Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Bryce
Winfield House looked like a goddamn movie set.
All Georgian grandeur and manicured lawns, dripping with history and that “old money” smugness you could smell a mile off.
It was supposed to be my home now—my official residence as U.S.
Ambassador to the Court of St James’s—but at that moment, standing in front of an ornate gilt mirror taller than me, I felt like an interloper in somebody else’s costume drama.
“Hold still, Mr. Ambassador,” chirped the grooming assistant, adjusting the collar of my dress shirt with fingers that moved like they were assembling a watch.
On my right, another assistant fussed with my hair, coaxing and smoothing the stubborn wave into submission with a product that smelled of cedar and something expensive.
I hated this—the fussing, the poking and prodding, and the sensation of being transformed into something I wasn’t.
Polished and perfect. But it was part of the job.
And tonight, of all nights, I couldn’t afford to look like I’d just rolled out of bed.
Behind me, Paula Brooks, my Deputy Chief of Mission and unofficial hand-holder, read from a clipboard. Paula was brisk, unflappable, and terrifyingly efficient. She could probably organize a G7 summit blindfolded with one hand tied behind her back.
“Ambassador Xi from China, Ambassador Patel from India, Ambassador Sato from Japan,” she ticked off smoothly. “Ambassador Durand from France—you’ll like him, charming man, fluent in sarcasm. The High Commissioner from Canada, obviously, and the German ambassador, Baroness Vogel.”
I tried to commit the list to memory, but it was like trying to cram for an exam when you already knew you were going to fail. Too many names, too many faces, too many chances to screw up.
“And then there’s Nigel Thorne,” Paula continued.
She didn’t even need to check her notes for him.
“Head of the North America Department at the Foreign Office. He’ll be your chief point of contact.
Think Tommy Lascelles from The Crown—same era, same attitude, same talent for making you feel inadequate without raising his voice. ”
I winced. “Terrific. Can’t wait.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” Paula said, glancing up from the clipboard with the merest flicker of amusement.
“Princess Anne’s son, Prince Arthur Phillip, Duke of Clarence, may attend on her behalf.
She’s unwell. He’s not a working royal—runs a fashion house, Clarence Atelier.
Sustainable luxury. Very modern, very chic. ”
“A prince who makes clothes,” I said flatly.
Paula’s lips twitched. “Welcome to Britain.”
The assistant gave my hair one final, decisive pass. “There,” he said, stepping back like a sculptor admiring his work. “Very distinguished, sir.”
“Thank you, both of you. That’ll be all for now.” Paula escorted the two assistants out, thanking them with a diplomatic smile before shutting the door.
I exhaled. “Sorry. I know I was difficult. But my head isn’t a topiary.”
“You’re under pressure,” Paula said simply, setting the clipboard down on the vanity.
Before I could reply, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen, then frowned. “It’s…your father. On my phone. I have no idea how he got my number.”
I groaned. “That’s Dad for you.”
She handed it over, and I pressed it to my ear reluctantly. “Hi, Dad.”
“Bryce!” came his booming voice, far too awake for what had to be three in the morning back in Virginia. “I hope you’re remembering everything I told you. Stand tall, shoulders back, don’t slouch. This is your big night. Don’t embarrass the family.”
I rolled my eyes at my reflection. “Dad, isn’t it literally three a.m. there? And how the hell did you even know about this reception?”
“I have my sources,” he said grandly, as though the CIA was reporting directly to him. “The point is, don’t screw it up. First impressions matter.”
“Right. Thanks, Dad. Very helpful.”
He was still mid-lecture when I muttered, “Love you, bye,” and hung up. I did love him—deeply—but sometimes the man was too much.
I set the phone down and looked back at Paula. My reflection in the mirror stared back at me: hair tamed, jaw clean-shaven, tuxedo immaculate. Everything said ambassador, but inside I felt like the kid who’d once stolen his father’s cufflinks and tried to play grown-up.
“How do I look?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended. “Because I feel like an imposter.”
* * *
If there was a hell designed specifically for diplomats, it would look exactly like this: a gilded ballroom at Winfield House, chandeliers blazing, champagne flutes tinkling, and me at the head of a goddamn receiving line.
I smiled until my cheeks ached, shook hands until my palm was slick, and nodded sagely as if I’d been doing this my whole life.
Which, technically, I hadn’t—but growing up a Lewis in Virginia had given me enough practice in cocktail chatter to fake it.
Church socials, horse shows, Hunt Club dinners—different setting, same dance.
Smile, nod, say something polite. Don’t spill champagne on your shirt.
The German ambassador’s husband leaned in, complimented my tuxedo, and for half a second my brain went blank as a snowfield.
“Thank you,” I managed, praying he couldn’t see the panic in my eyes.
Next came the Canadian High Commissioner, then the French ambassador—Durand, Paula had said, fluent in sarcasm.
He quipped about American football being “a sport for men in armour,” and I laughed a beat too late. Smooth, Lewis. Very smooth.
Everyone seemed perfectly content, though, as if my awkward pauses were charming rather than catastrophic. Maybe that was the trick: people saw what they wanted to see.
And then—him.
“Nigel Thorne,” he announced, with the clipped precision of a man who’d had elocution lessons beaten into him as a child. “Head of the North America Department. I look forward to working with you, Mr. Ambassador.”
I forced my smile not to falter. The man radiated chill like an open freezer.
His posture was ramrod straight, his eyes like polished slate, and his handshake was so brief I wondered if he thought my skin contagious.
Every nerve in me screamed that he was the sort who’d rather scold me than assist me.
“I look forward to working with you as well,” I said brightly, though inside I was wincing hard enough to sprain something.
He gave a curt nod and moved on. Thank God.
A few more handshakes, a few more polite exchanges, and the line finally ended. I blew out a silent breath, praying no one noticed the tension in my shoulders.
That’s when Paula appeared at my elbow, like some benevolent fairy godmother. She dipped her head slightly and murmured, “His Royal Highness Prince Arthur Phillip has just arrived.”
My stomach dropped. “Oh, hell.”
“Remember,” Paula whispered, voice calm and maddeningly cheerful. “You must approach him. Not the other way around.”
I leaned toward her, whispering back through clenched teeth. “Do I really have to?”
“Yes,” Paula said, a wicked little snicker escaping her. “You absolutely do.”
I gritted my teeth, scanning the room. “Where is he?”
Paula tilted her head toward the opposite side of the ballroom.
And then I saw him.
Sweet Jesus.
Prince Arthur Phillip stood beneath a sweep of crystal light, and he was…
well, he was something else entirely. Elegant didn’t begin to cover it.
He was effortless refinement given human form—dark chestnut hair slightly tousled in a way that looked deliberate but probably wasn’t, wearing a midnight-blue dinner jacket that fit like it had been poured onto his shoulders.
Tall, lean, with the kind of quiet magnetism that made the rest of the room feel slightly out of focus.
His posture was relaxed where everyone else’s was rigid—one hand in his pocket, the other holding a champagne flute with the careless grace of a man who’d grown up in palaces and somehow managed not to let it ruin him.
My mouth went dry.
He was speaking to Nigel Thorne—of course he was—and though his expression was perfectly pleasant, I noticed the tiniest shift in his jaw, a tension that betrayed something beneath the polish.
Did he find Thorne as insufferable as I did?
The thought made my chest tighten with a strange flicker of kinship.
Paula’s hand pressed gently against the small of my back, nudging me forward. “You’ve got this,” she murmured.
No, I did not have this. But I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and let myself be steered into the lion’s den.
The crowd shifted as I crossed the room, every step suddenly heavier than it should’ve been.
A string quartet in the corner sawed its way through Mozart, the polished parquet floor gleamed beneath my shoes, and all around me, men in tuxedos and women in gowns glittered with borrowed diamonds.
But the only thing I could focus on was him.
Prince Arthur Phillip.
He was even more devastating up close. Those hazel eyes—warm, perceptive, holding a spark of quiet amusement—settled on me with a directness that knocked the wind out of my chest. A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth, as though he’d already decided something about me and was simply waiting for me to catch up.
He smelled of something subtle—sandalwood, maybe—and his jawline could have been carved by someone who took their work very seriously.
I slowed when another figure appeared at his side.
A man—handsome, all dark curls and easy charm.
He leaned toward Arthur and murmured something that sent him laughing, low and warm, the sound threading right through me.
Nigel Thorne’s frown deepened, his disapproval practically vibrating in the air.
With a stiff nod, he excused himself, retreating just as I reached them.
Protocol, I reminded myself fiercely. Don’t screw this up, Lewis.
I inclined my head in a small, respectful bow and said, “Your Royal Highness. I’m Bryce Lewis, the new U.S. Ambassador.”
Arthur turned his head, those extraordinary eyes settling on me, and for one horrifying moment my mind went blank. Jesus, he was striking.
His smile was easy, practised, but something in it softened when he spoke. “Ambassador. A pleasure.” He gestured to the man beside him. “May I introduce Mr. Chris Tennant?”
“Call me Chris,” he said warmly, extending his hand.
“It’s lovely to meet you both,” I managed, though my pulse was hammering loud enough to drown out the string quartet.
“Ambassador,” Arthur said, “Chris and I are partners at Clarence Atelier, a sustainable fashion house.”
“Business partners,” Chris added quickly, winking. “Though he does all the regal PR, and I make the clothes. Speaking of…” His gaze swept over me with an appraising but not unkind air. “That tuxedo looks sharp on you. But one day, I’d love to see you in one of my designs.”
I laughed, a little awkward, running a hand along the back of my neck. “Well, I’m not exactly a fashion plate.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Chris said, hand to heart in mock outrage. “Clarence’s philosophy is that sustainability should feel timeless, not trendy. I can already see you in one of our dinner jackets. Definitely charcoal. With those shoulders? It's criminal not to dress them properly.”
Before I could reply, he glanced at Arthur’s empty champagne flute. “You’re dry. I’ll fix that.” With a bow that was half courtly, half theatrical, he whisked away toward the nearest server.
Suddenly, it was just the two of us.
I realised I was staring. Couldn’t stop, really. His profile was striking—strong jaw, high cheekbones, that tousled hair catching the chandelier light—and his presence was magnetic. My mouth went dry.
“Sir,” I began, forcing myself into safer territory, but he leaned ever so slightly toward me, his voice dropping to something meant for my ears alone.
“Please,” he said, “when it’s just us, call me Arthur.”
The corners of my lips tugged upward despite myself. I hadn’t smiled like that—unguarded, stupidly giddy—in years.
“I…” I swallowed, nerves tangling in my throat. “I’ll admit, I feel out of place at events like this. I never know what to wear, how to act… half the time I think I’m bluffing my way through.”
Arthur’s eyes softened, and for the first time, his regal veneer cracked. “So do I,” he whispered back. “Normally, I don’t come to these functions at all. But my mother is unwell, so…” His shoulders lifted in a faint, weary shrug.
It was like a door opening—just an inch—but it was enough. I felt myself leaning in, pulled closer by a current I couldn’t explain.
“If I had my way, I’d be at the stables,” I admitted, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. “I grew up around horses—nearly went the Olympic route—though I never get time to ride any longer. Black tie has never been something I’m very good at.”
Chris reappeared then, triumphant with two flutes of champagne. He handed one to Arthur, and with perfect timing, caught my last confession.
“You don’t know how to dress?” he said, mock-horrified. “Ambassador, we must remedy that immediately. I’ll put you in Clarence Atelier—you’ll never want to wear anything else.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Honestly, I’d rather be mucking about in a barn wearing breeches and boots.”
“Then it’s settled,” Chris declared, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “We’ll dress you.”
Arthur smiled, the curve of his mouth both serene and mischievous, and to my own astonishment, I heard myself say, “All right.”
The champagne fizzed at the back of my throat. Horses and mud-stained riding jackets were my comfort zone, not bespoke tailoring. Yet here I was, agreeing to let a prince’s business partner choose my wardrobe—while trying very hard not to stare at the prince himself.
How on earth had I just let myself be talked into this?