Page 83 of American Royalty

“They don’t,” she agreed. “At least not from me. If I were a man, they’d want to hear about my gangsta background, about slinging rock or shooting people. Since I’m a woman, they want to know if I was a stripper or abused drugs or tied to some dude who gave me a chance.”

“Is that what happened?” he asked softly.

“No. I’d own it if it did. I was a kid who liked to read who had the misfortune of being born to people who weren’t old enough and didn’t want to be parents. I was then blessed to be taken in by a grandmother who loved me and, later, other family.” Though they weren’t as nurturing. “I took a job at a music studio when I was old enough to get it and a chance meeting led to all of this. If you go back far enough, you’ll see me attempt to explain that in earlier interviews. But that reality wasn’t as satisfying as their fantasy, so I eventually stopped trying.”

Jameson nodded. “I understand. As royalty, people want our lives to be glamorous. They imagine their childhood and what they believe would’ve made them happy, and that’s what they want tohear. They want us to have had our own bedrooms and servants and never had to do chores. They want the circus and elephants and cotton candy and enormous fun all the time.”

“And it wasn’t?” she asked, channeling his tone from earlier.

“It was. Sometimes. I would never stand here and tell you it was horrible. I didn’t have to worry about lodgings or food or the love of my mother. But the experience was also lonely, confining, and sometimes scary. And after my father died—”

He glanced away from her.

Was she much different from those other people? There was a part of her who assumed the very thing he said. Not that his life had been perfect, but that it certainly had to be better than hers. Watching him studiously avoiding her gaze, she recalled the saying that a gilded cage was still a cage.

She went over and wrapped her arms around him. “I didn’t know about your father. Or the rest of it. I’m so sorry, Jay.”

“Me, too.”

They stood that way for a while and she attempted to transfer, from her body to his, as much sympathy, compassion, and understanding as she could. He shifted against her, tilting her head up with pressure against her cheek, and lowered his lips to hers in a kiss that stole her breath. Their tongues tangled and she clutched a hand in his sweater as an unexpected tender emotion threatened to overwhelm her.

From far away, Dani heard someone clear their throat.

“Your Royal Highness?” A short young man with light brown hair stood in the doorway.

She broke their kiss and buried her face against his chest. She would never call herself shy, but she’d been unprepared for the intimacy of an embrace that went beyond satisfying sexual hunger to the giving and receiving of care and consolation.

This can’t be happening. We decided this was a temporary thing. Now is not the time to be catching feelings!

She moved away from him and forced a laugh. “I didn’t know drawing rooms were such a turn-on for you.”

She kept her voice low, though their interloper was yards away.

“Neither did I.”

She grabbed his hand, anxious to return to a surer, more physical, footing. “Let’s go back to your house and take care of it.”

He reeled her close and whispered in her ear, “Looking forward to it, I promise. But not yet. I have another surprise.”

His proximity sent delicious curls of arousal throughout her midsection. “You do?”

The person who’d initially interrupted them stepped forward. “If you’ll follow me.”

“Do you know him?” Dani asked, complying with the young man’s request.

“He’s the son of one of my groundskeepers.”

Just like Downton Abbey. “People stick to their station here, right?”

He bristled. “Pardon?”

“I’m just saying that in America, you can grow up to be anything you want to be.”

“So, America’s better? Save the lack of universal health care, exorbitant costs of basic human services, and institutional and structural racism?”

She stopped and put a hand on her hip. “You want to go there? Right now?”

He leaned close and kissed her. “No, I don’t.”