Arthur looked up, surprised, then gave a small, genuine smile.“Yes.She lives for it.Horses are her world.”He cinched the tape at my hip, eyes flicking to mine in the glass.“I love them too, though not to the same extent.I’ve never had the same… obsession.”
Relief washed through me at the glimpse of normal conversation, even if my body was still thrumming with arousal.“What are you drawn to, then?”I asked, trying to sound casual, though my hands were trembling around the stem of my glass.
He paused, tape measure dangling from his fingers, then lifted both hands in the air like the answer was obvious.“Fashion.What else?”
I laughed, the sound shaky but real.“Right.Of course.”
And just like that, a sliver of ease threaded through the tension.He went back to his work, tape sliding against fabric, pen scratching as he wrote down the numbers.I focused on the sound of it, on the entirely safe conversation we’d stumbled into.
“Horses,” I said again, seizing the lifeline.“I rode competitively when I was younger.Nearly made the Olympic team, actually.My mother insisted it would teach me discipline.All I got was sore legs and an addiction I’ve never quite shaken.”
Arthur chuckled, soft and warm.“Sounds familiar.”He crouched, measuring length from waist to ankle, his face near level with my hip.His hair caught the light, and I could see the faintest scattering of gold in the chestnut.My breath caught again.He rose smoothly, his cheeks pink as he scribbled the last number.
His eyes met mine in the mirrors, uncertain, flickering with something I couldn’t quite name.He hesitated, then asked, voice pitched low and careful, “Would you like to go riding tomorrow?Unless, of course, your calendar is filled up.”
* * *
By the time the car rolled through the gates of Winfield House, I was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with work.Between Arthur’s roaming hands with the tape measure, the mirrors multiplying every blush, and two glasses of wine on an empty stomach, I felt wrung out.I could have slept for hours—except I knew sleep wouldn’t come easily.Not with my body still humming from his nearness, not with my mind replaying every slip of his hands, and every glance caught in the mirrors.
The car stopped in front of the grand portico, and as always, the sight of the house made me feel a little overwhelmed.It wasn’t just big—it was monumental, a palace masquerading as a residence.I’d grown up in a wealthy household back in Virginia, but this was on another level entirely.The sheer scale, the marble, the endless number of rooms—it still hadn’t stopped startling me.
A footman was already waiting at the door, posture perfect, gloved hands clasped behind his back.He stepped forward as my driver opened the car door.“Good evening, Mr.Ambassador.”
I nodded, murmured thanks, and let him usher me inside.The air smelled faintly of polish and lilies.Mrs.Ashcroft, my household manager, appeared immediately.She was my rock, and had been since the day I arrived.Tonight, though, she leaned in close and whispered, “Bryce, the servants are getting under my skin.They’re everywhere, and won’t leave me alone.”
A bubble of laughter escaped me, surprising us both.“Best keep that to yourself,” I said under my breath.“Don’t make enemies of the staff.They’ll know where the bodies are buried.”
Her lips twitched, the closest she came to a grin.Then her expression sobered.“Mr.Nigel Thorne telephoned not five minutes ago.He requested you return his call as soon as you arrived home.”
I sighed, letting my head tip back for a moment.“Why does it always have to be Nigel?On a Friday evening, no less.”
“Shall I tell him you are indisposed?”
“No,” I said reluctantly.“If he called at this hour, it must be important.”
I trudged down the hall to the home office, a room that still smelled faintly of leather and dust, though it had been refitted with sleek American electronics.I dropped into the chair, pulled out my cell phone, and scrolled for the number.
Nigel’s butler answered, of course.His voice was so formal he might as well have been reading from a script.“Good evening.This is the residence of Mr.Nigel Thorne.How may I direct your call?”
Direct my call?I thought wryly.I’m dialling one man, not Buckingham Palace.“Bryce Lewis for Mr.Thorne.”
“One moment, Mr.Ambassador.”
I rolled my eyes heavenward.
At last, Nigel came on the line.“Ambassador Lewis.Good evening.”His voice was just as stiff as I remembered.
“Mr.Thorne.”I tried for polite neutrality.
“I wished to say…” There was the faintest hesitation, and then he cleared his throat.“I fear we may have got off on the wrong foot.I would like to extend an olive branch, as it were.If you are free, would you do me and my wife the honour of joining us for luncheon tomorrow?”
That caught me off guard.I’d been bracing for a lecture about protocol or some invented slight.An apology from Nigel Thorne was the last thing I’d expected.
And then, before I could think better of it, the truth tumbled out of my mouth.“I can’t, I’m afraid.I’m going riding with Prince Arthur tomorrow.At his mother’s estate in Strathmore.”
On the other end of the line, I heard it: a sharp intake of breath.
“Ah,” he said finally, his voice even stiffer than before.“Very good.Very good indeed.”
