And God help me, I would not let him go tonight.
* * *
The SUV rolled to a smooth stop inside the quiet courtyard of Kensington Palace, headlights cutting over the damp cobblestones before flicking off.The hush here was different from Soho’s noisy heartbeat—thicker, historic, a silence that carried the weight of centuries.
The guard at the gate had waved us through with the smallest nod, and now the great red-brick façade loomed before us, its windows dark, some glowing faintly with lamplight from other apartments.I’d driven through this entrance thousands of times in my life, but tonight it felt like I was seeing it anew—through Bryce’s eyes.
We stepped out, the night air cool, tinged with the smell of wet earth from the gardens.My shoes clicked softly on the stones as I turned to wait for him.Bryce emerged from the SUV, straightened his jacket, and then he stopped dead in his tracks.
“Oh my God,” he whispered.“I’ve seen this onThe Crown.”
I bit back a smile.There was something unbearably endearing about this formidable man, who could spar with diplomats until they bled formality, standing there like a tourist.
“I loveThe Crowntoo,” I said lightly, slipping my hands into my pockets.“Though you know—it’s mostly fiction.”
His eyes swept the façade, awestruck.“Still.To be standing here…”
I pointed across the courtyard to the block of windows on the west side.“That was Princess Margaret’s apartment.I barely knew her—I was a child when she passed.But I remember being a little frightened of her.She had a presence.The kind that filled a room before she even entered.”
Bryce chuckled softly.“Seems to run in the family.”
That disarmed me, and I had to look away, tugging him gently toward my entrance.My security fob beeped against the scanner, and the heavy door yielded with a sigh.
Inside, the hush was deeper.White-painted wainscoting lined the corridor, and the parquet floor softly glowed beneath recessed lights.We passed two closed doors before reaching mine.I let us in with another swipe, the lock clicking shut behind us.
Suddenly, nerves fluttered in my chest.For all my boldness earlier, here in my apartment—with Bryce standing in the middle of my living room—my composure cracked.
“Drink?”I asked too quickly, reaching for the bar cart.
“Wine,” he said, his voice warm but a little husky.“Something dry, if you have it.”
I poured us both a glass of Sancerre, grateful for the moment to steady my hands.My apartment wasn’t grand—certainly nothing like the gilded rooms tourists paid to walk through on the other side of the palace.It was tasteful, contemporary, every line clean, every shade muted.A low grey sofa anchored the sitting area, paired with a glass coffee table.A modern abstract in blue and gold hung above the mantel, and the shelves were lined with design books, framed sketches, and a few photographs that only hinted at my family.
When I turned, he was standing by the window, looking out toward the gardens, his shoulders relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen before.
“Here,” I said, handing him the glass.
His fingers brushed mine as he took it, and the spark of contact was too much to ignore.Before I could second-guess myself, I leaned in and kissed him.Softly.Just the brush of lips against lips.
He stilled, then answered, his mouth warm, the taste of gin still faint on his tongue.The kiss was fleeting, but it set my blood surging, and I pulled back only because I had to breathe.
We moved to the sofa, glasses in hand.He settled in beside me, angling toward me, his eyes so intent they made me feel bared to the bone.
“So,” he said, swirling his wine, “what’s it like?Being gay in the royal family.I didn’t know there was a queer Windsor.”
I laughed softly, though there wasn’t much humour in it.“I’m twenty-fourth in line to the throne.Twenty-fourth.”I repeated it as though the number might reduce me to dust.“Far enough away that the press mostly ignores me unless I’m doing something for the firm in public.And the family too, if I’m honest.I don’t matter in the scheme of succession.”
His brows lifted.“And your mother?Princess Anne?”
“Mum wants me to be happy, and if it’s with a man, that’s fine with her.As far as my title is concerned, she didn’t want me to take it when I came of age.Said it would complicate things.But professionally—it helps.A title impresses people.It opens doors.It helps me sell the Clarence Atelier brand, if I’m honest.”
He gave a knowing little hum, sipping his wine.
“But,” I went on, softer, “it means I have to be discreet.No orgies.”I smirked, forcing levity.“Most of the family doesn’t know, and I’d rather keep it that way.”
“Doesn’t it feel…” He trailed off, searching for the word.
“Lonely?”I supplied.
