Royally Screwed

“Have a good game,” Olivia says. Then, quieter, “I really want to kiss you right now, for luck. But I know I can’t, so I’ll just tell you instead.”

I wink. “I got my good-luck kiss in your room. If it had been any better, I would’ve gone blind.”

I walk away toward the stables with the sound of her laughter ringing behind me.

Though black clouds gather and the air is heavy with the threat of rain, we’re able to make it through two games. My team wins both, which puts me in a good mood. Sweaty and smudged with dirt, I lead my pony to the stables. I brush her down myself, in her stall, cooing about what a pretty girl she is—because human or beast, every female enjoys a compliment.

Once that’s done, I step out of the stall onto the main walk and come face-to-face with Hannibal Lancaster. Inside, I groan. We went to school together—he’s not a cannibalistic killer like his namesake, but he is a sleazy, disgusting prick. His parents, on the other hand—his family—are good people. And powerful allies to the Crown.

Just goes to show that even a bushel of good apples can produce a bad seed.

They’re completely unaware of Hannibal’s dickishness, which forces the rest of us—me—to put up with him from time to time and not punch his face in.

He bows, then asks, “How are you, Pembrook?”

“I’m well, Lancaster. Good match.”

He snorts. “Our number four was a useless fucker. I’m going to make sure he never plays at our club again.”

And I’m ready to get the hell away from him. But it’s not that easy.

“I wanted to ask you about the souvenir you brought home from the States.”

“Souvenir?” I ask.

“The girl. She’s exquisite.”

Twats like Lancaster can have anything they want. Anything. Which is why, when they find something that’s hard to get—or that belongs to someone else—it makes them want it even more. They go after it relentlessly.

I learned a very long time ago that the world is full of fuckers who want what I have, just because it’s mine. And that the most effective way to keep their dirty hands off of it is to pretend I don’t care, that I don’t really want it that badly—that maybe it doesn’t even belong to me at all.

It’s twisted, I know, but it’s the way of the world. This world.

“She is.” I smirk. “But that shouldn’t surprise you. I’ve always had exquisite taste.”

“But I am surprised. You don’t typically bring your slags home to meet Grandmother.”

I eye the polo mallet in the corner—and picture crushing his balls with it.

“Don’t think too deeply about it, Lancaster; you’ll hurt yourself. I’ve just discovered the convenience of having ready-to-go pussy in-house. And she’s American—they gush all over themselves about the royal thing.” I shrug, and my stomach clenches tight and sick. If I don’t get away from him soon, I’m going to vomit.

Lancaster laughs. “I want to try American pussy. Let me have a go at her. You don’t mind, do you?”

Or fucking kill him.

My fists clench hard at my sides and I swing around. What comes out of my mouth isn’t at all what I’m thinking.

“’Course I don’t, but not until after I’m finished. Do you understand, Hannibal? If I catch you within sniffing distance of her before then, I’ll nail you to the wall by your cock.”

Maybe I say a little of what I’m thinking.

“Christ, you don’t have to get medieval about it.” He holds up his hands. “I know you don’t like to share. Let me know when you’re sick of the cunt. I’ll keep hands-off until then.”

I’m already walking away. “Give my regards to your parents.”

“I always do, Nicholas,” he calls after me.

And just a moment later, the clouds open, the thunder wails, and the rain pours down like every angel in heaven is crying.

“What do you mean, you don’t know where she is?”

I’m in the morning room of Guthrie House and a young security guard stands before me, his eyes downcast.

“She went to the loo, sir. She seemed to be taking a long time, so I went in to check on her…and she was gone.”

I had interviews after the polo match. Olivia was supposed to be driven back here, to meet me. But she never arrived.

While I was wasting time answering stupid fucking questions, talking to people I abhor, Olivia was…getting lost? Getting taken? A thousand gut-wrenching thoughts barrel through my head, making it pound.

My hand tears through my hair. “Get out.”

Winston is on it. He’ll find her—that’s what he does; he’s good at it. But I pace the room, because I want to be the one out there looking for her.

“It’ll be all right, Nick,” Simon tries, sitting on the couch beside Franny. “She’ll turn up. She probably just lost her way.”

Thunder roars outside, rattling the window, mockingly.

And then the phone rings. Fergus answers and turns to me with the closest thing I’ve ever seen on his face to a smile. “Miss Hammond just walked up to the South Gate, Your Grace. They’re bringing her around now.”

And it’s like my whole body deflates with relief.

Until I see her—dripping wet, with big, wounded eyes. I cross the room and pull her against me. “Are you hurt? Christ, what happened?”

“I needed to think,” Olivia says flatly. “I think better when I walk around.”