Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Arthur
My foot pressed just a little heavier on the accelerator, the engine of my gleaming new Aston Martin Vantage Cabrio purring like a big cat as I wound my way through the Cotswolds.
Sleek, silver, roof down—utterly impractical for country lanes, of course, which was precisely why I loved it.
My favorite Pet Shop Boys song was playing on the radio and I gleefully sang along.
The late-afternoon light spilled across fields the colour of green velvet, stone cottages flashing past in blurs of honeyed gold. My hair whipped against my forehead, and for once I didn’t care. Today wasn’t about appearances. Today was about fun.
And I still couldn’t believe my luck.
Bryce bloody Lewis—Ambassador Lewis, if we’re being precise—was actually coming riding with me. Me. Not my mother, or some Foreign Office handler shepherding him through protocol. Me.
I’d invited him half on impulse, the words slipping out before I’d thought them through. And yet he’d said yes. So here I was, hurtling toward Strathmore, heart light as a kite string.
Mummy, naturally, was over the moon. “The American Ambassador! To ride at Strathmore! Marvellous optics, darling.” I’d barely hung up the phone before I was sure she’d rung Grandpapa.
The King adored nothing more than a scrap of diplomatic theatre.
If he could boast to his ministers that his grandson was on friendly terms with the U.S. envoy, he’d puff up like a peacock.
So what? Let them watch. For once, I didn’t care. Bryce had said yes. That was enough. Today wasn’t about duty or optics or bloody chess boards. Today was about something I rarely allowed myself: enjoyment.
I sang louder, deliberately off-key, daring the universe to scold me. The chorus soared and I shouted it to the fields, laughing as a pair of cows startled at the noise. My hair tangled across my face, and I couldn’t have cared less.
Fun. That was the plan. And I intended to wring every drop of it from the day.
The narrow lane curved sharply, then straightened, and there it was—home.
Strathmore rose from the countryside like something out of a fairy tale.
Not a castle, strictly speaking, but near enough: a sprawling estate of pale stone, turrets and battlements softened by ivy, windows catching the dying light like pools of molten amber.
Beyond the gates stretched manicured lawns, hedgerows clipped to military precision, and in the distance the sweep of paddocks where the horses grazed.
I slowed, easing the Aston to a crawl as I approached the great iron gates.
My chest tightened—not with dread this time, but with anticipation.
Bryce Lewis would be here soon, and for once, the prospect of company filled me not with fatigue but with a thrill I couldn’t name.
I pressed the button for the gates. They swung open with stately grace, and I drove forward.
* * *
I stood in the middle of my old bedroom, peeling off my cashmere jumper with the efficiency of a soldier stripping down a rifle.
Beneath it, I’d already tugged on a crisp white shirt, its collar slightly rumpled from my less-than-graceful change.
My jodhpurs lay folded neatly on the coverlet, boots waiting beside the bed.
The familiar room smelled faintly of lavender sachets and old wool, unchanged from my teenage years—except now, instead of revision notes and riding rosettes, my wardrobe was filled with suits from Clarence Atelier.
I’d just shimmied the shirt down when the door burst open without so much as a knock.
“Darling,” Mummy announced, sweeping in as though she owned the place (which, to be fair, she technically did). “Do you want tea prepared for your guest? I thought the blue china in the drawing room, but perhaps outdoors on the terrace would be—oh, it will be simply lovely to meet him.”
I froze mid-button. Of course she’d barge in. Privacy was a foreign concept to Princess Anne, who considered closed doors not a boundary but an inconvenience.
“Mummy,” I said carefully, tugging my shirt straight. “It’s not that sort of visit.”
She ignored me, already pacing toward the window, muttering about scones. “I rang your grandfather this morning. He’s delighted, absolutely delighted, that the American ambassador is coming to Strathmore.”
My stomach sank. “Oh God. You didn’t.”
“I did,” she said briskly. “And he was most insistent you be discreet, darling. You know how the Foreign Office can be—always breathing down his neck. And Americans can be very…”
“Mummy.” I cut her off before she could finish that sentence. “Bryce is a new friend. And a client of Clarence Atelier. Nothing more. I’ve no intention of parading him around like a prize stallion.”
Her brows shot up, but I pressed on, voice firmer now.
“And you, of all people, should know I am allergic to the press. Loathe them, unless they can be made useful to my business. Clarence’s collections won’t promote themselves.
But otherwise? No thank you. I’ll keep my face out of the papers, happily. ”
The words came out sharper than I meant, but it was true. Thank heaven my cousins—the King’s children—were the heir and the spare. Let them endure the cameras and the suffocating scrutiny of being future monarchs. I pitied them, honestly. A gilded cage is still a cage, no matter how shiny the bars.
I glanced at Mummy, braced for rebuke. But she only studied me, her expression softening in that practical, maddeningly sensible way of hers.
She’d been born into this circus and had never pretended to enjoy it.
Duty, yes. Love of horses, absolutely. But she had always understood that the crown devoured personal freedom, and that understanding bound us together.
“I know,” she said finally. “You’re right.”
I blinked. Agreement from my mother was rarer than a sunny week in London. It left me oddly unmoored.
I turned back to the window to hide my expression, smoothing my shirt cuffs, pretending to be more interested in the view. And that’s when I saw it: a sleek black SUV rolling up the long drive, glinting like a shark in the early afternoon sun.
“Bryce is here,” I murmured, heart thrumming like a trapped bird.
Mummy followed my gaze. “Where would you like to have tea? Outside, or—”
“Don’t bother with tea,” I cut in, too quickly.
My nerves were buzzing and the last thing I needed was Bryce drowning in porcelain and protocol.
“This isn’t a formal call. We’re going riding, not hosting a summit.
But—” I softened my tone, turned to her with a smile—“if you’d like to meet him, do come along. He’ll adore you.”
Her lips quivered, amused, as if she saw straight through me. Which of course she did. She always did.
And suddenly I was seventeen again, tugging on boots in this very room while she lectured me about not slouching at the Windsor Horse Show.
Only now the stakes were much higher, and instead of judges and rosettes, I was about to walk out the door and greet the American ambassador—the man whose smile in the mirrors yesterday had knocked the air clean out of me.
I squared my shoulders, shoved my feet into my boots, and told myself firmly:
It’s just a ride. That’s all.
* * *
Mummy and I had just stepped out into the crisp September air when the SUV rolled to a stop at the foot of Strathmore’s steps. Gravel crunched beneath the tyres, sunlight flashing off the polished black paint.
The driver leapt from his seat, all brisk precision, and rushed around to open the back door. He needn’t have bothered. Bryce pushed it open himself and slid out with practised ease, the movement neat, efficient, unshowy.
My pulse ticked upward the moment I saw him.
Perfect posture, dark hair catching the light, eyes bright but composed.
He’d swapped the charcoal suit for riding clothes—jodhpurs that fitted him like they’d been cut for his body, a navy hacking jacket over a white open-collared shirt, tall boots polished to a mirror shine.
He carried himself with that unmistakable air of someone used to walking into rooms full of strangers and bending them to his will.
He came straight to us, and—just as he should—he inclined his head politely, directing his greeting to Mummy. “Your Royal Highness. Thank you for receiving me. It’s a pleasure to be at Strathmore.”
Mummy’s lips curved, pleased. She took Bryce’s hand and gave it a firm shake.
“How very proper,” I muttered under my breath, then louder: “Oh do stop, Bryce. It’s only us, and nobody is watching.”
Mummy exhaled one of her famously long sighs, the kind she reserved for both protocol and Arthur-related nonsense. “Ambassador Lewis,” she said, still clasping Bryce’s hand warmly, “you are most welcome. We’re delighted to have you. The drive down wasn’t too tedious, I trust?”
They launched into harmless small talk about traffic on the M40 and the charms of the Cotswolds.
I smiled tightly, teeth pressed together, wishing I could spirit Bryce away to the stables at once.
Every second of polite chatter felt stolen from me, and I despised myself for being childish about it.
But there it was: I wanted Bryce to myself.
And then I saw it—Mummy’s eyes lighting in that particular way, the unmistakable prelude to an offer. I’d swear she was about to suggest saddling a horse and joining us, and my gut clenched.
But salvation came in the form of Benson, ever-efficient, striding across the gravel. He gave a crisp bow. “Your Royal Highness. Forgive me, but your private secretary asks to speak with you at once. She says it is urgent—something about the schedule for next year’s Australian tour.”
Mummy’s expression soured with disappointment. “Must it be now?”
“I’m afraid so, ma’am.”
She gave a tiny huff, then turned back to Bryce. “Do forgive me. I would have liked very much to ride out with you. But duty intrudes, as ever.”
Bryce inclined his head gracefully. “Of course, ma’am. I quite understand.”
Mummy gave my arm a brief squeeze—half apology, half instruction not to disgrace the family—then swept inside with Benson at her heels.
I let out a breath, nearly laughing. “Thank God for emergencies,” I said.
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between us. I felt the nerves stir, sharp and fluttery, as though I were seventeen again. My eyes flicked to Bryce’s, and found him watching me with the barest flicker of amusement.
“You know,” he said dryly, “I’m beginning to suspect royals survive entirely by being rescued from their own plans by secretaries.”
I laughed—really laughed, sharp and delighted, the sound bouncing against the stone walls. Relief cracked open the tension, and I shook my head. “You’ve discovered our greatest state secret.”
His smile widened, warm and unguarded, and my insides gave a ridiculous swoop.
I cleared my throat, tugged my jacket straighter, and gestured toward the stables with as much regal poise as I could summon. “Come along then, Ambassador. Let us see if we can find you a horse.”
He fell into step beside me, and as we crossed the gravel I felt absurdly, thrillingly nervous. And as we neared the stable yard, one question pounded in my mind: when we were finally alone, would I still be able to keep my composure?