicate she was. Even in those modest heels she’d tuck neatly under his chin if he held her. He couldn’t help thinking she’d be the perfect fit. As he reached her, he pitched his voice low, dropped his head and murmured for her ears alone, ‘You’ve been a very bad girl.’
She whipped round, a flush of pink washing over her cheeks, a glorious wide-eyed beauty, too innocent for the jaded man he’d become.
He’d left the womb a cynic, his mother claimed. That wasn’t quite right. He’d become an incurable cynic the day his parents sold off his sister, Victoria, to the highest bidder to further his father’s career. Now, Lance’s preference was for someone as world-weary as him. Not this fresh burst of perfection that made her little part of the room shine.
It was as if he were hypnotised, unable to take his eyes from her. Of course beautiful women were everywhere. He was a glutton for them and not known for his self-control. But he’d never met someone who made the room simply stop and melt away.
She tilted her head and looked up at him with huge blue eyes, so pale and cool they were like the spring meltwater from the mountains. Her mouth perfection in petal pink. She might have been the one blushing, but he was left speechless.
‘And why is that?’ Her voice was soft and musical, with the lilt of an accent that told him she was native Lauritanian.
No I beg your pardon. Or, perhaps, Who the hell are you? Because he was sure this woman had secrets and he wanted to mine them all. He saw it in the wide shock of her eyes—that someone might have seen what she was trying to hide. Her rosebud lips parted and she took in a shaky breath. God, how he wanted to kiss her. Right here and now. Might have been passable at a wedding reception. Grossly inappropriate at a wake. Though he’d spent most of his adult life being inappropriate. Disappointing his father had once been his greatest mission. Now the man was dead, but Lance still had a reputation to uphold.
And he hadn’t answered her question. She raised her slender, pale eyebrows. As he closed in, he dropped his head again as if to impart something illicit. Then he caught the scent of her. Apples and blossom. So crisp and fresh he wanted to take a bite.
‘You were trying not to laugh.’
The blush swept across her cheeks again. He’d been right. For her there was something about today that didn’t match the grief of everyone else here. She placed an elegant, gloved hand to her chest.
‘If true, that would have been incredibly improper of me.’
Lance loved that she didn’t deny it. What a glorious mystery she was. Yet as she looked up at him tears shimmered in her eyes. Whilst he spent his life pretending not to be a gentleman, Lance still retained some manners. He whipped out a handkerchief and handed it to her.
He hated women’s tears. Especially when there was not a damn thing he could do about them. She gave him a soft smile of thanks, took the sharply pressed linen and dabbed her eyes.
‘Perhaps, but then I’m improper all the time, so I judge everyone by my own low standards. I always say if you can’t laugh at something, life’s no fun.’ He was renowned in the press for taking very little seriously, which showed how underestimated he was. It was a carefully cultivated illusion on his part. Some things were deadly serious, like his sister’s current circumstances. Everything else was simply unimportant.
The woman in front of him brightened a little then, a tiny quirk of her lips. He supposed he should introduce himself, but there was something about the mystery between them that carried an illicit kind of thrill.
Then she pursed her lips a fraction, blinking with long lashes fanning her cheeks. ‘You were at the interment. Should I know you?’
He put his hand to his chest and staggered back as if she’d mortally wounded him. ‘Of course you should know who I am. Everybody does.’
No hint of a smile this time, but her eyes gleamed, their corners crinkling with amusement. Good. Better than the glittering tears threatening to mar her face. ‘Lance Astill. My father was British Ambassador to Lauritania for many years. And you are?’
He held out his hand. She placed hers in his. It was so slender he felt he might crush it. Yet the delicate bones had a surprisingly firm grip. He turned her hand and bowed over it, although not allowing his lips to touch the smooth silk of her black gloves, no matter how much he wanted to. Today was all about games, and he loved to play. He stood back and released her, her eyes wide and mouth open in a tiny ‘Oh’ that could have been shock or surprise. At least there were no more tears.
‘Sara Conrad.’ The name sounded familiar. A Conrad boy at school had been one of his more persistent tormentors... ‘I was the Crown Prince’s fiancée.’
Lance froze. He’d known Ferdinand had become engaged to some aristocrat, but couldn’t fathom it being this woman. She was too full of life to be squashed down by the strictures of the palace. And the Crown Prince was never known for his fidelity. Lance didn’t imagine he’d have taken his marriage vows seriously.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. He wasn’t. She’d had a fortuitous escape.
Sara looked up at him, a slight frown creasing her brow. ‘Don’t be. I’m not.’ The words tumbled out of her. She raised a gloved hand to her mouth as if trying to shove the errant syllables back in, her eyes wide. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Ignore me. I... It’s the grief talking.’
He took her by the elbow and manoeuvred her towards a potted palm, out of earshot of most others. On the way he grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter. She needed fortifying. This woman was too open and honest. She’d be eaten alive by the crowd here, who gloried in each other’s humiliation and loss, the bunch of them competitive to a fault. Right now, most of them were grappling to court the new Queen. This bright and beautiful woman in front of him would be a casualty along the way.
‘You didn’t appear particularly grief-stricken. Your laughter was somewhat of a giveaway...’
‘It was hysteria more than anything.’
‘You don’t strike me as prone to hysterics. Should I have a vial of smelling salts handy in case you’re overcome and swoon into me?’
The corners of her mouth trembled upwards and she sank her teeth into her lower lip as if trying to stop a smile breaking free. He wanted her to lose her inhibitions. To claim her errant smiles all for himself.
She glanced about the room as if searching for something or someone. ‘Have you ever been in a situation where you realised everything you thought you knew was a lie?’
He looked into her smooth, now impassive face, fighting so hard not to show any trace of happiness. Yes. He knew exactly what she was talking about. He nodded.
She kept going. ‘I was born to be a consort and look at me.’ She waved her hands up and down her body. The wine in her glass sloshed about but didn’t spill. She took a gulp and winced. ‘Talking to some stranger, showing...feelings. There’s nothing regal about me. I’m sure I would have been a disappointment. A terrible Queen. No wonder he...’
She bit her lip again, but not to halt a smile this time. Lance didn’t need to be told who ‘he’ was. He’d bet his considerable fortune that the Crown Prince, and the rest of the aristocracy Lance loathed, had tried to crush the wings of this glorious being in front of him.
‘Angel.’ It suited her. She looked as if she should be adorning some classical artwork. Paint her perfect pale skin against the backdrop of a morning sky, with a pair of wings, and she could be a heavenly being to match any he’d ever seen on a fresco. ‘I was born to be a duke and I’ve been disappointing them for years.’ Her eyes widened and the tilt of her lips gave her an ethereal beauty that would have stopped everyone in the room, had anyone else been able to see them. Luckily, dark corners behind well placed potted plants were useful for concealment. ‘The trick is, you need to own the role, not fight against it. You’re untouchable if you don’t care.’
‘And you don’t?’
Once, he’d cared too much. Not any more, not for years. Caring didn’t matter when there were things he couldn’t fix. Victoria bore the brunt of his greatest failing. Phone calls hurriedly ended when her husband arrived home. Strange bruises she claimed to have suffered because she was ‘clumsy’, when that had never been a problem which afflicted her in the past. The terrible suspicions he harboured, which had grown and grown in the years she’d been married. He shouldn’t be trusted with any woman’s happiness.
‘All I care about is thrilling them in the tabloids.’
How they loved plastering him on the front page, each story more overblown than the last, when there was a mundane truth no one wanted to hear. Most of it was little more than fiction.
The smile on Sara’s face was glorious and wide. Unrestrained. A warmth kindled in his chest. Better a smile than tears for a man he knew didn’t deserve her. Now, if he could remove her hat, unleash her golden curls from the thick chignon at the base of her head. Brush the strands through his fingers. Stroke away her hurt and her fears until she flushed rosy with pleasure...
‘You’re a...a scoundrel.’
A reminder of who he truly was. He needed to stop his heated imaginings. Innocents had no place in his life. He tended to crush them with thoughtlessness. Victoria was his first victim. He didn’t want there to be any others.
He bowed. ‘At your service. The Astills are notorious for their vices.’
‘Really?’ The question was breathy and curious. Against all better judgement, he was glad that he’d piqued her interest.
‘My forebears have spent centuries squandering our fortune. We come from a long line of drinkers, gamblers, adulterers and fornicators. I’ve a family history to live up to and I take my role as its current head seriously.’
‘And in that illustrious list, what vices do you choose?’
‘The marital bed is sacrosanct and safe from me. Otherwise, take your pick.’
Her sharp intake of breath made his heart rate spike. Her cool blue eyes twinkled with fascination. Lance dipped his head to her ear.
‘Although of late gambling and drinking have lost their appeal.’ His voice was a murmur, breath whispering along her neck. ‘If I want to maintain the scandalous reputation of the Astill family, there’s really only one choice left...’
Lance revelled in the wash of pink that once again tinted her face like sunrise over snow. A tremor shuddered through her. He moved closer. Couldn’t help himself. Not that Lance would touch a woman so... untainted by life. But still, one could dream for a moment that things were different.
‘Perhaps that’s what I need,’ her voice whispered, thick and breathy.
His heart pumped a bit harder. ‘What?’
‘My life...it’s been so...’ She fluttered her hand about again, as if trying to shake free the words.
‘Controlled?’ Which, in other circumstances, he would have enjoyed pursuing, especially when that careful control snapped in a torrent of passion...
‘Yes. Perhaps a scandal would make things more interesting.’
She looked up at him as if he were the answer to every prayer. Very few people interested him. Fewer held his attention. At the moment, this diminutive creature in front of him had him thrumming like a tuning fork, all to her song. As if he were the hero she searched for. It sounded as if the beautiful Sara Conrad needed the fantasy of an escape, even if he could never give her that.
‘Oh, angel.’
Her pupils dilated. Wide, dark reflections of her desires. All he saw in them was himself.
Lance’s voice pitched even lower. Rough and unrecognisable. ‘Scandal I can do.’
Her lips parted. She licked them. ‘Please.’
That one whispered word exploded to life. Left him hard and aching. More like an untried boy than a man who’d been unashamedly sampling beautiful women since his late teens. The power of her request coursed through him like a drug. Intoxicating. Addicting.
Temptation, thy name is Sara.
He should move away, yet here, cloistered from the crowd, with unspoken desire thick and heady around them, there was nowhere he’d rather be. Lance was lost in a world centring on her.
‘Sara!’ Her back stiffened. Her head dropped. Lance looked over at a pinched-looking older couple. They turned their sour attention to him. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Astill, the Duke of Bedmore, but you will call me Your Grace.’ Lance stood to his full height, towering over the couple as he glared down on them. ‘And who the hell are you?’
Their eyes widened and that look he was so familiar with, the avarice of aristocracy, swept across their faces at the mention of his title. Mamas had been trying to marry their daughters off to him for years, to make a duchess out of them. This pair’s interest would pass. They’d work out who he was soon enough. What he loathed, more than the people before him, was that Sara stood there, still and silent. It was as if all the life had been bled out of her.
‘My parents, Count and Countess Conrad,’ she said.
Her father spoke first. ‘Why do you have our daughter sequestered behind this shrubbery?’
Lance did nothing bar raise an eyebrow. ‘I would have thought it obvious, considering today was the funeral of her fiancé.’ He hated having to pretend she was grieving that wastrel, but he’d protect Sara’s reputation. It wasn’t his to destroy. ‘Lady Sara was overwrought. As a gentleman, it was my duty to assist her.’
Her mother simply stared at him. Then she narrowed her eyes. Ah, there it was. She knew.
‘You.’
He smiled. The moment of recognition always amused him. As if standing too close to any woman would ruin her for ever.
‘Lance Astill. You—you’re the...the Debauched Duke.’ The woman spat out the words. Lance was quite proud of the title coined by the tabloids, although he didn’t think it was their most creative moniker. He didn’t discourage the nicknames since they kept most people at a sensible distance.
‘Frankly, I prefer the Dilettante Duke myself. But I own whatever name they give me.’ He leaned forwards conspiratorially and gave a leering wink. ‘Since it’s mostly true.’
The pair blanched. Her father turned. ‘Sara, come with us!’
The beautiful Sara had her head down, shoulders hunched and shaking. His handkerchief was firmly pressed to her mouth. She could be crying. But he didn’t think so. If he wasn’t much mistaken, she gave a delightful little snort of amusement.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ he said. ‘She’s upset again. After all my valiant efforts.’
‘You’ve done quite enough,’ her mother said.
He raised an imperious eyebrow.
She hesitated. ‘Your Grace.’
He took her capitulation as a win. Baiting bluebloods was his favourite game, after all.
‘As have you. Upsetting your daughter on this most terrible of days. You should take her home immediately, tuck her into bed with a warm cocoa.’
Sara coughed from behind her hand.
He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘That’s what I’d do.’
At the mention of a bed and Sara in the same breath, her father turned a ripe shade of puce. ‘Come, Sara. We’ll take our leave.’
Good. Get her away from the vultures who circled here. Though he doubted her parents were any better.
Lance turned to the glorious woman before him. ‘Lady Sara?’ The way he’d positioned himself meant her back was now to her parents. She removed the handkerchief. Tears of mirth smeared her cheeks, her eyes aglow. A perfect smile lit up her whole face.
Time simply stopped.
Lance took her hand in his. ‘It’s been a pleasure, although I’m sorry it’s in such unfortunate circumstances. I hope we meet again...soon.’ There was no chance of that. He rarely came to Lauritania and had little expectation of being invited to the new Queen’s wedding. Still, he relished the small fantasy curling between them that a second meeting was inevitable. Fated.
She didn’t remove her hand from his. The warmth of her fingers seeped through her glove. They were lingering too long and they both knew it. She curtsied deep and low, holding his gaze. ‘The pleasure has likewise been mine. Thank you for your attentions, Your Grace.’
And, for the first time since inheriting it, he gloried in the sound of his wretched title spilling from someone’s lips.
