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  Unless she let him convince her to put her name in the running for queen. Then, their business could be official and there would be so much less to interrupt them. It would be just him and her, sex under the stars and his hands in her hair and that adorable, boyish smile forever.

  Her lips tightened as she climbed on the bike behind him. No. She knew her future, and as much as she might wish he could be in it long-term, it just wasn’t meant to be.

  But so help her God, they would have at least one night together. She would make sure of it.

  * * *

  Dear Phillip,

  I’ve spent most of the day at my desk, drinking more coffee than can possibly be healthy while I try to fix Anna’s necklace. It’s gotten hopelessly tangled—she never wears jewelry if she can help it, so it’s been stuffed in the back of her luggage for ages—and my stepmother is insisting she wear it to the dance tomorrow night. I’m sure she’ll look lovely in it, though. You should keep an eye out for her.

  I have to admit, untangling the necklace is taking so long because I keep catching myself daydreaming about you. I’m about to set this aside and take a long bath, and I wish you were here to take one with me. We could dim the lights, scatter a few candles around the room, and slip in together. I want to do all kinds of things with you—and have you do all kinds of things to me. Did you know you have that effect on me? It’s downright intoxicating.

  I hope we get to spend more time together soon. I can hardly wait to see you again.

  Love,

  Ella

  8

  Ella sat on the edge of the tub, pulling on her bra and panties. Her bath had been nice, but nowhere near as nice as it would’ve been if she’d had the company she’d wished for.

  Love, she’d signed it. She hadn’t realized it ‘til after it had already been done. She wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but she let it stay. It was probably just an old habit, a simple closing to a letter that she’d used a thousand times.

  Not with him, though. It felt different. Scary and exciting all at once. She probably should’ve scratched it out or written a new letter, but it had felt right somehow, and she’d been feeling reckless. He always made her feel that way.

  A knock sounded on the door. She smiled, a thrill racing through her blood—it had to be the guard with Phillip’s reply. “Come in!” she called, kicking the bathroom door nearly shut so as to avoid the guard seeing her half-naked. “Leave the letter on the table.”

  The door creaked open. “I’m afraid it’s not a letter, just the real thing,” said Phillip.

  Ella froze. She did a quick inventory. In the bedroom: Phillip, her towel, her clothes, and her robe. In the bathroom: one mostly-naked Ella. All she had on were her panties and bra—though they were her favorite lacy ones, at least.

  “Uhhh, just a minute,” she called, looking around frantically. There had to be at least a hand towel or something in here. She’d thought she was ready to get naked with Phillip, but now that there was nothing between him and her but the flimsy bathroom door, she felt suddenly shy. What if he thought she was too flat, too curvy, not curvy enough? It was the middle of the day—she’d hoped he’d see her naked somewhere romantic and preferably dark the first time.

  Phillip’s voice got a little closer. “I wanted to invite you on a late-afternoon ride, teach you to ride bareback,” he said, the husky note in his voice saying he’d guessed exactly how little she was wearing at this moment.

  “Sure,” she squeaked out, opening a drawer. Nothing but her hairbrush and toothpaste. Damn it, how was she supposed to get out of this with her dignity intact? “Give me a few minutes. I’ll meet you there.”

  The door creaked open. Phillip stood in the doorway, a new pair of riding boots dangling from his hand. He took his time looking her up and down, and the glint in his eyes was dangerous, sexy. No one had ever looked at Ella that way before. It made her feel like she was completely naked, and also the most powerful woman in the world.

  “I had a gift for you,” Phillip said, holding up the boots. “But now I’m thinking it was you who had a gift for me.”

  Mmmm, that accent. She closed the drawer and stepped closer, feeling a little emboldened by the look in his eyes. “I love the way you say things.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “It’s that accent. I can’t get enough of it. Say something else.” She bit her lip, thrilled by her own brazenness. Here she was, in front of the king in broad daylight, nearly nude and practically begging him to talk dirty to her.

  He put the boots down on the long counter, not taking his eyes off her. “I want you.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. This was actually happening. “How?”

  He advanced on her. She turned, reversing their positions so that she was the closest one to the door, teasing him. “Underneath me,” Phillip said, his gaze intense. “Moaning my name. Or maybe on top, making those little noises that make me so hard I feel like I won’t live another second unless I get inside you. Fuck, Ella.”

  She bumped up against the wall, hitting the light switch and plunging them into near darkness. Her heart was racing with anticipation, her blood singing inside her. “Don’t stop now,” she breathed.

  He was right in front of her. He ran his hands down her sides, reached a little further, played with the lace of her thong—oh God, she was going to die—and ran one finger along its edge. “Or maybe,” he said, pulling the panties down and letting them drop around her ankles, “I’ll pick you up,” he ran his hands under her ass, lifted her and set her on the counter, “spread your legs,” he nudged them apart until he was standing between them, looking down at her with those bedroom eyes glinting, “and get you ready for me.”

  He ran his hand up her thigh, exploring. She tipped her head back, dazed, nearly panting already. “Then what?” she managed.

  “Then we stop talking,” he said, and took her in a kiss that left her completely breathless. He moved away from her lips and trailed hot kisses down her neck as his hand went higher, higher, cupping her right in the spot where she needed him most. She made a noise—he growled in response—and squirmed against him. He trapped one of her thighs with his free hand, holding her still, and brushed against her clit.

  She bucked, moaned. “Right there,” she said. “Oh God, right there.”

  “Is this what you want?” he said, and brushed it again. He rubbed back and forth, expert fingers exerting just the right amount of pressure to drive her crazy. Then, keeping his thumb right on that perfect spot, he dipped a finger inside her.

  She spread her legs wider, marveling at the feel of him. He groaned and added another finger, plunging them deeper. The pressure was delicious, perfect, and not nearly enough. He moved inside her, setting a slow tempo as she writhed against him. She wanted, needed more than his fingers. She need him deep inside her, right now, again and again, until all she could do was cry out his name.

  She opened her eyes, about to tell him exactly what she wanted him to do next, and caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror on the wall. In the dim light they were silhouettes, the shadowed outline of two lovers. With his fingers buried inside her and his mouth on her neck—she’d never seen herself like this, head thrown back, inhibitions in the wind. How was it he could make her look like this? She’d never been more turned on.

  She lifted the hem of his shirt, tugged it off. He had to take his hand away from her and she whimpered at the loss, but then his glorious chest was bare in front of her, and she sat back to drink it in. Perfect pecs, delicious biceps, rippling abs that she wanted to run her fingers across. So she did.

  “What are you going to do to me now?” she murmured. This was so much better than the letters.

  His eyes went dark and hot. He dipped his head, ravished her with another kiss, and then spoke again. “I’m going to go down on you.”

  She shivered. She’d only had that once or twice before—her prior boyfriends hadn’t been too keen on it, bu
t she loved it. She didn’t want Phillip to offer it if he wouldn’t enjoy it as much as her, though. “Are you sure?” she asked tentatively.

  In answer, he reached behind her and unhooked her bra with a quick twist of his wrist. The lacy fabric was discarded on the floor before she could blink. His kisses trailed down her neck, her chest. He traced his thumb over one nipple, then took her in his mouth. She gasped out loud, her fingernails digging into his back, marking him. He moved to the other nipple, blew on it gently ‘til it pebbled, then gave it the same treatment. Then he was kneeling before her, one hand on each of her legs, dropping kisses up her thighs that made her shudder with anticipation.

  Then, oh, then, his mouth closed around her. The sensation was—was—she’d never felt anything like his lips on her before. His tongue was darting and licking and swirling just right, and his lips were sucking, and she couldn’t…she was going to…

  She fisted her hands in his hair. “Phillip,” she moaned.

  He pulled back, looked up at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Say it again,” he demanded.

  “Phillip. I need you. I need…” She could hardly think straight enough to talk, not when he was doing this to her.

  “That’s right,” he rumbled. “Cum for me, love.” He moved back down, taking one hand off her thigh to massage her clit again while his tongue continued its dance. She grabbed onto the edge of the counter to anchor herself, back arched against the wall, breath coming in shallow pants as her core tightened. Then his mouth moved up to right there, sucking hard, and he moved his hand down and plunged two fingers into her again, and everything within her spiraled tighter and tighter. She whimpered her wordless need, driving herself down onto his fingers as he added another and plunged them deep, deeper, stretching her out and filling her up. One last hard suck and she was crying out his name again as the tightness within her released like a drawn bowstring. Waves of pleasure crashed over her, pulling her under so deep she lost track of where they were, what was happening. But never of who she was with.

  Phillip. The king. Her lover, somehow, impossibly. And having been with him, like this…she felt changed. It felt like it meant something, though she wasn’t sure what.

  When she returned to herself, she lay back against the wall, catching her breath. Phillip gazed up at her. That look in his eyes, like she belonged to him, like he couldn’t get enough of seeing her this way—she’d put that look there. It felt amazing.

  She pushed herself back to a sitting position and started to tug him up, meaning to return the favor he’d granted her, but the door to her bedroom opened.

  “Ella!” called her stepmother. “No, this is my stepdaughter’s room, I promise you she’s in here somewhere,” she said, the words muffled as she spoke to someone behind her. “She told me just an hour ago she’d have Anna’s jewelry fixed soon. Although she was smiling that ridiculous goofy grin, so she may have been writing one of those letters again instead. To a friend in the States, she tells me. Hmph.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t think she’s here at the moment,” said Drake’s voice from the hall. “Come with me, I’ll help you find whatever you’re needing.”

  Ella and Phillip stared at each other, frozen. She was completely naked, and he was half-naked with his hair mussed from sex. If Ella’s stepmother saw them there would be no doubt as to what they’d been doing. Being with Phillip had changed Ella, but she wasn’t ready for the changes that would ensue if they made their relationship public. And if her stepmother found out, it would most definitely become public. Ella would become a pawn in her hunt for status. And Phillip—all he had to do was make the right noise, and then once her stepmother found them, he could force the issue of Ella being considered for queen.

  With her eyes, Ella begged him to be quiet. He nodded and they both held their breath. After a moment, the head of security, bless him, managed to convince her stepmother that Ella was off riding, and the door closed behind them.

  Ella blew out a breath, staring back at Phillip. “Well,” she said at last, “wow.”

  He smiled, but there was a new caution in his eyes, something akin to sadness. Had he seen her hesitation, realized its cause—that she still didn’t want a public relationship with him? Something deep within her curled up, tight and miserable. He’d given her a beautiful gift, and in return she’d put this new, awful look on his face.

  He stood and pulled his shirt back on. “I’d better get going,” he said. “I have a press conference in a few minutes.” Then he paused, picked up the boots and held them out to her. “I really would like you to have them,” he said, a strange tone in his voice. “I had Drake help me pick them out—his wife runs a huge shoe store in town. This pair is the best of the best, brand new. And I want you to have the best. If you’re ready for that.”

  She stared at the boots. They were beautiful, soft and doe-brown, a hundred times better than her old, patched pair. But somehow she sensed he was talking about more than just footwear. Was he asking her for a real relationship? She still didn’t know her course. Her future got more and more clouded every day, old goals mixing with new dreams. But what she did know was that she couldn’t stand that expression he was still wearing.

  So she reached out tentatively and accepted the boots. “I do think I’m ready for that,” she answered.

  His smile was like the breaking dawn. But as he gave her one last, long kiss, then disappeared out the door, she couldn’t help but wonder whether she’d just made a huge mistake.

  9

  Phillip was on his way to his study when he was intercepted by Eric. His brother fell into step alongside the king, took one sideways look at him, and then laughed out loud.

  “Good for you, big brother,” he said, punching Phillip lightly on the arm.

  Phillip frowned. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “You, finally knocking boots with the not-maid.”

  Phillip glared, exasperated. He’d showered, put on new clothes, and was on the other side of the Summer House from where Ella was. There was no way Eric should’ve been able to tell what had happened between them. Maybe his little brother had some kind of internal sex radar, honed over the course of his own legion of casual encounters. Phillip wouldn’t doubt it.

  “Was it good?” Eric asked, and Phillip stiffened. “Oh, don’t worry,” his brother went on, “I know you don’t kiss and tell. But I can tell from that look on your smug face that it was good. Very nice.”

  Phillip tried to keep his frown in place but a small smile broke through. He couldn’t help it, not after what they’d done together—and then what she’d said. “She’s going to put her name in the running for queen,” he told Eric.

  The prince’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I thought she didn’t want that.”

  “She changed her mind.”

  Eric walked with him a few steps in silence. “That’s great,” he said at last.

  Phillip bristled. “She did,” he insisted.

  “How did she phrase it, exactly?”

  “I was giving her a new pair of riding boots. I told her I thought she was ready for the best of the best, she realized I meant with our relationship, and she said she was ready.”

  They turned left down a smaller corridor. Phillip was headed for his study, where he was due to do an interview for a puff piece. Royal duties continued despite the Summer House Party.

  “I don’t know,” Eric said. “It kind of sounds like she might’ve just been ready for a new pair of shoes.”

  Phillip sped up a bit, hoping he could leave his brother behind, but the little bastard kept up easily. “That’s not what she meant,” he said, but Eric’s doubt was starting to creep in and even he could hear the new uncertainty in his words. He growled, frustrated. “Fine,” he snapped. “Before I meet with this reporter I’ll send Ella a letter inviting her to the dinner tonight. It’s an official event between me and the eligible ladies, so if she accepts I’ll know she’s open to formally putting her name in the runni
ng.”

  Eric nodded, accepting the idea as a good one, and Phillip couldn’t help but let his smile return. He had to have a qualified queen to help him serve his country, but he wanted a real relationship with Ella more than anything in the world. And now it seemed like both things might fall into his lap.

  So long as Ella accepted his invitation.

  The first appetizer was Quenelles of Pike with lobster sauce prepared by the five-star royal chef, but to Phillip, it was tasteless until Ella arrived.

  A quiet murmur on the far side of the table alerted him to her presence first. He stopped chatting with one of the ladies mid-word—he’d have to make it up to her later, her father was the minister of something-or-other plus Phillip hated rudeness in general—to pivot in his seat and look for Ella.

  And there she was, standing in the doorway. She was in a green dress that looked a touch too loose around the waist, probably borrowed from one of her stepsisters, but she was a vision nonetheless and Phillip drank her in like she might be a mirage in the desert, about to disappear at any second. But she didn’t. She smiled at him, a bit strained and shy but there anyway, as the footman showed her to her seat. He wanted to politely dump the nearest lady out of her chair and offer it to Ella, but seating at the official events was formal and went in order of whose family was closest to the royal line. Still, Ella wasn’t too far away—just three ladies down on the right, seated ahead of her sisters since she was the titled one.

  “Miss Fernstone,” he said. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  “I’m glad too, My King,” she replied graciously, a small, secret smile flitting around the corners of her mouth. My King, she’d called him. Like they belonged to each other. His grin grew and hers did too—and then she blinked and snapped her mouth shut into one of those small, close-lipped smiles she too often wore.