Page 4 of Reveal Me
I’m no virgin, but the little experience I’ve had with men has been unfulfilling to say the least. Too formal. Too proper. Too staged. But I’ve read enough romance novels to know that there’s more out there than that. And I refuse to settle for less. Even if I am a princess.Especiallybecause I’m a princess.
Which is why I have no intention of being here when Lord Montgomery arrives. My parents would love nothing more than to trap me in Ireland permanently—far enough from the paparazzi’s prying eyes but close enough to the Crown’s influence. It’s never going to happen. I miss London. I miss the hustle and bustle. I miss civilisation.
I slide my arms into my riding jacket, snatch up my leather gloves from the dresser, then slip down the spiral stone staircase and through the staff quarters. Pressing myback to the wall, I glance around, checking for my security team, but thankfully, there’s no sign of them. Grant, my head of security, is Kat’s boyfriend, and she often keeps him ‘entertained’ in order for me to slip out.
The eight royal guards stationed at Ardmore aren’t exactly on high alert out here in the remote countryside. My parents and the staff are the only ones aware of my location. Not that the rest of the world would care—I’m a spare, not the heir—thank God for small mercies. My eldest sister, Princess Patricia, was married off to the Duke of Wellington’s youngest son, Fredrick last year. It’s an absolutely perfect match in our mother’s eyes. Fredrick comes from an impeccable bloodline, he’s obscenely wealthy, and dull enough not to cause any international incidents. Their lavish wedding was all over the papers as the “romance of the century,” though romance had nothing to do with it. And there’s no lust there either. Patricia confided that my new brother-in-law doesn’t know what a clitoris is, let alone where to find one. I did suggest she take a lover, perhaps one of her burly bodyguards, but apparently she’d rather be loyal to an arrangement than experience true fulfilment.
Our other sister, Sabrina, faces the same pitiful fate. She recently accepted a proposal from the Crown Prince of Norway, Prince Harald. The wedding will take place in April at Westminster Abbey. Admittedly Prince Harald is rather handsome in a Viking-like way. I just hope his knowledge of vaginal anatomy is better than my other brother-in-law’s, or I’ll have two dissatisfied sisters.
I creep past the open kitchen doorway, the scent of freshly baked bread permeating my nostrils. Carbs have been my best friend since I got here last week. One of the cooks, Selina, is deeply engrossed in an animated conversation with Ardmore’s chief housekeeper, and my mother’s chief spy, MrsMedway. It shouldn’t be too hard to slip by them and out the back door.
‘Did you hear our elusive neighbour made Forbes’ top ten eligible billionaires last month?’ Selina fans herself. ‘He’s so dreamy. Have you seen him?’
My ears prick up as my feet come to an abrupt halt behind a large coat stand. I peer around the leather and wool, watching the women talk as they work.
‘Sean Beckett?’ Mrs Medway wipes her hands on her apron. ‘I’ve seen him in the papers. He is rather handsome.’
‘Oh my god, his eyes are so beautiful I could cheerfully drown in them.’ Selina swoons, clutching her chest. I bite back a chuckle. ‘I keep hoping I’ll run into him one of these days.’
Pah. He can’t be that good looking. Sean Beckett is head of Property Acquisition at Beckett Enterprises. Naturally, given the proximity of our estates, my family is aware of his. I assumed he was another typical billionaire in a suit, Forbes top ten or not—excuse me if I’ve had my fill of that.
‘There’s acres between his residence and the castle.’ Mrs Medway reminds Selina, shaking her head.
‘You know,’ Selina pauses, lowering her voice, ‘I heard he runs some sort of underground club at the edge of the mansion grounds.’
A club?
As in a nightclub?
My ears prick further. Eavesdropping isn’t very ladylike, but if there’s a remote chance of having some fun in this hellhole, I’m going to find it.
‘I’d need to be a millionaire to socialise in those circles, though.’ Selina sighs.
‘Billionaire, you mean.’ Mrs Medway cocks an eyebrow. ‘Now, enough of that, check that bread, it smells like it’s done.’
I guess that’s all the gossip I’m going to get, for now. Slowly and stealthily, I twist the buffed brass door handle and creep out into the cold January night. My breath fogs in front of my face as I dart towards the stables where my horse, Temptation, awaits. Riding is the only time I feel free. That, and when I have a paintbrush in my hand. I’m not allowed to express my feelings vocally, but no one can stop me expressing them creatively. My parents consider painting an awful waste of time. In all honesty, they consider anything other than securing myself a suitable husband an awful waste of time. I’d love to open my own gallery one day and prove them wrong, but naturally, they’d never permit it.
The nightclub thing is probably nonsense. Why would a billionaire open a nightclub all the way out here in the sticks? Still, we’ll gallop that way to rule it out. The entire estate is lit with evenly spaced lanterns, but I’m new to the castle, so if I happen to accidentally cross the estate’s boundary lines, who could blame me? I grin for the first time since I arrived in this hellhole.
The stable hand left Temptation tacked up and ready and waiting, as instructed. I swing into the saddle and give the horse a gentle kick. The cold air bites at my cheeks as Temptation’s powerful stride eats up the frost-hardened ground. Each thundering hoofbeat matches my racing pulse as we navigate the moonlit landscape. For once, the Irish sky has decided to forgo its perpetual weeping, leaving a pristine canopy of stars overhead that makes me feel deliciously small and wonderfully insignificant.
A thrilling sense of satisfaction ripples through me as I trespass onto what has to be Sean Beckett’s land. Doing something bad always makes me feel good—my silent F U to the stiff, solitary confines of the privilege I was born into. After thirty minutes of hard riding, finally, I spot a peculiar structure set against a hillside.
I slow Temptation to a walk as we approach. The building is modest by royal standards—black granite with subtle chrome detailing. There are no signs, no queues of people, nothing to suggest it’s a club, although there are a small fleet of sleek, expensive cars parked nearby.
I squint through the trees as a man and a woman exit a Porsche. He’s wearing a black suit. She’s wearing some sort of mask and a long-belted coat. I watch as he ushers her in through the understated, mysterious tinted glass doorway. A split second before the door closes, they enter a lift. My eyes flick to the top of the granite structure. There’s nowhere to go up, so they must be going down.
Maybe thereisa nightclub below.
I rub my hand over Temptation’s supple neck to pacify him as I watch two more couples enter the building, dressed in equally unusual, but sensual and elegant attire—both of the women are wearing intricate, elegant masks.
Is it a masquerade club?
How fun—and how convenient.
Excitement shivers down my spine.
I tug Temptation’s reins, taking one final glance over my shoulder. I’ll be back.
