Page 51 of Reveal Me
I smooth down the silk of my gown and reach for my evening bag. My date is due to arrive any minute. I need to get a grip.
‘He’s downstairs, Your Highness,’ Kat announces, poking her head round the door with barely concealed excitement. ‘And the Queen wasn’t lying— he’s handsome!’
I tut and shake my head. It wouldn’t matter if Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth, or Henry Cavil was downstairs. There’s only one man I want, but there’s no way my parentswould permit me to date him—even if he wanted to, which I can’t even be sure of.
There’s so much more to our arrangement than just the sex. It’s the way he looks at me. The tender way he takes care of me afterwards. The way he’s breaking his own rules for me. But he’s been hurt, and I have no way to reassure him it won’t happen again–because even though I’d never give myself to another man while we’re together, I could be ripped away from him at any given moment, should my parents decide to bring me home.
‘Princess,’ Kat steps in and takes my hands. ‘I know you and Mr Beckett have this insane chemistry, but no matter who you end up with, that won’t last. That electricity fades for everyone.’
‘Does it?’
I don’t agree. It’s been six weeks since I met Sean at Sub Night, but I can’t imagine the chemistry ever fading. We have a connection that feels like a force more powerful than life itself, not that I’ll admit that to Kat. If she had any idea how obsessed I am with the billionaire next door, she’d never agree to cover for me.
She shrugs. ‘Grant and I are happy; we really are, but after six years together, our priorities have changed. It’s the same for most people. That initial high wears off and you’re left with someone who, at best, will be your best friend—if you’re lucky. I’m all for you having a little fun, but you have to think of your future too.’
I inhale a breath. ‘Most people.’ I repeat. ‘Not everyone. I refuse to settle for less than what I need in my life.’ I blow out a sigh of frustration. ‘Even if they do have the right breeding.’
Kat shoots me a pitying look. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for. I really do. I’m just not sure it exists.’
Oh, it does. I know, because I already found it. SeanBeckett may not have a title. His family may be shrouded in scandal, but he has confidence, charisma, and the way he looks at me when he’s inside me makes me feel like he can see my soul.
I sigh, take one last look in the mirror, then follow Kat from my chambers. The corridor stretches before us, lined with those ever-present ancestral portraits. Tonight, they seem to nod approval as I pass. Huh.
Lord Ashworth stands at the foot of the stairs like something from a period drama—tall, broad-shouldered, and devastatingly handsome in perfectly tailored black tie and tails. His auburn hair glints beneath the light. Kat was right. He is handsome. He’s no Sean Beckett, but his green eyes hold genuine warmth, and his smile is bright enough to light the city.
‘Your Highness.’ He executes a perfect bow as I reach the bottom step, then straightens with athletic grace. ‘Lord Caspian Ashworth, Earl of Wicklow.’ His voice carries that particular public-school polish that screams wealth and entitlement. I can see why my mother has high hopes for him.
‘It’s a pleasure, Lord Ashworth,’ I lie, extending my hand in the precise manner that’s been drummed into me since I was a tiny child.
He lifts my fingers to his lips, holding them to his mouth for several seconds longer than appropriate. ‘Please call me Caspian,’ he says breathily. Yuck. ‘Your Highness, you look absolutely radiant this evening.’ His eyes home in on my cleavage and I swear he’s practically drooling. A shudder rolls over my spine.
‘You’re very kind,’ I force myself to mutter, as I accept the wrap Kat settles around my shoulders, then pull it tightly around my chest.
I don’t say, ‘Call me Layla.’ The way I did to Sean. It feelstoo informal. Formal is good. Formal keeps people at arm’s length–or it’s supposed to at least.
Kat winks at me as he offers his arm. It’s a battle not to roll my eyes.
Caspian’s Aston Martin waits in the circular drive, its British racing green paint gleaming under the castle’s lanterns. Grant and Toby, another one of my security detail flank the front entrance. They’ll follow us to the Shelbourne in their own vehicle, maintaining a discrete distance.
As Caspian helps me into the passenger seat, his fingers brush against mine, lingering too long the same way his lips did. I yank my hand away and settle into the leather, resigning myself to my fate for the evening.
I glance out at the countryside whizzing by as Caspian keeps up a steady stream of conversation, naturally all about himself. If he’s trying to sell himself to me, he’s doing a terrible job. As he navigates the winding country roads toward Dublin he drones on about his land, prospects, and his excellent golf skills. It’s like groundhog day, every date is the same. Give me something real for Christ’s sake! I have a sinking sensation Sean Beckett has ruined me for anyone else who comes after him. What a depressing prospect.
‘I hope you don’t mind the Hunt Ball,’ Caspian says, downshifting smoothly as we approach the city outskirts. ‘I know some find the whole tradition rather archaic, but there’s something to be said for maintaining connections to the countryside.’ He drops a presumptuous hand to my thigh.
I swat it away and glance at him pointedly. ‘I rather like tradition–when it serves a purpose.’ The irony isn’t lost on me—here I am, defending tradition whilst secretly rebelling against everything it represents.
‘Excellent. I’m rather excited to introduce you to my friends.’
I bet he is.
My stomach tightens. This is the crux of it. Every conversation will be analysed, every glance catalogued, every interaction dissected and reported upon–by the press–and to my mother. Which is why I should at least try to make it look like there’s a chance of a future with Caspian. If someone had told me a month ago I’d be desperate to prolong my stay at Ardmore Castle, I’d have laughed in their face. Yet, there’s nothing funny about the things Sean stirs in me.
Finally, we reach the Shelbourne Hotel. Elegant topiary flanks the entrance, their winter-bare branches wrapped in thousands of fairy lights that twinkle like stars. Despite the cold, small clusters of well-dressed guests gather on the pavement, their breath misting in the frigid air as they await their turn with the valet.
Caspian pulls up to the red-carpeted entrance, and the uniformed valets spring into action. One opens my door whilst another approaches the driver’s side.
‘Good evening, Your Highness, Lord Ashworth,’ the valet says with a respectful nod. He’s clearly been expecting us. ‘We’ll take care of your vehicle.’
