I blinked.Agreement from my mother was rarer than a sunny week in London.It left me oddly unmoored.
I turned back to the window to hide my expression, smoothing my shirt cuffs, pretending to be more interested in the view.And that’s when I saw it: a sleek black SUV rolling up the long drive, glinting like a shark in the early afternoon sun.
“Bryce is here,” I murmured, heart thrumming like a trapped bird.
Mummy followed my gaze.“Where would you like to have tea?Outside, or—”
“Don’t bother with tea,” I cut in, too quickly.My nerves were buzzing and the last thing I needed was Bryce drowning in porcelain and protocol.“This isn’t a formal call.We’re going riding, not hosting a summit.But—” I softened my tone, turned to her with a smile—“if you’d like to meet him, do come along.He’ll adore you.”
Her lips quivered, amused, as if she saw straight through me.Which of course she did.She always did.
And suddenly I was seventeen again, tugging on boots in this very room while she lectured me about not slouching at the Windsor Horse Show.Only now the stakes were much higher, and instead of judges and rosettes, I was about to walk out the door and greet the American ambassador—the man whose smile in the mirrors yesterday had knocked the air clean out of me.
I squared my shoulders, shoved my feet into my boots, and told myself firmly:
It’s just a ride.That’s all.
* * *
Mummy and I had just stepped out into the crisp September air when the SUV rolled to a stop at the foot of Strathmore’s steps.Gravel crunched beneath the tyres, sunlight flashing off the polished black paint.
The driver leapt from his seat, all brisk precision, and rushed around to open the back door.He needn’t have bothered.Bryce pushed it open himself and slid out with practised ease, the movement neat, efficient, unshowy.
My pulse ticked upward the moment I saw him.Perfect posture, dark hair catching the light, eyes bright but composed.He’d swapped the charcoal suit for riding clothes—jodhpurs that fitted him like they’d been cut for his body, a navy hacking jacket over a white open-collared shirt, tall boots polished to a mirror shine.He carried himself with that unmistakable air of someone used to walking into rooms full of strangers and bending them to his will.
He came straight to us, and—just as he should—he inclined his head politely, directing his greeting to Mummy.“Your Royal Highness.Thank you for receiving me.It’s a pleasure to be at Strathmore.”
Mummy’s lips curved, pleased.She took Bryce’s hand and gave it a firm shake.
“How very proper,” I muttered under my breath, then louder: “Oh do stop, Bryce.It’s only us, and nobody is watching.”
Mummy exhaled one of her famously long sighs, the kind she reserved for both protocol and Arthur-related nonsense.“Ambassador Lewis,” she said, still clasping Bryce’s hand warmly, “you are most welcome.We’re delighted to have you.The drive down wasn’t too tedious, I trust?”
They launched into harmless small talk about traffic on the M40 and the charms of the Cotswolds.I smiled tightly, teeth pressed together, wishing I could spirit Bryce away to the stables at once.Every second of polite chatter felt stolen from me, and I despised myself for being childish about it.But there it was: I wanted Bryce to myself.
And then I saw it—Mummy’s eyes lighting in that particular way, the unmistakable prelude to an offer.I’d swear she was about to suggest saddling a horse and joining us, and my gut clenched.
But salvation came in the form of Benson, ever-efficient, striding across the gravel.He gave a crisp bow.“Your Royal Highness.Forgive me, but your private secretary asks to speak with you at once.She says it is urgent—something about the schedule for next year’s Australian tour.”
Mummy’s expression soured with disappointment.“Must it be now?”
“I’m afraid so, ma’am.”
She gave a tiny huff, then turned back to Bryce.“Do forgive me.I would have liked very much to ride out with you.But duty intrudes, as ever.”
Bryce inclined his head gracefully.“Of course, ma’am.I quite understand.”
Mummy gave my arm a brief squeeze—half apology, half instruction not to disgrace the family—then swept inside with Benson at her heels.
I let out a breath, nearly laughing.“Thank God for emergencies,” I said.
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between us.I felt the nerves stir, sharp and fluttery, as though I were seventeen again.My eyes flicked to Bryce’s, and found him watching me with the barest flicker of amusement.
“You know,” he said dryly, “I’m beginning to suspect royals survive entirely by being rescued from their own plans by secretaries.”
I laughed—really laughed, sharp and delighted, the sound bouncing against the stone walls.Relief cracked open the tension, and I shook my head.“You’ve discovered our greatest state secret.”
His smile widened, warm and unguarded, and my insides gave a ridiculous swoop.
