Royally Matched (Royally #2)(16)

There’s always someone to chat with, someone saying hello or asking me a question or mentioning how excited he or she is to be working with me.

It feels bloody grand.

Set designers are arranging props and baskets of flowers here and there and oohing and ahhing over the antique paintings, suits of armor, and what Nicholas and I always called the Fantastic Wall of Death. It’s a large wall in the great room, covered floor-to-ceiling with weapons that were used by our ancestors on the battlefield. Writers and directors walk about the property, creating storyboards and film location lists.

AD’s and PA’s and Extra PA’s flit about, and I’m really hoping we can add DP to the frequently used initials vernacular very soon.

But then, in the library, Vanessa dashes those horny hopes as fast as Cinderella’s coach poofed back into a sad little pumpkin.

“No sex.”

We’re going over my contract. I don’t have to sign the $50 million NDA like every single other person who’s even remotely involved, but I do have rules.

Sodding rules. Everywhere I look, there are do’s, don’ts, musts, and for fuck’s sake nevers.

Doesn’t anyone know how to have fun anymore?

“What do you mean, no sex? I’ve seen your show—sex is the whole point. All the good parts are blocked out, but it’s picnic sex, candlelight sex, after-hiking-through-the-forest sex. I was really looking forward to that part.”

She shakes her head, her shiny, short hair swaying. “Prepare for disappointment. This is the royal edition. It’s special. Special rules.”

“I don’t want to be special. I want to be like all the other average blokes on your show. Only, better-looking. Sucking face in the morning with one contestant, then sex with a different woman in the evening. And no one even gets angry. It’s a fascinating study in human behavior.” I clap my hands. “Bravo, sweetheart.”

And she’s still shaking her head. Damn it.

“In this case, we’re selling the fantasy. The fairy tale. That the woman you choose will be your queen. And in order to keep that fantasy going, you can party, but you can’t have sex.”

“Are you telling me that you actually found twenty noble virgins?”

Because if that’s the case, this isn’t going to be nearly as much fun as I thought.

“I’m telling you it doesn’t matter if they’re virgins, as long as the audience believes they are.” She glances out the window, tapping her finger on the desk. “I mean, you’re just looking for a good time, right? You weren’t actually planning on settling down with one of these girls, were you?”

“I don’t plan on settling down for a very long time, sweets. My brother has the positive publicity covered and while one of my duties is to beget an heir, men can have children well into their fifties, so I have plenty of time for practice shots.” I lift my glass of scotch, toasting the Almighty. “Praise the Lord.”

Vanessa nods. “Perfect. Then I think we’ll both get exactly what we’re looking for, Henry.”

I skim the rest of the contract.

“You should have your attorney look it over too,” she says.

“No need.” I glance up, pen poised. “There’s no ban on blow jobs, is there?”

Vanessa laughs. “No. Just be discreet.”

I wink. “Discreet should have been one of my middle names.”

Right after “Ironic.”

I sign the final page with an eager flourish that John Hancock would envy. Vanessa picks up the contract and slides it into a leather folder. “Congratulations, you just bought yourself a month’s worth of good times.”

I lean back in my chair, folding my arms behind my head, content with the world.

“Oh, one more thing,” Vanessa adds. “It’s about your staff.”





Ten minutes later, they’re all gathered in the library. Cook, Fergus, James, and his security team, stand in a circle an I’m in the center, like I’m about to lead them onto the football field to victory.

“I’ve explained to Ms. Steele that there is no need for my private staff to sign nondisclosure agreements. Because the House of Pembrook, of which you are all members, is better and more honorable than that.” I meet eyes of each person, peering particularly hard at Fergus. “Aren’t we?”

Granny isn’t the only one who knows how to manipulate.

“That means we have only one rule: no one tells the Queen. I can’t stress this enough.”

I continue to slowly turn to each of them. Fergus glares, Cook smiles, James and his lads look like they’re going to puke.

I hold out my hand, palm down, and motion for them add their hands on top. “What do you say?”

“Your parents are rolling in their graves, God rest their souls,” Fergus grinds out, making the sign of the cross.

And inside, I flinch. Hard.

On the outside, I shrug. “Won’t be the first time, old man.”

Then it’s Fergus’s turn to flinch. He glances down, sheepishly.

“Come on,” I rally, “don’t get depressing on me. This is the way it’s done now. The Pope tweets, politicians troll, and the heir to the throne finds his match on reality television.”

“It’s tasteless and tawdry,” he argues.