Page 22 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

The doors have barely opened and already the place is bustling.

I linger at the fringes of the party. My years of solitude have made me introverted. Furthermore, I can keep a close eye on the doorway from here. Every time the doors open for a new guest, they’re always backlit with a flash of camera light as reporters cram up against the gates to get a glimpse of the palace’s elite guest list. I know what they’re really hoping for, though, is a shot of the secluded prince himself.

Every time the doors open, my hopes go up, and every time they’re dashed when I see another masked face without an explosion of ginger hair behind it. I wear my father’s signet ring—a gold reminder of him with the image of a reared lion pressed into the soft metal—and I twist it back and forth impatiently.

“Presenting the duchess of York!” the presenter announces at the top of the steps. A blonde in a dress layered like a wedding cake pulls back her Renaissance mask to reveal a pinched face underneath. Another champagne socialist. She finds me with hawk-like precision and winks at me.

If I have to keep this smile on any longer, my face will surely crack. “Rory isn’t coming,” I mutter between clenched teeth.

“She is.” Ben, my shadow, lingers behind me. Like the other guards, he’s dressed in his familiar black-and-white uniform so he’s not mistaken for a partygoer. Not that anyone could mistake that perpetual frown. “I made sure of it myself.”

“Angelia, do you hear that buzzing?” I ask the waitress next to me. “Very strange.”

“Most strange indeed, Your Highness. Champagne?”

“I’ll need it.”

I take the flute and down it. The bubbles pop and fizzle on my tongue. Ben curses under his breath, so low he must think I can’t hear it.

With every second that ticks by without Rory, my mood only grows darker. I feel like a bloody jester. My face is pasty with powders and foundation, half of it covered in a white mask ornamented with glimmering gold and silver lace. My hair is so slick that a pence could float on top of it, and I’m stuffed in these tight black pants that leave little to the imagination. My shirt overcompensates with frills and poufy sleeves. I cringed when I first saw it, but my mum positively fawned over it, and I knew I had to pick and choose my battles with her today. At any minute, she could revoke Rory’s invitation, and as the minutes fly by without hide nor hair of my girl, I’m beginning to fear that that’s exactly what happened.

I’m picking irritably at the lace at my sleeves when the presenter’s bored voice booms out again. “Presenting Miss Rory March, ah…” The old geezer never stumbles over his words, but he seems to be struggling with it now as he reads off a slip of paper. “Lady of Detroit, Michigan.”

I see her and my heart stops. Her auburn hair cascades in rivulets down her shoulders. Her dress is the same color of her lips, carnation pink. It’s strapless and hugs the swells of her feminine form before falling to the floor in a bounty of sheer lace. She’s wearing a simple, black mask around her eyes, and it frames her face with bold, dark raven feathers. For all her delicate beauty, her smile is still crooked, still wild, still Rory, and I find myself transfixed by it.

I’m frozen in my spot. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. I hardly notice the tremor that ripples through the crowd as our guests murmur amongst themselves. Perhaps they’re wondering who she is. Worse—perhaps they already know.

I don’t care what they think. I can’t take my eyes off her.

My God. She’s beautiful. An angel straight out of one of Raphael’s frescoes.

When she spots me, her eyes light up. She glides down the steps and makes her way over to me. Immediately, she gives me a grin, lowers her eyes, and lifts her dress in a curtsy. “Your Highness. Thank you for the invite. This is…” She laughs. “It’s insane!” She waves to my bodyguard behind me. “Hi, Ben!”

“Lady Michigan,” Ben replies. “What the hell is on your feet?”

“Oh, yeah.” She kicks out a foot to reveal her black combat boots underneath. “I didn’t want to trip coming down those steps, so… the heels were a no-go. Sorry. Does it look too weird?”

I didn’t think my heart could get any bigger, but it does. It swells so much I’m certain the engorged organ is crushing the very breath from my lungs. “It’s very you,” I tell her. “It’s perfect.”

I take her in my arms then and cover her mouth with mine. I don’t think twice about it. I want her and I claim her with my lips, my hands, and my tongue. She yields with a soft mewl, and her body molds against mine. She gives herself to me effortlessly, and her willing submission makes my blood grow hot.

I break our kiss to murmur in the shell of her ear. “I want to take you. Right here. In front of everyone.”

She shudders like a baby bird in my arms. She can’t hide it. She wants it, too. But she puts her hands on my chest to give us some distance and says, “Technically, you’ve already taken me for the world to see. So. Let’s do something we haven’t done.” She winks and offers her hand. “Dance with me?”

I take her soft hand in mine. “It’d be an honor.”

14

Rory

I can feel eyes on me wherever we go. Some guests shoot me looks and whisper about me in the open, and I know they must have seen the video. Others glare at me for hoarding the prince’s attention. I even catch some confused, squinted expressions flashed my way, as though to say, What is the Normal doing here?

Roland pulls me onto the dance floor, and not for the first time tonight, I think, Thank God for sensible shoes. In heels, I would’ve probably twisted my ankle by now, and I don’t need to give them another reason to stare.

The dance floor is sectioned off with a large patch of polished wood. Roland sweeps me against him and draws me close, an arm around my back, his other hand still in mine. We’re not alone on the dance floor; a couple of others have decided to sway to the melodic music, but they give us a wide berth when we approach. I’d thought the music was coming from the speakers, but when I look over Roland’s shoulder, I spot a full band: a grand piano, a couple of violins, flutes, and even a huge arching harp.

“I should warn you, I’m not much of a ballroom dancer,” I preface. “Get them to play Backstreet Boys and we’re golden, but…”

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