He stood across the room, speaking with Chris, his tuxedo clean and sharp against the warm light.He was not handsome in the way magazines or palace watchers preferred—no angular cheekbones or catalogue-model fragility.No, he was something far more compelling: earthy.The clean, proud lines of his jaw.The way his shoulders squared when he spoke, the slight forward lean that said he was listening with his whole body.I imagined him on horseback, galloping across open fields, wind tearing through that stubborn wave of dark hair, utterly unselfconscious.
A jolt went through me at the image.I hadn’t thought of inviting anyone to Mum’s estate in years, but in that moment I could almost see him there—Bryce, riding out across the meadow where I’d first learned to trot, his laughter carrying over the fields.
The Earl droned on.“Of course, one can’t rely on the French preserves at all—far too sweet, lacking the proper bitterness…”
“Yes,” I said faintly, my eyes still on Bryce.
When was the last time I had felt this?That tiny flare low in my chest, a tug both dangerous and delicious.It had been ages.I was careful not to let myself dwell on attraction.It was… complicated.In my world, everything was complicated.My family was supportive, in their way, but discretion was demanded.Expected.Quiet dinners with men who understood the rules, nothing that risked appearing in the papers.
Always cautious.Always distant.
And yet here I was, pinned in orbit by a man whose greatest passion in life was marmalade, staring shamelessly at Bryce Lewis as though he were the only real thing in the room.
Movement caught my eye.Nigel Thorne, an insufferable bore, had approached Bryce, bending slightly to speak into his ear.I couldn’t hear his words, but I recognised the sharp, managerial angle of Nigel’s posture.Cold, precise.The sight of him leaning over Bryce sent a prickle of irritation down my spine.
Bryce tilted his head politely, listening.
Then Chris swooped in, laughter bubbling from him like champagne.He slipped an arm through Bryce’s and, to my utter astonishment, steered him directly toward the centre of the room.The pair of them joined the conversation near the string quartet, Chris beaming, Bryce smiling in a way that seemed half shy, half delighted.
The Earl didn’t notice.Or if he did, he certainly wasn’t about to interrupt the riveting tale of his bridge strategies.“—always insist on opening with a strong no-trump, no matter the hand, quite unconventional…”
“Indeed,” I murmured, but my gaze was locked on Bryce.The line of his body in that tuxedo was unmistakably athletic—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, long legs moving with the easy confidence of a man who’d spent years in the saddle.He laughed at something Chris said, and my breath caught at the sound.Even from here, I could feel the warmth of it.
Nigel, on the edge of the floor, frowned and retreated.
I almost smiled.
Then a woman appeared, sliding up beside Bryce.She whispered something in his ear, and I saw Bryce nod, his expression flickering to something more serious.He let Chris charm him a moment longer before excusing himself, following the woman out of sight.
A pang, sharp and unexpected, went through me.
“—and of course, Princess Anne was most insistent we rotate partners every third round, but I never saw the point…”
Before I could summon a polite reply, Chris was suddenly at my elbow, grinning like the devil himself.
“May I steal His Royal Highness?”he asked the Earl, with a bow so theatrical I nearly laughed aloud.
The Earl harrumphed but, to his credit, bowed graciously.“Of course, of course.”He turned to me, inclined his head and muttered, “Your Royal Highness.”
And just like that, Chris had me by the arm, steering me away from marmalade, bridge, and whatever else the Earl spoke of and toward something infinitely more interesting.
“You looked ready to chew your own arm off,” Chris whispered as we moved through the crowd.
“Don’t be absurd,” I said, smiling in spite of myself.“The Earl was waxing on about marmalade.”
“Arthur, marmalade has never looked so murderous,” he teased.
But even as I laughed, my thoughts remained on Bryce.His hesitant steps into this world, his quick smile, the way he carried himself as though he’d much rather be anywhere else, and yet he was here, playing his part.Like me.
Chris guided us toward a quieter corner, two fresh champagne flutes materialising in his hands as if by magic.His posture was perfect, his grin easy, his gaze annoyingly knowing.
“I must say,” he murmured, leaning close enough for only me to hear, “your American ambassador is something of a revelation.Refreshing, even.At least until that old blowhard—what’s his name?Nigel something?He started in on him about… oh, I don’t know, trade figures or fiscal responsibility or something equally soporific.The poor man looked like he was drowning.I couldn’t stand by and let it happen, so I dragged him away.”
I smirked in spite of myself.“A gallant rescue.”
“Someone had to do it.You were otherwise occupied with Lord Marmalade.”
I nearly snorted but smoothed it into a delicate cough.The Earl of Wexbridge was, indeed, probably still telling some hapless soul about the virtues of Oxford-cut marmalade versus Dundee.
