Page 53 of A Royal Mistake

You don’t need those other guys,

Not when you’ve got me.

Give me just a chance, baby, and you’ll see.

O Philippa. O Philippa. How bright your light does shine.

Forget those other blokes, so I can make you mine.

O Philippa. O Philippa. I’m the man for you.

Forget those other blokes, so I can love you true.”

The song had a strong pop vibe that was completely at odds with the lyrics. Pippa stared in fascination, not even caring that her mouth was hanging open like a stable door. No one had ever written her a song before. Certainly not one so spectacularly bad. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, even if she wanted to. Not when he started gyrating and thrusting like his very life depended on it.

Maybe in his mind it did, because, sweet Fanny Adams, he was really going for it.

If he thought this little stunt was going to extend his stay at the palace, he was sorely mistaken. There was a real possibility Sarah was going to tase his arse when she got through the door. If not for locking her out, for suggesting he could light a spark in Pippa’s pants.

Which was a false promise, if his erratic thrusting was any indication.

Still, she had to give him credit. She could barely play the piano sitting still with a full sheet of music before her. She couldn’t imagine trying to manipulate all those keys while shaking her booty.

Just as van den Berg launched into the third verse, the door burst open and Sarah came charging through, taser drawn, with three palace guards on her heels. Van den Berg tried to make a run for it, but there was nowhere to go, so he kept right on singing, even as the guards grabbed him under the arms and dragged him from the room, his accordion letting out a depressingwaaaahnnnnn-waaaahnnnnn.

Silence descended and she looked from Lord Chamberlain to Henry, struggling for words and coming up empty. Because, really, what could she possibly say?

“That was some jacket,” Lord Chamberlain said, shaking his head in dismay. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“That was some song.” Henry snickered. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“That was some dance.” Pippa clasped her hands together. “I hope I never see anything like it again.” She turned toward the guest of honor, projecting a brilliant smile that was one hundred percent fake. “So, about that donation, Lord Chamberlain.”

* * *

Henry rakeda hand over his face. He’d seen some wild Scheisse in his day, but nothing like the train wreck he’d just witnessed. What the fuck was that, anyway? That nutter hijacked Pippa’s entire pitch.

It was a wonder Lord Chamberlain hadn’t grabbed his checkbook and run.

Literally and figuratively.

Pippa had excused herself to walk Lord Chamberlain out, but when she returned, they needed to talk about what had just happened. This was exactly the sort of tabloid fodder he wanted to avoid. She needed to avoid it too, if she intended to be taken seriously.

It wasn’t her fault. He knew that. But it didn’t change the fact that the tabloids were fixated on the royal family, and Pippa’s courtship.

And you’re not?

Something dark and unpleasant had twisted his gut when van den Berg had sung about putting a spark in her pants. It was crass and crude. Not remotely fitting Pippa.

The Arsch didn’t even get her eye color right.

What kind of prat wrote a love song about a woman’s eyes and got the color wrong?

Pippa’s eyes weren’t like sapphires. They were rich and warm, like a shot of whisky. And they didn’t glitter like gems. They smoldered like wildfire.

Especially when she was annoyed or aroused.

Jesus. Why the fuck was he obsessing about her eyes? What did he care if the fool had gotten the color wrong? That was hardly the point.