Sir, please control yourself.
Arthur arched his brow.“What, pray, is so amusing?”
“Nothing,” I said, which was a lie, and looked wildly around for cover.Far across the field, a tree rose enormous and inviting, a knotted old oak with a shadow like a dark lake beneath it.“Except,” I blurted, “that tree is begging to be raced to, and I’m prepared to bet you a hundred pounds I can beat you to it.”
His lips parted, and then he laughed, pure delight.“A hundred pounds?”he repeated, teasing horror creeping into his voice.“Ambassador, you are shockingly American.”
“Stars and stripes, baby,” I said before my brain could strangle my mouth.“Well?Do you accept?”
He gathered his reins one-handed, mischief lighting his eyes.“Very well.But when you lose—and you will—you may pay me in suits from Clarence, not cash.”
“Deal,” I said.“On three?”
“One does not shout numbers across a field like a farmhand,” Arthur said, primly, and then ruined it with a grin.“We go onnow.”
He touched his heel to the mare and shot forward, the bay launching with a power that made me swear.My gelding took half a heartbeat to realise what was happening, then surged after him.The oak swelled as we thundered toward it, and I measured distance and angle and the way his mare drifted left when Arthur asked for speed.I moved to the right, a clean line, the gelding stretching out the way horses do when they remember they were built for it.
We were neck and neck at the last, and we tore past the invisible finish line with a whoop that startled a flock of birds from the hedgerow.We eased down from our horses together, breathless.
“I protest,” he said between gasps, cheeks flushed, and eyes shining.“You had a superior line.”
“You had a superior horse,” I countered, grinning, and patted my gelding’s sweaty neck.“He’s just competitive.Won’t let anyone beat him.”
“Then we are three of a kind,” he returned with a wink.
We walked the horses in wide circles to cool them, the oak’s shade a relief from the unseasonable heat.
“You ride beautifully, Bryce,” Arthur said after a moment, eyes on his mare but his voice turned to me.“You don’t fight the horse.You persuade.That’s the mark of a gifted rider.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I said, too briskly, because my heart had overreacted to the compliment.“And thank you.It’s been a long time.”
Arthur eased his mare a step closer until our stirrups almost kissed.Leather creaked; the bay flicked an ear.He looked at me the way sunlight looks at water—direct, unhurried, a little dangerous.
“Persuasion suits you,” he said, voice low.The corner of Arthur’s mouth tipped.“Competence is terribly attractive.”
My heart did a drum solo against my ribs.Shit.Is he flirting with me?What the hell do I say now?“Oh,” I managed, then added, “Well—good.I’m… wildly competent.”
Something like laughter shimmered in his eyes.He leaned in the smallest degree, a breath closer, and his gaze dropped to my mouth.He ran his tongue across his lower lip, quick as a cat tasting cream.I felt the ground tilt.Arthur was going to kiss me under a tree on a late-September afternoon and my mother would sense it from another continent.
Oh God, I’m about to kiss a fucking PRINCE.
My gelding stood like a saint.The world went silent, all the sound tunnelled into the space between us—the soft rush of his breath, the faintest click of his swallow—until, from across the fields, came the unmistakable thunder of hooves.
Both horses snapped their heads up.We pulled back instinctively, the spell shredding.Arthur’s jaw tightened.
“If that is Mummy,” he muttered, “we are going to have a very long talk.”
It wasn’t.A rider in Strathmore livery came pounding across the field.He reined in neatly beneath the oak, the horse blowing hard, and swung down in one fluid motion.
“Your Royal Highness,” he said, bowing to Arthur, then turned to me with crisp deference.“Mr.Ambassador—apologies for the interruption.A call just came through from the house.It’s the embassy.They said it’s an emergency and you’re needed at once.”
ChapterTen
Arthur
We turned the horses toward the yard at a brisk canter.The fields, so wide and forgiving a moment ago, narrowed to the hard geometry of fences and brick.Gravel spat under iron shoes as we cut through the last gate and into the stable lane.
Mr.Pembroke, the head groom, appeared as if conjured up, cap shoved back, with two lads on his heels.“Sir.”He had a hand on the bay’s bridle before I’d even swung my leg over.“We’ll see to them.”
