Eighteen
AURELIA
God,that wink.Yep, definitely a panty-melting look. Because, my word, do I want to feel him in my panties again. I can’t think of a time I’ve ever even remotely thought that about a guy, and yet here I am, in an isolated mansion in the mountains with a man that can never be mine and yet has my mind envisioning all kinds of impossible scenarios.
I stop myself before I ruin a perfectly good day with such concerns. This arrangement with Prince Friedrich is supposed to be fun. No strings, no attachments, no feelings. Just pure enjoyment of our bodies, a time for me to explore what that even means. And however long that lasts will have to be enough. Because,good night, do I enjoy that man enjoying my body.
The shirt he left for me is a bit too small, and I’m guessing the others in the wardrobe will be too. I hear adoor click down the hall and a few moments later, another one farther down. I wrap the towel around me and, seeing the coast is clear, slip down to a room I instantly know to be his because his smell still lingers. It strikes me how well his choice in cologne fits this setting, wood and smoke and earth. This is a man who loves the solitude of the countryside and carries it with him, even when he’s stuck in the capital.
There’s a wardrobe on one wall, and it feels wrong to snoop in his most private residence, but I see a few long-sleeve button-down shirts hanging and pull a white one down.This is sexy, right?I think every romcom has a scene with the love interest in her man’s shirt, a few buttons undone at the top and the tails hanging down around her thighs. I throw it around my shoulders, and my stomach does a flip-flop at the trace of him reaching through the detergent.
My bare feet make almost no noise on the carpeted hallway as I make my way to the library. I can hear the fire still crackling from outside the door. I knock softly and let myself in. The smell of smoke and aged paper wraps around me like a cozy blanket. From the doorway, I can’t see the prince, but when I come closer to the fire, I spot him lying on the floor, propped on one arm with a heavy-looking leather book on the floor in front of him, a glass of amber-colored liquid in the other hand.
He looks up at the sound of my approach. A wide smile breaks across his face, and I note the beginnings of fine wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. Theyonly appear when he gives a true smile, and I long to see it more. “That shirt is rather becoming on you.”
I blush, though the intended effect is made. “Do you like it? The other just didn’t feel quite right.”
“No? In fact, I believe it looks far better on you than it ever did on me.”
He motions for me to join him by the fire, and I oblige, adjusting the too-large shirt as I sit cross-legged on the ornate rug.
“I see you did a little touring of your own?” He holds up his glass in offering.
“Only a little.” I accept the glass and sip. It warms my insides as the fire does the same to my skin. I could get used to his incredible selection of whiskeys.
“Mm-hm. And did you find anything of interest?” he asks, taking the glass back from me.
“Sadly, no. And I searched high and low for your collection of nudey mags.”
He barks out a laugh that makes my heart soar. “No, I keep those at the summer cottage by the sea.” We both fall into a fit of giggles.
I peer at the book open in front of him when we regain our composure and raise an eyebrow. “Shakespeare? Not exactly light reading.”
He nods. “A collection of poems and monologues. Mother loves the Bard. We were instructed in Shakespeare extensively as children. I never did understand much of what he said. But this one,” he runs a hand down the open page. “She asked me to learn this one for her. I drilled and memorized until I could havedelivered this monologue in my sleep. But that wasn’t exactly what she wished for. Mother told me I must hold it in my heart; that it would serve me well one day.”
His striking blue eyes hold mine as he begins to recite:
“The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath, it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
