“Oh, nonsense,” Chris said, hand to heart in mock outrage.“Clarence’s philosophy is that sustainability should feel timeless, not trendy.I can already see you in one of our dinner jackets.Definitely charcoal.With those shoulders?It's criminal not to dress them properly.”
Before I could reply, he glanced at Arthur’s empty champagne flute.“You’re dry.I’ll fix that.”With a bow that was half courtly, half theatrical, he whisked away toward the nearest server.
Suddenly, it was just the two of us.
I realised I was staring.Couldn’t stop, really.His profile was striking—strong jaw, high cheekbones, that tousled hair catching the chandelier light—and his presence was magnetic.My mouth went dry.
“Sir,” I began, forcing myself into safer territory, but he leaned ever so slightly toward me, his voice dropping to something meant for my ears alone.
“Please,” he said, “when it’s just us, call me Arthur.”
The corners of my lips tugged upward despite myself.I hadn’t smiled like that—unguarded, stupidly giddy—in years.
“I…” I swallowed, nerves tangling in my throat.“I’ll admit, I feel out of place at events like this.I never know what to wear, how to act… half the time I think I’m bluffing my way through.”
Arthur’s eyes softened, and for the first time, his regal veneer cracked.“So do I,” he whispered back.“Normally, I don’t come to these functions at all.But my mother is unwell, so…” His shoulders lifted in a faint, weary shrug.
It was like a door opening—just an inch—but it was enough.I felt myself leaning in, pulled closer by a current I couldn’t explain.
“If I had my way, I’d be at the stables,” I admitted, feeling heat rise in my cheeks.“I grew up around horses—nearly went the Olympic route—though I never get time to ride any longer.Black tie has never been something I’m very good at.”
Chris reappeared then, triumphant with two flutes of champagne.He handed one to Arthur, and with perfect timing, caught my last confession.
“You don’t know how to dress?”he said, mock-horrified.“Ambassador, we must remedy that immediately.I’ll put you in Clarence Atelier—you’ll never want to wear anything else.”
I laughed, shaking my head.“Honestly, I’d rather be mucking about in a barn wearing breeches and boots.”
“Then it’s settled,” Chris declared, as if I hadn’t spoken at all.“We’ll dress you.”
Arthur smiled, the curve of his mouth both serene and mischievous, and to my own astonishment, I heard myself say, “All right.”
The champagne fizzed at the back of my throat.Horses and mud-stained riding jackets were my comfort zone, not bespoke tailoring.Yet here I was, agreeing to let a prince’s business partner choose my wardrobe—while trying very hard not to stare at the prince himself.
How on earth had I just let myself be talked into this?
ChapterFour
Arthur
The Earl of Wexbridge appeared like an apparition summoned from the dustiest corners of a country estate.Tweeds, of course.Always tweeds.Even at a black-tie reception.If the man were ever persuaded to wear anything other than Harris or Donegal, I suspected the monarchy itself might crumble.
“Your Royal Highness,” he said, bowing stiffly.His voice carried the same ancient creak as his walking stick, though I knew perfectly well the stick was ornamental.His back was straighter than mine, which was saying something.
I smiled the way I had been taught to smile: serene, warm, but not so warm as to invite gossip.“Lord Wexbridge,” I said.“How very good to see you.”
He clapped a hand on my shoulder—papery skin, dry as the pages of an old library—and steered me firmly toward the drinks table as if we were heading for the grouse moor.
“Shall we?”
It was not a question.It never was.
And so I allowed myself to be commandeered, his grip surprisingly strong as he guided me on a slow circuit of the room, the way he might exercise a horse around a paddock.He moved with a dogged determination that suggested he had rehearsed each conversation topic for decades.The Earl’s lips moved with the same pace as his feet: steady, predictable, unchanging.
“The weather in Shropshire has been most disagreeable,” he began, his eyes half-lidded in concentration.“Quite impossible to keep the marmalade from setting properly.Not that the cook hasn’t tried—she insists the problem lies in the citrus, but I maintain it’s a matter of humidity.”
I murmured something that could have been agreement or sympathy.My attention, however, had already shifted.
Bryce Lewis.
