The sound of the faucet turning off floated to me, and a few moments later, Sonya quietly opened the bathroom door. She walked over to me, setting her hand gently on my shoulder.
“Are you okay, miss?”
Face flushed with embarrassment, I looked up at her kind face and the concern in her eyes. “Not really, no.” I took a deep breath, swallowing back tears.
Sonya knelt to look me in the eyes. “Listen, love. Alistair Davies is a miscreant. John Astor atWexstone Dailyis more prominently known as a bastard, but Davies has long flown under the radar while writing absolute filth. The prince is a level-headed man; he surely won’t pay this garbage much mind so neither should you.”
I gave her a wobbly smile. “Thanks, Sonya. Let’s hope so. Do you mind bringing my breakfast up here? I don’t think I’m quite ready to face Bronson. I’d rather avoid him until after I see the prince.”
Sonya gave me a knowing look and patted my hand. “Of course, dear. You take a nice long bath—it’ll make you feel right as rain. Your breakfast will be here waiting for you when you’re done. If Lord Alexander asks, I’ll make your excuses for you.”
I took a shaky breath as the car stopped in front of the palace. I felt more jittery than I had in days, thanks to that article. I had successfully avoided Bronson before leaving the manor, although Vince had caught me on my way out the door. He had tried to be reassuring, repeating much of what Sonya had said, but his lack of eye contact told me that he was a bit shaken, too.
“Don’t worry, Birdie. We’ll figure it out,” he had said, squeezing my upper arm in a brotherly way.
I turned now to see Prince Oliver waiting at the bottom of the marble steps, hands in the pockets of his charcoal-gray peacoat. He was wearing dark wash jeans paired with a light gray sweater, looking more comfortable and casual than I had seen him since New York.
Carter opened the door for me, a custom I still wasn’t quite used to. I stepped out of the car and was surprised to see the prince smiling broadly at me.
“Good morning, Birdie,” he said warmly, closing the distance between us and kissing me on the cheek.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” I replied.
“Please, call me Oliver,” he said quietly. “I know Bronson probably gave you a lesson on proper titles, but it feels strange for you to call me ‘prince’ or ‘Your Highness’—I’d much rather just be ‘Oliver’ to you.”
“Well then: Good morning, Oliver.” I gave him a nervous smile as I bit my bottom lip and fiddled with the buttons on my white wool coat.
Concern filled his eyes. “Are you all right?”
I cleared my throat. “Um…not really. Did you see the article?”
A look of understanding crossed his face. “Oh, of course. I should have known you would have seen it by now. Here, comeinside and we’ll talk.” He ushered me up the steps and into the palace, his hand at the small of my back.
Once inside, Oliver helped me remove my coat, handing it to a short, stocky man who appeared from around a corner. “Thank you, Preston. We’ll come find you to retrieve that before Ms. Hamilton leaves.” He turned back to me. “There’s a sitting room just down the corridor where we can talk.”
I followed as he led me down the hall into a spacious, yet cozy, room filled with plush couches and bookshelves. A grand piano sat in the corner, sheet music spread across the music desk. Sunlight poured in through a set of windows into which was set a window seat. I wanted to curl up like a cat in one of the sunbeams and nap the day away.
“Please, have a seat,” the prince said, motioning to one of the couches.
Oliver was handsome, there was no denying that, but he also carried himself with poise and presence. Behind the kind blue eyes, he held the power of a king; he was not someone you wanted to disappoint or disgrace, though I was afraid that I already had.
I sat, turning to face him as he lowered himself into the adjacent armchair. “Oliver, I’m so sorry. You have every right to be upset, and I understand if you and your family want me to leave?—”
“Leave? What? No! Birdie, I am upset, but not at you,” he interjected, running his hands through his hair.
“You’re not?”
“Of course not. None of this is your fault. And I certainly don’t want you to leave—unless you want to go.” He reached over, resting his hand gently on top of mine. “I would never want you to stay if you didn’t want to.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
Oliver grinned sheepishly, squeezing my hand gentlybefore removing his. “Well, I’m glad for that. The only one I’m upset with here is Alistair Davies. He had no right to write those things about you or any of the other women. And I spoke with Vince first thing this morning. He explained what happened to you at customs.” He blushed furiously. I felt my cheeks redden as well. “Either Davies or his supposed source purposefully mischaracterized the situation to slander you.”
“I appreciate your understanding,” I said, my nerves finally lessening. “But what about your parents?”
The corner of Oliver’s mouth quirked upward. “My parents know well what it is like to be under the press’s microscope. I can assure you there have been plenty of unflattering pieces written about them in the past thirty years. They know better than to judge someone based on a single news article. I have already spoken with them about dealing with Davies, and they have given me their full support in however I choose to deal with him. I’ll be making sure the rest of the women who were maligned in his article know this as well.”
I sighed, taking my first full, deep breath since Sonya had shown me the article. “Thank you.”
