Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Bryce
“Yes,” I heard myself say, my voice softer than usual. “I’d love a glass of wine.”
Arthur’s lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a smirk. He reached for the phone on the wall, fingers hovering above the receiver, then mumbled, “I think everyone else has left. I’ll be right back.”
And before I could reply, he slipped out the mirrored door.
The silence he left behind was loud. I exhaled, realising I’d been holding my breath the whole time he was in here with me.
God. When was the last time I’d been fitted for anything bespoke?
Years. Not since my father had dragged me to his tailor in Richmond before my first ambassadorial posting—stiff wool, chalk marks, my old man hovering, reminding me that a Lewis always dressed the part.
That had been perfunctory, clinical. And now here I was, having ten suits made at Clarence Atelier, like some film star instead of a civil servant.
And of course, it had to be Prince Arthur Phillip himself doing the fitting.
Totally unexpected. I’d assumed I’d get one of the assistants, or perhaps Chris Tennant, who I’d been told was the mastermind of the atelier’s formalwear.
Instead, the prince himself—royal, polished, magnetic—was looping tape measures around me and dropping pins at my feet.
Nerve-wracking, yes. But if I was nervous, he was downright rattled. The man had dropped his clipboard, his tape, and then—Lord help him—he’d stuck me with a pin.
I chuckled at the memory, then immediately stopped. Chuckling wasn’t very ambassadorial. But the image of his flushed cheeks, his mortified little gasp—it was endearing. Adorable, even. Not the word I should be attaching to a prince, but there it was.
My eyes caught on my reflection, multiplied a dozen times around the mirrored room.
I stopped short. Jesus. I looked tired—shadows under my eyes, jaw tight with tension, the kind of man who’d spent the last year running on caffeine and duty.
Why hadn’t I taken more care before coming here?
Not that I was the primping type—never had been.
My job didn’t allow for vanity. But standing in this glittering palace of a fitting room, with Arthur’s reflection everywhere, I felt… exposed.
The door opened again. Arthur returned, not with a dainty glass of wine, but with an entire bottle clutched in one hand and two glasses dangling from the other.
I laughed. “Well now. That’s what I call service, Your Royal Highness.”
He rolled his eyes as he set the glasses down and twisted open the bottle with surprising efficiency.
“I’ve already told you,” he said, pouring deep crimson into one of the glasses, “when we’re in private, it’s Arthur.
And God, I hate all the royal highness bullshit.
It’s exhausting. It puts people at a distance. ”
I took the glass he handed me, careful not to let our fingers brush. “That could be an advantage,” I said lightly after a sip. “Keeping people at arm’s length.”
He tilted his head, considering. “You’re not wrong. But still—it’s stifling.”
And just like that, I was floored. An actual prince, confiding in me as if we were old friends. My job trained me to read people, to find the cracks in their armour. But I hadn’t expected him to hand me the chisel himself.
If he could let down his guard, so could I.
I loosened my tie, tugging the knot down an inch, then undid the top button of my shirt. The collar released, and with it, something in my chest loosened too. I caught my reflection in the mirrors—cheeks flushed from the wine, collar open, looking more myself than I had in months. I smiled.
Arthur’s eyes lingered on me in the mirror, a flicker of surprise, then something else. Something warmer.
He set his own glass aside, clearing his throat. “We should finish.” His voice was lower now, almost husky.
I nodded, setting mine on the cart beside his.
He resumed his work, tape measure in hand. This time he seemed steadier. Focused. He measured the slope of my shoulders, the length of my arms. Silence stretched between us, broken only by the soft slide of the tape and the scratch of his pen against the clipboard.
I tried to think of something to say. Anything.
Small talk, diplomacy, the weather. My mind was blank.
What on earth could I possibly have in common with a prince?
My life was policy papers and security briefings.
His was titles and fashion houses. And yet—here we were. Inches apart, breathing the same air.
He shifted closer, tape in hand. “Chest,” he murmured.
My breath caught.
He looped the tape around my back, his fingers brushing the fabric of my shirt.
I felt the warmth of his knuckles, the whisper of contact, and the effect was instantaneous.
Heat curled low in my belly. My reflection stared back at me from every angle, wide-eyed, lips parted, while Arthur’s face bloomed crimson.
Our eyes met in the mirror, his blush mirrored in mine.
He cleared his throat, read the number softly, and scribbled it down in a rush. His hands shook as he adjusted the tape lower, wrapping it snug around my waist.
It had been so long since another man had touched me this closely. So long since I’d allowed anyone into my space like this. My throat worked as I gulped down a breath, trying to steady myself. The tape was cool silk, but his hands burned against me, each accidental graze a spark across my skin.
I knew this was professional. Routine. But my body hadn’t gotten the message. Every brush of his fingertips felt too intimate, too charged.
His own hands betrayed him too—I saw it in the mirrors. The way he paused, the quick retreat of his fingers as if he’d been burned, then the return, hesitant, trembling.
We were both flushed, both caught in the same silent storm.
I swallowed hard, trying to remember how to breathe. In the mirrors, a dozen versions of us stared back—me wide-eyed and tense, him with eyes dark with something he couldn’t hide.
At that moment, I’d swear on my oath of office: Prince Arthur Phillip was attracted to me.
The realisation jolted through me, hot and dangerous, like stepping too close to a fire.
He wrote down my waist measurement with hurried strokes, then busied himself with the next task, but his hands were shaking.
And mine? Mine were clenched into fists at my sides, to stop myself from reaching for him.
The silence pressed down, thick and hot.
Arthur’s face was flushed in the mirrors, his lips parted ever so slightly, his eyes darting away every time they met mine for too long.
I wanted—God, I wanted him. But I was an ambassador, and he was a prince.
One reckless touch, one slip, and we’d both find ourselves in the middle of a scandal that would ripple from Westminster to Washington.
Or worse, I’ve misread the situation and he’s straight. Yet another crisis that would be career-ending.
So I white-knuckled it. Breathed shallowly. Stood as still as a statue while he looped the tape measure around my hips.
He finished jotting something down on his clipboard, then reached for his wineglass and drained it in one swallow. I followed suit, desperate for anything to calm the racing of my heart. The wine was warm now, but I barely tasted it.
“I need more,” he muttered, almost to himself.
“Another for me too,” I said quickly, my voice rougher than I’d meant it to be.
He poured, the liquid glugging into both glasses. We drank, too fast, and the room tilted just slightly, the wine softening edges that perhaps shouldn’t be softened.
The silence grew unbearable. If I didn’t speak, I might combust. If I did speak, I risked saying something that couldn’t be unsaid.
My body was betraying me—heat pooling low and insistent, my pulse thrumming with want.
I tried to think of something safe, something utterly unsexy. Horses. Horses were safe.
“I, uh…” My voice cracked. I cleared it, tried again. “I know your mother, Princess Anne, is quite the equestrian. Some repute, actually.”
Arthur looked up, surprised, then gave a small, genuine smile. “Yes. She lives for it. Horses are her world.” He cinched the tape at my hip, eyes flicking to mine in the glass. “I love them too, though not to the same extent. I’ve never had the same… obsession.”
Relief washed through me at the glimpse of normal conversation, even if my body was still thrumming with arousal. “What are you drawn to, then?” I asked, trying to sound casual, though my hands were trembling around the stem of my glass.
He paused, tape measure dangling from his fingers, then lifted both hands in the air like the answer was obvious. “Fashion. What else?”
I laughed, the sound shaky but real. “Right. Of course.”
And just like that, a sliver of ease threaded through the tension. He went back to his work, tape sliding against fabric, pen scratching as he wrote down the numbers. I focused on the sound of it, on the entirely safe conversation we’d stumbled into.
“Horses,” I said again, seizing the lifeline. “I rode competitively when I was younger. Nearly made the Olympic team, actually. My mother insisted it would teach me discipline. All I got was sore legs and an addiction I’ve never quite shaken.”
Arthur chuckled, soft and warm. “Sounds familiar.” He crouched, measuring length from waist to ankle, his face near level with my hip.
His hair caught the light, and I could see the faintest scattering of gold in the chestnut.
My breath caught again. He rose smoothly, his cheeks pink as he scribbled the last number.
His eyes met mine in the mirrors, uncertain, flickering with something I couldn’t quite name. He hesitated, then asked, voice pitched low and careful, “Would you like to go riding tomorrow? Unless, of course, your calendar is filled up.”
* * *
By the time the car rolled through the gates of Winfield House, I was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with work.
Between Arthur’s roaming hands with the tape measure, the mirrors multiplying every blush, and two glasses of wine on an empty stomach, I felt wrung out.
I could have slept for hours—except I knew sleep wouldn’t come easily.
Not with my body still humming from his nearness, not with my mind replaying every slip of his hands, and every glance caught in the mirrors.
The car stopped in front of the grand portico, and as always, the sight of the house made me feel a little overwhelmed.
It wasn’t just big—it was monumental, a palace masquerading as a residence.
I’d grown up in a wealthy household back in Virginia, but this was on another level entirely.
The sheer scale, the marble, the endless number of rooms—it still hadn’t stopped startling me.
A footman was already waiting at the door, posture perfect, gloved hands clasped behind his back. He stepped forward as my driver opened the car door. “Good evening, Mr. Ambassador.”
I nodded, murmured thanks, and let him usher me inside.
The air smelled faintly of polish and lilies.
Mrs. Ashcroft, my household manager, appeared immediately.
She was my rock, and had been since the day I arrived.
Tonight, though, she leaned in close and whispered, “Bryce, the servants are getting under my skin. They’re everywhere, and won’t leave me alone. ”
A bubble of laughter escaped me, surprising us both. “Best keep that to yourself,” I said under my breath. “Don’t make enemies of the staff. They’ll know where the bodies are buried.”
Her lips twitched, the closest she came to a grin. Then her expression sobered. “Mr. Nigel Thorne telephoned not five minutes ago. He requested you return his call as soon as you arrived home.”
I sighed, letting my head tip back for a moment. “Why does it always have to be Nigel? On a Friday evening, no less.”
“Shall I tell him you are indisposed?”
“No,” I said reluctantly. “If he called at this hour, it must be important.”
I trudged down the hall to the home office, a room that still smelled faintly of leather and dust, though it had been refitted with sleek American electronics. I dropped into the chair, pulled out my cell phone, and scrolled for the number.
Nigel’s butler answered, of course. His voice was so formal he might as well have been reading from a script. “Good evening. This is the residence of Mr. Nigel Thorne. How may I direct your call?”
Direct my call? I thought wryly. I’m dialling one man, not Buckingham Palace. “Bryce Lewis for Mr. Thorne.”
“One moment, Mr. Ambassador.”
I rolled my eyes heavenward.
At last, Nigel came on the line. “Ambassador Lewis. Good evening.” His voice was just as stiff as I remembered.
“Mr. Thorne.” I tried for polite neutrality.
“I wished to say…” There was the faintest hesitation, and then he cleared his throat. “I fear we may have got off on the wrong foot. I would like to extend an olive branch, as it were. If you are free, would you do me and my wife the honour of joining us for luncheon tomorrow?”
That caught me off guard. I’d been bracing for a lecture about protocol or some invented slight. An apology from Nigel Thorne was the last thing I’d expected.
And then, before I could think better of it, the truth tumbled out of my mouth. “I can’t, I’m afraid. I’m going riding with Prince Arthur tomorrow. At his mother’s estate in Strathmore.”
On the other end of the line, I heard it: a sharp intake of breath.
“Ah,” he said finally, his voice even stiffer than before. “Very good. Very good indeed.”
The line went silent for a beat too long, then he ended the call almost abruptly. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Ambassador.”
Click.