Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Arthur- Three Weeks Later
The morning light leaked through the edges of Eddie's curtains, casting pale streaks across the sheets. I lay tangled in them, propped on one elbow, watching Bryce button his shirt with a precision that made me grin. He could make putting on a shirt look like a state occasion.
I'd lost count of how many mornings had begun this way.
Three weeks, perhaps more, since the first night we gave in to temptation.
Three weeks of finding reasons to disappear together, slipping between these borrowed sheets like teenagers sneaking out of class.
And somehow, it hadn't dulled. If anything, it had sharpened.
Each night had been hungrier, more consuming than the last, until I felt like I was living two lives: the polished, curated one everyone saw, and this one, where I was nothing but a man mad for another man.
Eddie's flat had become our secret refuge. He'd pressed the key into my palm just before flying to Los Angeles, grinning in that conspiratorial way he had. "Two months, darling," he'd said. "Violet Hour won't film itself. Put the place to good use while I'm gone."
He'd meant it as a joke, but I had taken it very seriously.
It was neutral ground—neither Kensington, where the walls themselves seemed to sprout ears, nor Winfield House, crawling with staff and State Department watchmen.
Here, in Eddie's haphazard kingdom of velvet cushions and crooked picture frames, Bryce and I could actually breathe.
We could be ourselves.
Bryce smoothed his shirt down, tucking it neatly into his trousers. My eyes lingered on the stretch of his back I'd been kissing only hours before. That contrast—ambassador in the daylight, undone in my arms at night—made my chest tighten with something I refused to name.
"Will I see you tonight?" I asked, letting a little whine slip into my tone.
He glanced at me over his shoulder, and his expression softened. "Not tonight. I'm afraid I'm off to Sheffield. Firestone's opening a new factory, and apparently my smile is required to bless the tire industry."
I groaned and rolled onto my back, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead like a melodramatic hero. "Tell me tires aren't more important than me. My kisses are far superior to vulcanized rubber."
That earned me a laugh, warm and real, the kind he never gave to cameras or diplomats. "Careful," he said, slipping on his jacket. "You're a dangerous man. Tempting me to ditch a ribbon cutting for you is reckless."
I pushed myself up on the pillows, the blanket slipping down to reveal the marks he'd left on my collarbone. "Then be reckless. Stay."
For a heartbeat, temptation flickered across his face. His eyes lingered on me in bed, hair mussed, skin flushed. I could see him weighing it—diplomacy on one side, desire on the other. Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking the spell.
He sighed. "Driver's waiting."
I hated that phone. Hated the way the outside world could pierce our bubble so easily. But before I could sulk, he crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed me. His mouth was firm, but the kiss lingered, tasting faintly of the coffee we'd shared an hour earlier.
"Firestone has nothing on you," he whispered.
That at least, I believed.
I held his wrist for a moment longer, unwilling to let him slip away, then finally released him. He straightened, smoothed his jacket, and with one last glance—half smile, half ache—he was gone. The door closed, and silence fell like a heavy cloak.
The sheets were still warm with him when I lay back down, dragging the blanket up to my chin.
My hand slid absently beneath it, tracing along my stomach, then I reached between my legs, finding the places where I was sore from the night before.
Bryce had been rough, almost feral, and I’d loved every moment.
The memory stirred heat low in my belly.
I pressed my eyes shut and exhaled, a little laugh bubbling out of me.
God, if Eddie could see how thoroughly his flat was being "put to good use. "
For a moment I let myself linger in it, the ghost of Bryce's touch still on my skin, the sound of his voice low in my ear replaying itself over and over.
Then I sighed wistfully. If only life could be this—mornings tangled in bed, afternoons wasted in laughter, evenings spent discovering how many ways we could unravel each other.
If only duty didn't always tap us on the shoulder.
The clock on the bedside table ticked accusingly. Work waited. Designs to sketch, fabrics to approve, meetings with clients who cared nothing for the fact that my heart was on its way to dreary Sheffield.
I threw back the blanket, shivering as cool air hit bare skin, and padded across the carpet toward the bathroom.
Eddie's flat reflected his personality—scripts stacked haphazardly, bright pillows clashing on the sofa, a plant on the counter that was either thriving or dying; I could never tell the difference.
It was imperfect and cozy and alive. So unlike the palace.
So unlike me.
And yet, I adored it. Adored what it gave me: the chance to just be. No titles, no headlines, no one watching. Just a man whose pulse still quickened at the memory of Bryce's smile.
At the bathroom sink, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My hair was wild, lips swollen, eyes shining in a way that startled me. I didn't recognize this version of myself—softer, freer, almost glowing.
I touched my reflection, fingertips brushing the glass. Maybe it was only an affair. Maybe it couldn't last. But right now, in this borrowed flat, it felt like the beginning of something entirely new.
* * *
The storefront smelled faintly of fresh bouquets and pressed fabrics that clung to everything at Clarence Atelier.
The doors were locked to customers for the day, the mannequins still in their windows but flanked now by heavy lighting rigs and tangled cords.
Someone had draped blackout curtains across the glass, sealing us off from the world.
I sat in a tall director's chair, my legs crossed at the ankle, while a makeup artist worked quietly at my face.
The brushes tickled against my cheekbones, cool powder settling like a veil.
Beside me, Chris shifted restlessly in his own chair, unable to sit still long enough for the woman painting his face to do her job properly.
Our first shipment was being boxed up in the back, bound for Thorne & Whitmore in New York. The thought made my stomach flutter, though not with nerves exactly. Excitement, maybe. Anticipation. Or something more complicated—the knowledge that this moment could change everything.
Chris was practically vibrating beside me.
"Stop fidgeting, love," the makeup artist scolded gently, pressing her hand to his jaw to keep him still. "You'll ruin my work."
He made a strangled sound, half laugh, half groan. "I can't help it. The first collection is leaving for America today, and now bloody Esquire of all people—" He shook his head, then winced when she pinched his chin into place. "It's too much. I'm going to be sick."
I let a smile tug at my mouth as the brush swept across my eyelids. "You'll survive, Chris. If I can sit here without breaking into hives, so can you."
"Easy for you," he muttered. "You're a Windsor. You were born for this circus. I'm just…me."
Before I could reply, the doors to the back flew open and Laurence barreled in, cheeks flushed, tie askew.
"They're here, Your Royal Highness," he announced breathlessly.
"Photographer and entourage. And a journalist for the feature.
Once we're through the photos, he'll want to speak to both of you. "
He pressed a hand to his chest like he'd run a marathon and then darted back the way he came, already barking instructions at someone about garment racks and lighting angles.
Chris swallowed hard. "See? Utterly mad. How are you sitting there calm as anything? I'm a wreck." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial mutter. "Is it because of your little fling with—"
"Shut it," I hissed under my breath, cutting him off before Bryce's name could escape.
My pulse spiked at the thought of someone overhearing, though the makeup artist seemed blissfully focused on her brushes.
I leaned closer to Chris, whispering, "That might have something to do with it.
But you must remember—we have to be discreet. So keep it under your hat, Chris."
He raised his hands in mock surrender, lips twitching. "Fine. Your secret is safe. For now."
Before I could glare at him properly, the front doors opened again and a gust of cool air swept in, along with a small army of people.
At their center was the photographer himself, a man in his late thirties with sharp cheekbones and round black glasses that made him look faintly owl-like.
His scarf was knotted artfully around his throat despite the mild weather, and he carried himself with the breezy authority of someone long accustomed to being obeyed.
"Darlings!" he exclaimed, sweeping into the room as if we were old friends.
"I am Marco de Luca, and today, you are my canvas.
My art. My muse." He pressed his hands together as though in prayer, then clapped loudly, startling one of his assistants.
"Lights higher. Yes, yes, good. And bring the rails forward.
I want the fabrics to breathe in the background. "
He spun toward us, his gaze appraising in the way only photographers could manage—stripping you bare and redressing you in a single glance.
"Prince Arthur," he said with a little bow that somehow wasn't mocking.
"And Chris Tennant, the hand that conjures beauty.
Bellissimo. You are both bloody handsome. The Americans will die for this."
"Let's hope not literally," Chris muttered.