Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Arthur
The stack of invoices on my desk was tall enough to qualify as its own architectural feature.
I’d been at them since early morning, eyes blurring over figures about fabric shipments and vendor contracts.
At least most of it was routine. The only real snag was a minor crisis with our wool supplier in Scotland—apparently a whole shipment had been misrouted, sitting in some warehouse near Aberdeen instead of on its way to London.
Inconvenient, yes. Catastrophic, no. With a few calls and a touch of firmness, it would be sorted before anyone so much as noticed a delay.
That wasn’t what weighed on me.
What gnawed at me—what had been gnawing at me for days—was the upcoming fitting for Bryce Lewis, the new American ambassador.
I’d met him only once, briefly, at the embassy reception, yet he had managed to take up residence in my mind like an uninvited guest who refused to leave.
It was absurd. I’d barely exchanged more than a few pleasantries with the man, and yet here I was, unable to focus on anything without his face intruding.
That jawline. Those steady grey-blue eyes.
The hint of a drawl curling beneath his carefully measured words.
The way he’d blushed when he confessed he’d rather be in riding clothes.
I’d tried to bury it. Threw myself into work—the suiting line, the spring collection, a dozen small fires that needed tending. But every time I sat still for longer than a minute, my thoughts drifted back to him. And once they drifted, they lingered.
At one point—and I’m not proud of this—I opened my laptop and typed his name into the search bar.
Just to see. A few articles came up: the diplomatic career, the crisis management background, a brief mention of his equestrian past. One photo from a Virginia charity gala, years old, showed him in a dinner jacket with a woman on his arm—some socialite or other, captioned as a “friend of the family.”
There was nothing else. No spouse. No partner mentioned. No tabloid whispers. Just a man who had spent his career being careful.
Could he be—
I shut the laptop with a snap, as if the thought itself might leap off the screen and brand me a fool.
“Stop wasting time,” I muttered under my breath.
I had no business entertaining such fantasies.
He was an ambassador. I was—what? A glorified tailor with a royal title, dabbling in fashion and clinging to my family’s relevance?
Whatever I was, it wasn’t someone he would notice.
And besides, Bryce was probably straight.
Probably.
I buried myself in the paperwork again, though the numbers swam and refused to align into anything sensible. I was still glaring at a stubbornly crooked column of figures when my office door burst open.
Laurence, my secretary, appeared, slightly out of breath. His cheeks flushed as if he’d sprinted down the hall. “Apologies, Your Royal Highness,” he panted. “But Mr. Tennant was called away on an emergency.”
I arched my brow. “Another one?”
“This one’s rather urgent. An actress—Grizelda Cruz—managed to rip the hem of her gown. She’s meant to walk the red carpet in Leicester Square in less than an hour.”
I sighed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Can no one cross a street without tearing silk anymore?”
Laurence pressed on. “Mr. Tennant asked me to inform you that he hopes you will do Mr. Lewis’s fitting in his stead. The assistant fitter, Claire, is home sick today, and Mr. Tennant wishes to ensure the ambassador receives the very best service possible.”
I blinked at him. “Mr. Lewis.”
“Yes, sir.”
For a heartbeat, the room seemed too small, the air too close. Of course this would happen.
I could picture Chris’s smug grin already.
Ever since the embassy reception, he’d been teasing me mercilessly about having a “schoolboy crush” on the ambassador.
Clearly, this had his fingerprints all over it.
A ripped gown in Leicester Square was a convenient cover for shoving me into Bryce’s path again.
“Very clever, Chris,” I muttered, half to myself.
Laurence frowned. “Sir?”
“Nothing.” I pressed my palms flat against the desk and exhaled slowly, steadying myself. Professional. I could be professional. I had to be. “Very well,” I said at last, summoning a smile I didn’t quite feel. “Of course I’ll do the fitting.”
Laurence visibly relaxed, as though he’d been bracing for an explosion. “Excellent. I’ll see that everything is prepared.”
As the door closed behind him, I allowed the smile to fade.
My stomach fluttered like a net full of trapped birds.
There was no reason for it—I’d fitted hundreds of clients, many of them far more intimidating than an American diplomat.
Yet the thought of Bryce Lewis standing in my fitting room made my pulse quicken.
I shook my head at myself, disgusted and amused in equal measure. “Get a grip, Arthur,” I whispered. Still, the corners of my mouth tugged upward into a smile I couldn’t suppress.
Whatever Chris thought he was playing at, I wasn’t about to back down. If fate—or meddling business partners—insisted on throwing me into Bryce’s orbit, then I would stand tall. Bryce Lewis would get nothing less than the very best service Clarence Atelier had to offer.
Even if my heart insisted on thundering like a drum every time I thought of him.
* * *
The mirrored fitting room was far too small for the size of my nerves. I paced the length of the carpet, back and forth in front of the podium at the centre, arms folded tightly against my chest as if I could physically squeeze composure into myself.
It had been months since I’d done a personal fitting for anyone.
My realm these days was sketches and swatches, the suiting line that paid Clarence’s bills season after season.
The formalwear—those grand, sweeping dinner jackets and midnight-silk ensembles worn once at galas and in society columns—were Chris’s department.
He thrived on them, the drama and the glamour.
I thrived on sharp suits and well-cut blazers that men could actually wear to the office without feeling like they were in costume.
And now here I was, expected to hold pins in my mouth and drape fabric like some fresh-out-of-school apprentice.
I cursed Chris under my breath for manipulating me into this.
He’d orchestrated this whole thing—I was certain of it—leaving me alone in here to meet Bryce Lewis with nothing but a measuring tape and a galloping pulse.
I tugged at my jacket sleeves, paced once more, and forced myself to breathe. Professional. I would be professional if it killed me.
The door opened. Laurence stepped in, composed as ever, though he gave me a quick, searching look as if to check I hadn’t fainted. “Your Royal Highness, the United States ambassador is here for his fitting.”
And then he appeared.
Bryce Lewis stepped from behind him, and for a moment the room seemed to tilt, the floor an unsteady ship’s deck.
He wore a charcoal suit, sharply tailored, the kind that looked deceptively simple until you noticed the way it sat across his shoulders—broad, square, the fabric pulled just so across his chest. His dark hair was neatly combed, though that stubborn wave at the front threatened rebellion, and his jaw was clean-shaven, catching the light from the mirrors in a way that made my throat tighten.
And his eyes—clear, grey-blue—met mine with a warmth that did nothing for my equilibrium.
“Your Highness,” he said, his voice low and even, with just the faintest drawl curling around the edges of his vowels.
Something fluttered low in my stomach.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” Laurence asked from the doorway, his tone pointed.
I swallowed, dragging my attention from Bryce. “No, thank you, Laurence. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Laurence gave the smallest of bows, glanced once at Bryce—was that amusement on his face?—and then closed the door behind him.
It left just the two of us in the mirrored chamber. My nerves immediately staged a rebellion.
“You can set your things down there,” I said, pointing to a chair in the corner. My voice, mercifully, was steady. “Then, if you’ll step onto the podium, we can begin.”
He crossed the room, unhurried, setting down a leather briefcase on the chair as instructed. Then he mounted the podium with a faint creak of the carpet beneath his polished oxfords. He turned slowly, taking in the walls of glass.
“My goodness,” he murmured. “I’ve never been in a room so thoroughly mirrored.”
“All four walls,” I confirmed, my words sticking in my throat. “Even the door.”
He caught my eyes in the reflection, one corner of his mouth lifting. “I imagine it’s so you can see every angle?”
“Yes.” My voice had shrunk to a whisper. “Every angle.”
And God help me, the mirrors were doing exactly that. A dozen Bryces surrounded me—front, back, profile—each one offering a different view of the same broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, impossibly well-proportioned man. It was an ambush of geometry. I couldn’t look anywhere without seeing him.
I busied myself at once, rolling a walnut cart across the floor until it stood beside him. The drawers held everything: chalk, pins, tape measure, the clipboard of forms. I tugged the clipboard from its drawer—and promptly dropped it with a loud clatter.
Heat rushed to my face. “Excuse me.” I stooped, snatched it up, and added in a mutter, “It’s been one of those days.”
Bryce’s reflection in the mirror was smiling, not unkindly.
I flipped through the forms, desperate for something to occupy my hands, then pulled out the tape measure. The silk tape slipped cool and familiar through my fingers. At least this, I remembered how to do.