“She’s causing quite a stir, isn’t she?” Alfred stares at the young woman across the ballroom from them.

  “Not only is she wearing red, but her dress is skintight. Combined with the low neckline and the bare back, I’m surprised it’s staying up.”

  “Have we added new rules to our royal courtship decree that I’m unaware of?” Alfred asks.

  “We have not,” Charlotte tells him curtly. “The guidelines for dating Drew are as they’ve always been—elegant and tasteful clothing, no kissing in public, and hand holding only after the third date. I have no idea what that girl is up to.”

  Alfred intently stares at the woman in question. “I think you know exactly what she’s up to.”

  “You think she’s using this opportunity to further her own agenda with our son.”

  Cocking his head to the side, Alfred answers, “You said that Drew asked her to keep seeing him to keep the press from speculating on his relationship with Agnes. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s trying to draw as much attention to herself as possible so that everyone will be talking about how Drew has finally found his match.”

  “She’s not his match, though, which is clear to anyone with a brain in their head,” Charlotte fumes.

  Taking his wife’s arm and leading her across the room, he says, “She knows how much Drew values public opinion. It seems to me that she’s going to try to use that to influence our son.”

  “By dressing like a common harlot?” Charlotte asks.

  “By making herself the center of attention. Think about it, Lottie, if the press is in raptures over her and Drew being together, why would she ever break up with him? She could make him do it, but then he would look like an awful cad.”

  “You think she’s trying to force his hand?”

  “I think Miss Bain is a cunning young woman that we’d best keep a closer eye on.”

  Prince Andrew

  Agnes has maneuvered around in her sleep so that her head is resting on my lap. It’s pure torture while also being the sweetest thing in the world. Her gentle snores make me reconsider waking her, but the thought of her anger at missing her outing quickly refocuses me.

  Gently brushing the hair from her forehead, I whisper, “Agnes.”

  She wiggles around a bit but doesn’t wake up.

  “Agnes, it’s ten o’clock,” I tell her. “Time for your walk in the garden.”

  “Not now, Mum. Too tired,” comes her groggy response.

  I decide to have some fun with her. “But that yummy Prince Andrew is waiting.”

  “So bossy,” she practically groans.

  “Some would say he’s commanding.” I barely keep my laughter at bay. When she doesn’t react, I shake her shoulder gently, and coax, “Come on, Agnes, wake up.”

  She buries her head into my lap like one might do with a pillow, and it’s going to be the end of me if she doesn’t stop. “Agnes!” I yell.

  She opens her eyes and screams. “What are you doing?” she demands like she’s caught me molesting her.

  “I’m waking you up for your outing in the garden.”

  She bolts upright. “What am I doing on your lap?”

  “I couldn’t say. I was just sitting here minding my own business when you rolled over on me.”

  “Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry.” She runs her fingers through her hair to tidy it before jumping to her feet. “I’ll be right back.” She sprints out of the room.

  A ruffled Agnes is an adorable Agnes. She’s usually so composed that it’s hard to reconcile her now with the same woman who just fell asleep on me and made me her own personal teddy bear.

  When she comes back, her hair is up in a ponytail and she’s wearing her gym shoes. “I’m ready whenever you are,” she says without making eye contact.

  I get up and open the door before checking to make sure the coast is clear. “Looks like we’re the only ones up. Follow me.”

  Heading down the long corridor, we pass the family and guest quarters before reaching the back wall. Agnes looks at me in confusion. “Where to now?”

  I offer her a quick wink before leaning into the third panel to the right of the VanDyke painting. I hear the click before the wall pops open and slides to the side.

  “No way.” Agnes claps her hands together like a delighted child.

  “Pretty cool, huh?” I pull her in after me before shutting the panel.

  “Amazing!”

  “This set of stairs was walled off during the French Revolution. The then-king and queen were worried that being as close as we are to France, our natives might get restless too.”

  Agnes smiles. “Ah yes, they taught us in school that the royal family started to host lavish parties where they’d invite all the commoners in the land. They used to hand out gold sovereigns to the first hundred families through the gates. It sounds like they had a wonderful PR plan.”

  I laugh. “Being royal is all about PR. If there’s good buzz, everyone breathes easier.”

  “So that’s why you’re always so concerned what the press thinks of you,” she says.

  Leading the way down the ancient stone staircase, I tell her, “The press has had a field day with my family ever since my parents got together. My siblings did nothing to stay below the radar, so I feel it’s my duty to clean up our act, as they say.”

  “That’s a big responsibility,” she says.

  “I have a big job. I can’t just swan around like my actions don’t affect the kingdom.”

  “I suppose not.” Is it me or does she sound vaguely disappointed?

  When we hit the bottom of the staircase—eighty-one steps including landings, or three very long flights—I turn left and stop in front of a settee placed up against the wall. I press the first panel to the left and the wall pops open. Leaning my head out, I check both ways before signaling to Agnes to follow me.

  “Does anyone other than your family know about these stairs?” she asks. “I mean, there aren’t any cobwebs or anything so someone must clean.”

  “The head housekeeper and the butler know, but other than that, they’re supposed to be a secret.”

  We walk down the small corridor behind the kitchen that leads to one of several back doors. This one is used by the kitchen staff to access the vegetable garden.

  The cool fall breeze blows past us, and Agnes lets out an audible gasp. “Are you cold?” I ask.

  “A little, but it feels wonderful.”

  “Where to?” I ask. “We could go to the rose garden, the statue garden, or the water fountain.”

  “I’d love to see the rose garden.” She rubs her hands together as if to warm them. Without thinking about it too much, I take her fingers in mine and lead the way. The heat of my big paw should help warm her a bit.

  Once we arrive at the rose garden, I make an attempt to pull my hand away, but she holds on tightly, so I leave it. “My mother is very proud of her garden,” I tell her. “She hosts all kinds of events out here so she can show off her floribunda Royale.”

  “It smells intoxicating out here,” Agnes says appreciatively. She turns to look up at me and all words escape me.

  The moonlight shines down on my secretary’s platinum blonde hair. Her makeup-free complexion is so youthful and innocent looking. It’s all I can do not to pull her into my arms and kiss her.

  Staring deeply into her eyes, I consider my options. The ones I find most appealing are also the most forbidden. “Agnes.” Her name escapes my lips like a promise.

  “Yes, Drew.” Is it my imagination or is she leaning toward me?

  “I don’t think … what I mean to say is …do you want me to …” This is obviously not an award-winning speech. I’ve never been so tongue-tied.

  Agnes comes to her senses before I do. Instead of declaring that she wants me to ravish her, she says, “I’d like to walk for a bit, if that’s okay.”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  She pulls her hand from mine as she bends over to inhale a particularly aromatic bloom. “This rose smells like the most exquisite perfume ever made.”

  “Do you have roses at your home?” I ask her.

  “My mum has a few. I hope when I finally buy my own place that I’ll be able to put in a proper rose garden though. They’ve always been my favorite flower.”

  “Have you always lived at home?” I suddenly want to know everything about Agnes.

  “Except for university.” She explains, “I’ve always been single-minded when it comes to my work aspirations, and I’ve wanted to save as much money as possible.”

  “What is it you aspire to do?” I ask.

  “I want to own my own employment agency,” she says proudly.

  “Ah, then working for my family will surely help your reputation.” It’s a smart business move, but for some reason I feel a little perturbed by it. I never suspected she was working for me because she was captivated by my charm—not that I’ve ever been charming to her. But now I know for sure that the only thing she wants from me is my recommendation.

  “It can’t hurt,” she says honestly.

  “What about when you get married and have a family?” I ask.

  Agnes turns around abruptly with her hands on her hips. “What about it?”

  “What I mean to say is, will you still want to run your own company then?” I sound like a total ass, and I know it.

  “What if I never marry and have a family?” she counters.

  “What if you do?” I swear I love challenging this woman. It’s perversely fun to watch her hackles rise.

  “Then I’ll hire competent people who will take great care of my empire. I can have it all, you know.”

  Taking a step closer to her, I croon, “If anyone can do it, Agnes, it’s you.” Gently placing my hand under her chin, I tilt her head up with the intent of lowering my lips to hers.

  I’ve lost all willpower.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Amelia

  More than twenty-four hours have passed, and Amelia still hasn’t heard from her husband. Standing in front of the busy restaurant, she takes out her phone and texts her daughter.

  Amelia: Agnes, dear, how are you?

  When there’s no response, she types …

  Amelia: I know it’s late, I was just hoping to chat with you for a bit. Maybe I can come to the palace and visit with you tomorrow.

  She waits a few minutes for a response before turning her phone off and returning to supper.

  After taking her seat at her table at Fantaisie, where she and Jacqui are dining, Amelia declares, “Agnes isn’t answering, and Ralph had better be in the hospital in a coma or dead in a gutter. He has yet to contact me.”

  Placing her napkin in her lap, Jacqui says, “You did tell him to give you a few days, didn’t you?”

  “That doesn’t mean anything, and you know it. What I meant was that he had to try a lot harder than just offering me lip service.”

  “It’s been my experience that at some point in the game our husbands started to envision themselves rulers of their own kingdoms. At that point, we became nothing more than serfs with benefits, if you get my meaning.”

  “I do,” Amelia says heatedly. “And if that’s the case, then Ralph is in for a rough ride back to reality.”

  After taking a sip of her wine, Jacqui says, “I was serious about leaving Georges if he didn’t refocus his priorities. Otherwise, I would have never given him that ultimatum.”

  Releasing a pent-up breath, Amelia declares, “The way I feel now, I’d have no trouble leaving Ralph.”

  “Give him a couple more days.” Jacqui signals the waiter. “If you don’t hear anything from him by then, I suggest you set up a face-to-face meeting.”

  “I want to meet with him now,” Amelia says while lifting her hands into fist in front of her.

  “You’ve been married for over thirty years, Amelia. You don’t want to go into this particular conversation hotheaded.”

  Without confirming or denying her friend’s suggestion, Amelia says, “I’m hoping to go to the palace tomorrow and spend some time with Agnes. I simply can’t wait to find out how things are going with Prince Andrew.”

  Agnes

  Holy crow, I think Drew is about to kiss me. A tornado of thoughts swirl around my head. I want him to kiss me. I don’t want him to kiss me. I want him to like me. I know he can never like me the way I want him to.

  The instant before our lips meet, I decide this cannot happen. With lightning-fast speed, I lift my arm and slide my hand between our mouths. Then I cough loudly. “I think I might be catching a chill,” I tell him, while moving away from him. I turn around so my back is facing his, then fake cough again for emphasis.

  “Agnes,” he practically moans my name. When I don’t respond, he says, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I’m fine,” I tell him. He might have believed it too, had my voice not cracked like a pubescent boy’s.

  The next time he speaks, he sounds much closer. I jump when I feel his hands on my upper arms. “You are a very beautiful woman, and I must have let the romance of our setting carry me away. I’m truly sorry.”

  I turn around without lifting my head to make eye contact. “It’s fine. But for your own sake, you should be more careful. There are women out there who would do anything to trap you.”

  “Trap me? I was just going to kiss you, not ravish you.”

  If I’m being honest, my feelings are totally hurt right now. Why wouldn’t he want me? I try another tack. “Yes, but you’re already dating two other women. I don’t think you need to toy with a third.”

  “Two other women?” He sounds confused.

  “Felicity and Chantelle,” I remind him.

  A variety of emotions seems to cross his face at once. Confusion being the most prominent. His posture stiffens before he says, “You are correct. And again, I’m sorry. I won’t try anything like that again. I don’t know what got into me.”

  I want to cry. Why didn’t I just let Drew kiss me? Would it have hurt anything in the great scheme of things? If nothing else, it might have left me with a beautiful memory—something I could have told my kids someday when he was king.

  The real reason I chickened out had nothing to do with his seeing other women, or possibly ruining my chances of getting a good recommendation from him. It had everything to do with my heart, and my need to protect it.

  I’ve dated a number of men in my life. I’ve even had two fairly long relationships, so it’s not like I’m some kind of prude. It’s just that I’ve idolized Drew since I was a girl, and even though he’s a pain in the arse much of the time, there’s still something about him that draws me like a moth to a flame.

  For that reason alone, I cannot let myself give in to a temptation that will only hurt me in the end. As Drew has mentioned repeatedly, when he marries, his future wife will be of a station that I can only dream of.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “Let’s not speak of it again.”

  “Does that mean I’m forgiven?” Damn him and his puppy dog eyes.

  “Yes, yes, you’re fine. We’re fine,” I tell him, sounding as clipped and severe as a school matron.

  “Good.” He reaches out and takes my hand which causes me to practically jump out of my skin. “I’m not putting the moves on you,” he assures me. “I’m just doing my part to help keep you warm.”

  Dear God, I’m warm all right. I’m on fire. “Thank you.” I do not pull my hand away from his. “Can we walk around a bit?” I ask, hoping to prolong my time outdoors, even though I’m not sure I should, given my present companion and the effect he’s having on me.

  Drew proceeds to give me a lovely tour of the garden, making sure to include the history of some of the most prominent roses. The giant orange ones came from Spain six hundred years earlier, the white tea roses were a gift from Queen Victoria, and the lavender ones came from Napoleon’s garden. They’ve all been tended to with great care by the royal gardeners ever since.

  The flowers aren’t just beautiful blossoms, they’re history. The tour goes on and on and with each new bit of information, I find myself falling into sensory overload—the sights, the smells, the man still holding my hand.

  When we reach the edge of the rose garden, Drew points over a row of low hedges. “The water fountain and surrounding environs were designed by Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown, in the eighteenth century. I’ll have to take you over there another night.”

  “That would be nice, thank you.” I’m relieved he’ll accompany me again after my spurning his attentions. I really do like spending time with Drew when he’s not being bossy and mean. I’m also more than a bit nervous about being out here at night by myself.

  On the way back to the palace, Drew tells me, “Alistair, Geoffrey, and I streaked through the rose garden one afternoon while our mother was hosting a tea party.”

  My feet automatically stop moving and I stare up at him in horror. “How old were you?”

  “Geoffrey was three, Al was four, and I was almost six.” A burst of laughter shoots out of me, causing him to ask, “You didn’t think this was a recent occurrence, did you?”

  “I would hope not.” I’m still giggling. “I mean, the way you revere the opinion of the press, it would be hard to see you doing something so outrageous.”

  He drops my hand and reaches to unbutton the top two buttons of his shirt. I start to sweat. “First of all,” he says. “I don’t revere the press. I simply respect their power to make my life a living hell if I let them.”

  “And secondly?” my voice cracks again.

  “I’m getting rather warm and if we don’t get inside soon, an encore performance of the Great Streaking incident may need to be repeated.” He narrows his eyes comically.

  Take ’em off! I want to shout. Instead, I go with, “I can only imagine how that would play out in the papers. They’d think you were as crazy as King George.”

  “Or that I was a playboy like Alistair.”

  “Either way, you’re bending over backwards to assure them that there’s nothing going on between the two of us …” A pang of hurt stabs at my heart.