Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 140412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
“Ms. Dixon,” he says as I climb the steps.
When I reach the top, I curtsey to him. “Bailey, Your Majesty—”
“No, no. Stand up.” He chuckles ruefully. “Bailey, then. And you’ll call me Nathan, agreed?”
I nod and give him a grateful smile, but if I open my mouth all my vital organs will leap out.
He’s not wearing a bespoke tux or finely tailored suit now. At least he’s wearing something; the last time I saw him, he was wearing considerably less than his current charcoal gray crewneck sweater and navy slacks. Remembering what’s under them makes me feel a little faint.
“I think I’m overdressed,” I say weakly, knowing for a fact that I am. My boat neck, beaded tulle illusion dress is more appropriate for a formal reception.
“Or perhaps, I’m underdressed,” Nathan suggests. “You were expecting something more…official.”
He’s so close to me as we walk through the checkered entry hall. When he takes the staircase, I hesitate at the bottom. A momentary frown crosses his face. “The private residence is this way.”
“Of course.” What did I think, that we would occupy the state dining room, just the two of us? I’ve never been to the private residence, but I highly doubt he’s just making it up as a ruse to get me upstairs and alone.
For one thing, we already seem really, really alone. I expected to see security or servants but the place is shockingly empty. And we’re both still behaving like we don’t know that we want to rip each other’s clothes off right then and there.
“I apologize,” Nathan begins, leading the way up the wide staircase. “I thought I made it clear that this wasn’t a formal visit, but a friendly one.”
“Oh, I think it was clear enough.” I have no idea why I said it and I want to crawl into a shell built entirely of mortification and just die in it. “I’m sorry, I—”
“You didn’t come in a chauffeured car,” he muses. “I know your parents have a driver. It’s his night off?”
We reach a landing and I face him directly. “My parents didn’t care for the idea of my coming here.”
He’s not surprised, but he half-heartedly feigns it, anyway. “I certainly hope it didn’t create too much friction between you and…oh, what’s his name? Your fiancé?”
“Ashton Daniels.” I don’t want to talk about him. I’m frankly annoyed that Nathan’s brought him up. “And no, no friction. At least, nothing worth discussing?”
“Oh?” He sounds disappointed as we start up the next flight of stairs.
I keep my tone light. “We’re not mated, yet. I still have a will of my own.”
“So, I’ve heard,” Nathan says.
Now it’s my turn to say, “Oh?”
“Invoking the right of accord, when no one in your pack had done it for centuries? That’s quite willful.” His words hold an edge of teasing that I’m not sure I welcome.
“Maybe if anyone had been taught about it, if it hadn’t been covered up for centuries, someone would have,” I say, before I remember that Nathan is from a different pack. He had no control over what I was taught as a child. “What about Greater London? Has anyone invoked the right there?”
He nods slowly. “About thirty years ago.”
“And was it a huge scandal?” I ask, then add, “If you were old enough to remember it.”
“Don’t try to flatter me,” he mockingly scolds. We reach the top of the stairs, and he takes a right, then a left down another hallway, where we finally see security guards. They’re thralls, and they wear the sign of the royal house. They open the towering double doors for us to enter.
The private residence is like a palace within a palace. The ceilings are so high, I feel like an undersized doll in a dollhouse. The furnishings would be at home in a dollhouse, too, all spindly antiques to match the early nineteenth century decor with its plasterwork like wedding cake frosting. The hall that stretches ahead of us has melon-pink walls and a black-and-white checkered floor, with two enormous chandeliers lighting our way. At the end of the hall, mahogany doors stand open, revealing a richly appointed sitting room. He leads me inside, where the furnishings are more modern and the blue-gray walls less aggressive.
“Please,” he says, gesturing to the plush ivory sofa. “What may I get you to drink?”
The king is going to fix me, his subject, a drink? That’s apparently what’s happening, as he goes to a bar at the end of the room. I smooth my skirt and sit, blurting, “two fingers of vodka, neat?”
He blinks in surprise, but nods and sets about getting a glass and pouring. While he does, he picks up our conversation from before. “You left for five years. What did your fiancé have to say about that?”
I shrug. “At the time? Nothing. They swept me out of there before the ceremony was even over. I was on a plane to London before dawn.”