Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Arthur
I surprised myself. Never in my life had I been so forward with a man—certainly not one as formidable as Bryce Lewis. And yet the moment we stepped out of The Thin White Duke into the cool London night, I knew I wouldn’t have changed a thing.
The rain had passed, leaving the pavement slick with reflections of neon and headlamps. A taxi hissed by, spraying the gutter, and the scent of wet concrete rose into the air. Bryce paused beside me, his hand still faintly trembling in mine, when shadows detached themselves from the doorways.
His security detail.
Two men, black suits, earpieces glinting beneath the streetlamps. They moved with military precision, scanning the pavement, then one of them—tall, granite-faced—approached.
“Ambassador,” he said, his voice clipped. “We’ll escort you now.”
Bryce froze. I felt it ripple through his body like a shock. His colour rose instantly—bright red, the flush climbing his neck to his hairline. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked… flustered. Almost undone.
“I—no, I won’t be needing you any longer this evening,” he stammered, lifting his chin with an effort that didn’t quite mask the quaver in his voice. “This is my private time.”
The agent’s jaw tightened. “Sir, with respect, State Department regulations compel us to accompany you at all times outside the residence.”
“I said I won’t need you,” Bryce insisted, but his voice faltered against the agent’s steadiness.
I couldn’t stand it another moment—the sight of him cornered between desire and duty, his privacy reduced to an argument on a London street. So, I stepped forward.
“Will the security at Kensington Palace be enough to calm you down?” I asked crisply.
Bryce’s mouth fell open. Then snapped shut again, his eyes darting toward me with something like horror and amusement all tangled together.
The agent hesitated, then pressed two fingers to his earpiece, murmuring into the tiny microphone. A pause, the faint crackle of response. At last he nodded. “Yes, sir. British security is more than capable of—”
“Good,” I cut him off. “Then you’ll arrange a lift to my apartment at the palace. Now.”
Another flick of his wrist, more murmuring into the mic. Moments later, a black SUV glided to the curb, sleek and ominous, headlights glinting on the wet pavement. One of the agents opened the rear door with a polished motion that might as well have been a bow.
I slid in first and Bryce followed, ducking his head to avoid the frame. The door closed with a solid, final click, sealing us in.
As the SUV pulled away from Soho’s glow and began its glide toward Kensington, I stole a glance at Bryce. He was biting his lip, shoulders shaking.
“What?” I whispered.
His eyes danced. He pressed his fist to his mouth, stifling laughter.
And just like that, I was lost. It was all absurd: the black-suited agents, the solemn voice calling palace security to verify whether I was safe company, and the diplomatic theatre.
I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying not to laugh, and within seconds we were both trembling, shoulders quaking with silent hilarity.
It was ridiculous.
When the laughter finally ebbed, quiet filled the SUV, punctuated only by the swish of tyres on wet roads.
I thought about the absurdities of my life—the suits, the tabloids, the endless scrutiny.
And I thought about his, too—the treaties, the cables, the constant watchful eyes.
Privacy was the rarest of luxuries for either of us, perhaps the greatest drawback of existing so publicly.
But for once, we had carved a moment. Just ours.
I turned my hand over in the dim light and reached for his. Bryce let me take it, fingers warm, still trembling faintly. I lifted his hand to my lips and pressed a kiss into his palm.
His skin tasted faintly of lemon twist and gin, and the way he inhaled told me everything: he needed this as badly as I did.
And God help me, I would not let him go tonight.
* * *
The SUV rolled to a smooth stop inside the quiet courtyard of Kensington Palace, headlights cutting over the damp cobblestones before flicking off. The hush here was different from Soho’s noisy heartbeat—thicker, historic, a silence that carried the weight of centuries.
The guard at the gate had waved us through with the smallest nod, and now the great red-brick facade loomed before us, its windows dark, some glowing faintly with lamplight from other apartments.
I’d driven through this entrance thousands of times in my life, but tonight it felt like I was seeing it anew—through Bryce’s eyes.
We stepped out, the night air cool, tinged with the smell of wet earth from the gardens. My shoes clicked softly on the stones as I turned to wait for him. Bryce emerged from the SUV, straightened his jacket, and then he stopped dead in his tracks.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “I’ve seen this on The Crown.”
I bit back a smile. There was something unbearably endearing about this formidable man, who could spar with diplomats until they bled formality, standing there like a tourist.
“I love The Crown too,” I said lightly, slipping my hands into my pockets. “Though you know—it’s mostly fiction.”
His eyes swept the facade, awestruck. “Still. To be standing here…”
I pointed across the courtyard to the block of windows on the west side. “That was Princess Margaret’s apartment. I barely knew her—I was a child when she passed. But I remember being a little frightened of her. She had a presence. The kind that filled a room before she even entered.”
Bryce chuckled softly. “Seems to run in the family.”
That disarmed me, and I had to look away, tugging him gently toward my entrance. My security fob beeped against the scanner, and the heavy door yielded with a sigh.
Inside, the hush was deeper. White-painted wainscoting lined the corridor, and the parquet floor softly glowed beneath recessed lights. We passed two closed doors before reaching mine. I let us in with another swipe, the lock clicking shut behind us.
Suddenly, nerves fluttered in my chest. For all my boldness earlier, here in my apartment—with Bryce standing in the middle of my living room—my composure cracked.
“Drink?” I asked too quickly, reaching for the bar cart.
“Wine,” he said, his voice warm but a little husky. “Something dry, if you have it.”
I poured us both a glass of Sancerre, grateful for the moment to steady my hands.
My apartment wasn’t grand—certainly nothing like the gilded rooms tourists paid to walk through on the other side of the palace.
It was tasteful, contemporary, every line clean, every shade muted.
A low grey sofa anchored the sitting area, paired with a glass coffee table.
A modern abstract in blue and gold hung above the mantel, and the shelves were lined with design books, framed sketches, and a few photographs that only hinted at my family.
When I turned, he was standing by the window, looking out toward the gardens, his shoulders relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen before.
“Here,” I said, handing him the glass.
His fingers brushed mine as he took it, and the spark of contact was too much to ignore. Before I could second-guess myself, I leaned in and kissed him. Softly. Just the brush of lips against lips.
He stilled, then answered, his mouth warm, the taste of gin still faint on his tongue. The kiss was fleeting, but it set my blood surging, and I pulled back only because I had to breathe.
We moved to the sofa, glasses in hand. He settled in beside me, angling toward me, his eyes so intent they made me feel bared to the bone.
“So,” he said, swirling his wine, “what’s it like? Being gay in the royal family. I didn’t know there was a queer Windsor.”
I laughed softly, though there wasn’t much humour in it.
“I’m twenty-fourth in line to the throne.
Twenty-fourth.” I repeated it as though the number might reduce me to dust. “Far enough away that the press mostly ignores me unless I’m doing something for the firm in public.
And the family too, if I’m honest. I don’t matter in the scheme of succession. ”
His brows lifted. “And your mother? Princess Anne?”
“Mum wants me to be happy, and if it’s with a man, that’s fine with her.
As far as my title is concerned, she didn’t want me to take it when I came of age.
Said it would complicate things. But professionally—it helps.
A title impresses people. It opens doors.
It helps me sell the Clarence Atelier brand, if I’m honest.”
He gave a knowing little hum, sipping his wine.
“But,” I went on, softer, “it means I have to be discreet. No orgies.” I smirked, forcing levity. “Most of the family doesn’t know, and I’d rather keep it that way.”
“Doesn’t it feel…” He trailed off, searching for the word.
“Lonely?” I supplied.
His gaze met mine, and I saw the answer in his eyes before he could nod.
“Sometimes,” I admitted.
The air between us thickened, heavy with things unsaid. I reached for his glass, slipping it from his hand and setting it down on the table. Then I leaned in again, this time without hesitation.
The kiss was deeper, hungrier. My lips parted against his, and he answered with a low sound that curled heat straight through me. His hand came up to the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair, and I thought I might dissolve under the touch.
Desire roared through me, overwhelming, unstoppable. Every nerve in my body reached for him.
When we broke apart, breathing hard, he rested his forehead against mine. “Arthur,” he murmured, his voice ragged, “you’re extraordinary.”
I laughed, shaky and breathless. “You make me feel… like I can’t hold myself together.”
“Then don’t,” he whispered, brushing his thumb along my jaw.
And I didn’t. I kissed him again, pouring into it all the longing, all the secrecy, all the impossible hunger I’d kept leashed for far too long.
His mouth was fire against mine, his hands warm where they cupped my face, and the kiss unravelled me.
Every careful thread of self-control I’d wrapped around myself since the bar came loose, leaving nothing but desire.
Bryce kissed with a kind of hunger I recognised instantly: restrained, pent-up, a need pressed down for too long. When his tongue brushed mine, my pulse spiked so sharply I thought I might faint from it. I pulled back only far enough to look at him.
His eyes—dilated, searching—made me ache in ways I hadn’t allowed myself to ache in years. Bryce’s hand slid down, tentatively at first, then boldly as it traced the line of my hip. My body pressed closer, and a low, involuntary sound slipped from me. I caught it with a laugh, shaky and breathless.
He grinned at that—oh, that grin—and it undid me further.
“God, you’re beautiful,” I whispered, and it startled me how raw the words sounded.
His breath caught, but Bryce didn’t look away. He leaned in for another kiss, this one slower, deeper, his hand splaying across my back as though he meant to memorise me by touch alone.
I couldn’t sit still any longer. My nerves were alight, every inch of me aching to close the space between us, to taste him again, and again, until I knew his mouth like I knew my own.
Without thinking, I set my wineglass aside, stood, and tugged him gently to his feet. He rose, eyes questioning but hungry, his hand still caught in mine. I pressed closer, my lips hovering just above his.
“Come with me,” I breathed.
Bryce didn’t hesitate.
I led him across the living room, through the short hallway that opened onto my bedroom. My heart hammered so loudly I was sure he could hear it. At the threshold I paused, turned back to him, and let my thumb trace his lower lip.
His breath shivered out.
“Bryce,” I murmured, my mouth a whisper from his, “are you ready for me?”