Page 66 of American Royalty

Chapter Twelve

“Leave that good girl on read / Fantasize / Spread those thighs / Watch me bob my head...”

—Duchess, “Azz for Days”

Dani tugged the pillow closer and shifted on the surprisingly comfortable love seat, reaching for the nearby flute of bubbly. The laptop screen, situated on a delicate table she’d pulled from the other side of the room, was showing the fourth and final wedding.

“Wait, Hugh, you’re going to marryher? What are you thinking? You’re just giving up?”

“Duchess? Are you in here? Who are you talking to?”

She froze at the sound of Jameson’s voice coming from somewhere behind her.

Shit!

Uncurling her legs and pushing the small blanket to the side, she neatened her shirt and ran her fingers through her hair.

What are you doing? Stop primping. He doesn’t care. He’s made it clear he doesn’t find you the least bit attractive.

Which was fine. Actually, it was better than fine. It was perfect. She didn’t expect anything to happen. But she could still look greatwhile nothing happened. Because, though she would never admit it to another soul, she hated that he didn’t seem to respond to her the way other men did. Just once, she wanted him to want her... so she could reject him.

Be like “In your face, Princey!”

It was a childish but accurate representation of her feelings.

“What’s going on? I thought I heard voices?”

She tapped the track pad on her laptop, pausing the movie. “No, it’s just me. Margery and the rest of the household staff retired hours earlier.”

“I see you found the old drawing room.”

She had. When she’d first come upon it during her tour the day before, it had been the closest thing to a room at her house that she could find. Large, with three floor-to-ceiling bay windows, the high ceilings and light wall coloring meshed beautifully with the vibrant patterns, sturdy, gleaming antiques, and dark wooden floors.

She shifted to glance at him over the back of the sofa and involuntarily sucked in a breath. Even with his face in the shadows and wearing dark jeans, a chambray shirt, and an ivory cardigan, he was headier than the champagne she’d been drinking.

Dani had admired the way the fabrics sat on his frame when she’d visited the campus that afternoon. Without seeing the labels, she could tell his clothes were impeccably made. At the beginning of her career she hadn’t known shit. Hell, the only way she could tell an item of clothing cost a lot of money was if it was a brand name or had a logo on it. If the jeans didn’t have something conspicuous that proclaimed what maker they were from, she assumed they were “no name.” The kinds of clothes she’d worn most of her childhood. The ones that never quite fit right, irritated her skin, or subjected her to cruel teasing.

With money came stylists and designers dressing her, and shebegan learning there was more to quality than a label. In fact, some well-known brands used inexpensive fabrics and slapped their high-end markers on them for the higher profit margins. Quality was about the fit and feel of the fabrics, the way they draped on the body. There wasn’t a label in sight on Jameson’s clothes, but she could tell from the way the cardigan hugged his broad shoulders and his jeans rested on his hips and cupped his ass, they were some of the best-quality clothes money could buy.

In the ongoing silence she realized he might be waiting for a response.

“I didn’t know it was ‘old.’ Is there a newer one I should be using?”

“No. This actually is the drawing room my mother used.”

“Pretty big space for arts and crafts.”

He laughed. “Drawing room, as in a sitting room for the lady of the house to use while visiting with friends or intimate acquaintances.”

Why in the world would her face heat at the thought of this room and the term “intimate”?

He leaned against the doorjamb and shoved his hands into his pockets. The change in his stance allowed the soft light from the hall to illuminate his features.

She narrowed her eyes. His lids were slightly lowered, his dark hair was tousled, and his posture wasn’t as rigid as usual. In fact, he looked—

“Are you drunk?”

He frowned and wrinkled his nose, as if her question offended him. “Of course not. I don’t get drunk. But I did have a few drinks.”