Page 39 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)

Twenty-Four

Benedict

T he timing is carefully set.

After a full week of allowing the country to get bored of debating the meaning behind the infamous garden party look, Zelda and I are set to make our first appearance as a rumored couple.

I haven’t seen or spoken to her since she and her team came to Ashwell Palace, and as far as I know, she’s been in the North Country working on her movie.

Admittedly, for a man my age, my romantic experience is a little thin. I am familiar with the typical customs, however, and it feels bizarre to be sent an email with the itinerary for the supposed date, along with some helpful wardrobe tips and conversation topics.

The former suggests just how low an opinion my press corps has of my social capabilities. Nobody would dare say such a thing, but the subtext is clear: Don’t you dare fuck this up, you grouchy moron.

Since the news broke, press have been camped out on the sidewalk outside Zelda’s hotel, necessitating added security—which I provided double of without being asked—but have begun to drift away in the last few days.

Especially since, as far as I can tell, she has done nothing more newsworthy than itch her nose.

Unfortunately, even being utterly boring isn’t enough to save her, and Zelda’s picture has been splattered across every dubious source of “media” in the country, dissecting her entire life story with a fervor which is fairly alarming.

When Arthur married Lillian, the press was on my late sister-in-law night and day, going so far as to hide behind trash cans and ambush her on the way to her car. Even the lackluster courtship period I had with my former wife made headlines, but nothing even remotely like this.

It wasn’t until after the story broke that I realized what I’d inadvertently done. After starving the beast for over a year, I offered up a beautiful American actress who is far too young for me. Naturally, the beast did what it does best and didn’t hesitate to bite. Hard.

The goal of today’s outing is to provide it with something more substantial than a look to dig its teeth into, and as my car stops on the corner across the street from Zelda’s hotel, I experience my first flicker of true trepidation.

Until this point, my focus has been on our relationship—or lack thereof—and what this would mean for it.

Plan or no, Zelda still seems determined to keep me at arm’s length, and I owe it to her to respect that.

If it wasn’t already the case, going forward with this fraud of a date will mean we’re linked forever.

When she dies, “former girlfriend to the King of Stelland” will likely be in her damn obituary.

There isn’t time to call it off, though, because as I stare out the tinted car window, I see an unmistakable figure in a yellow summer dress emerge from the hotel, slipping right past the photographers.

She’s tied her hair up and is wearing a baseball hat and oversized sunglasses, a disguise almost as feeble as the ones we wore to the pub in Fernhill.

Nobody was looking for us then, but they sure as hell are now, and as she crosses the road, I see a few men with cameras following at a distance.

Just as planned, the moment she opens the door, a flash goes off, capturing the image of her slipping into a darkened car. The door is closed long before the photographers can get close enough to see me, but the operation is officially in motion.

Regardless of my reservations, there is no going back now.

“Good afternoon,” Zelda greets me calmly, pulling off the hat and releasing her hair from its high ponytail as the car pulls out into traffic.

My fingers drum on my thigh in a futile attempt to vent some of my restless energy. “Good afternoon.” My eyes are on the rearview mirror, and as I watch the cars queuing behind us at a light, I see a man on a bicycle, a black bag slung over his shoulder, peddling hard to catch up to the car.

“I’m quite interested to see what the palace’s definition of a casual date is,” Zelda says, her tone determinately light. When I glance at her, though, there is a tension in her shoulders that betrays her nervousness. Is it due to the intensity of this situation alone, or am I responsible?

It’s hard to say what’s worse: Zelda being anxious about seeing me, or her being totally unaffected.

The anticipation I experience in the run-up to seeing her face, and the rush that comes when I finally do, is as far from nonchalance as I can imagine. Regardless of whether anything will happen between us, it’s difficult to stomach the possibility of her truly being over it .

“I had words with them and made it plain neither of us would be partaking in any activity which requires either a bow tie or evening gloves.”

To my pleasant surprise, Zelda lets out a soft laugh. “I should also make it known I have no idea what the rules of Polo are, either, and I don’t own a single pastel-colored hat.”

I counter this statement with a single word. “Marco?”

Zelda’s lips twitch, obviously fighting a smile. “Polo.”

“You seem quite well-versed in the rules, actually. Perhaps a last-minute change of plans is in order?”

“I can see the headlines now,” she hums. “King Benedict and Zelda Flowers ruin a championship Polo match with an inexplicably timed game of Marco Polo.”

I sigh heavily, shaking my head. “That’s far too long for a headline, Zelda. No self-respecting gossip rag would waste that much cover space when there are moon landing conspiracies to be had.”

Zelda rounds on me, eyes wide and indignant. “I can’t cut it down! It’s a very complicated fake scenario!”

“Oh, that’s no excuse. Very complicated fake scenarios are the bread and butter of tabloids, darling.”

My stomach has begun to fall before the word is even halfway out. Darling .

I shouldn’t have called her that. We were… It’s always so easy to talk to her. I didn’t think, the damned word just came out, and now—I glance at the woman beside me, only to find her stony-faced and silent.

All the effortless warmth of a moment ago has drained from the back of the car, and I realize the source of my new jaw pain is the intensity with which I’m grinding my back molars.

Searching for something to do other than hit myself with the nearest blunt object, my eyes return to the rearview mirror.

While we were talking, the car had picked up a bit more speed, turning off the main drag toward a historic section of the city.

The man on the bicycle is still following at a distance, pedaling furiously and weaving through traffic to keep up with us.

If I’m not mistaken, there may even be a second photographer following the first.

I don’t have time to think of some way to excuse my slip to Zelda, however, because we’re already coming to a stop.

Our destination, Percy and Stowe, is tucked away in a line of other shops.

Its old stone storefront and hand-painted wood sign look as though they were taken right from the pages of a storybook.

Certainly not a coincidence.

The men with cameras aren’t in view as I push open the door and stand, scanning the street as casually as possible.

I can sense eyes on us as I turn back to offer a hand to Zelda.

There’s the briefest flicker of hesitation in her beautiful face before she recovers, reaching out to take it, and allows me to help her out onto the cobblestone sidewalk.

I let go the moment I can, knotting my hands together behind my back before I’m tempted to reach for her again.

“Is this it?” she asks casually, tilting her head to the side to examine the gold lettering on the storefront window.

“Yes. Let’s go in.” My shoulders are stiff as I lead the way, unable to shake the knowledge that someone is watching.

A bell above the door tinkles as we move inside, entering a space which looks somewhere between a jewelry shop and apothecary, its air thick with so many scents I couldn’t begin to separate one from another.

Rich, wood-paneled walls are inset with mirrored shelves, laden with thousands of bottles and vials.

At the center of it all, a worktable of sorts is set up on one side, and there are two deep-green velvet chairs facing the front of the shop and its large window.

Our stage for the afternoon.

“Welcome.” An old man in an apron has appeared, color high on his cheeks.

I clear my throat, careful to keep a respectful distance from Zelda. “I believe we have a reservation. ”

He sweeps his hand toward the worktable in the center of it all.

“Of course! Yes, of course we were expecting you, Your Royal Highness.” Another bob of his head in Zelda’s direction.

“And you, Miss Flowers. Welcome. My name is Robert Stowe. Percy and Stowe has been in my family for four generations now, and we consider ourselves experts in the creation of custom fragrences. My staff and I are most honored to have you visit us.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Robert,” Zelda tells him kindly as she follows me over to the velvet chairs. “What an incredible legacy. It’s such an honor to take part in it.”

The man appears positively beside himself at her praise, and doesn’t hesitate to set us to work, selecting a base for the fragrance from a line of paper swatches laid out on a silver tray.

As he hurries to the back to retrieve something, a camera lens catches the sunlight from behind the line of cars parked across the street.

Zelda nudges me with her elbow. “We’re supposed to look like we’re having a good time,” she reminds me, and my heart stalls as she leans in, lifting one of the paper swatches to my nose. “What do you think?”

I inhale deeply, staring at the delicate bones in her wrist, so much smaller than my own. “It’s pleasant.”

Her lips curve as she sets it back down. “Pleasant?”

“I like it.”

“ Surely you can do better than that, Benedict.”

Despite my best judgement, I lift my gaze to meet hers. “My full name?” I ask weakly. “Am I in trouble already?”

Robert, the shop owner, is returning, bearing another silver tray, and Zelda leans into me, one hand settling on my chest. When she speaks again, it’s in a quiet plea, her warm breath brushing my ear. “Touch me.”

The shop swims around me as Zelda settles back in her chair, falling into easy conversation with Robert about the pros and cons of the different bases. She couldn’t seem less affected, but those two words from her have made me inexcusably, agonizingly hard.

Touch me.

It’s too easy to imagine her spread out beneath me, pupils wide and lips swollen, begging— Enough .

Swallowing my nerves, I lean forward on the pretense of selecting another sample, and as I do, I drape my arm over the back of Zelda’s chair.

She settles back, offering me a glowing smile as she lifts another swatch for me to smell.

“What about this one? I think I like it better. It reminds me of you.”

I can’t place the scent, but it’s something rich and earthy, and somehow seductive, too. Swallowing, I shift in my seat, attempting to relieve some pressure from my cock, which is straining against my trousers. “That one, then,” I tell her. “If you like it.”

“I do.”

There is no more discussion on the matter.

The entire ordeal takes much longer than I would have thought.

Robert appears to be putting on something of a show for us—or Zelda, at least—bringing out all the rare, lesser-known scents and explaining the history behind each.

She leans into my side, nodding along with each of his little lectures, apparently absorbed in the activity.

A few other staffers in white coats come and go, but no other customers enter the shop, and if I don’t look out the front window, it’s easy to forget we are most certainly being watched.

Zelda doesn’t let me get away with staying silent. She draws me into conversation at every possible opportunity and asks my opinion on everything we add to the custom fragrance.

It’s dangerously easy to forget it’s all fake.