“Where will you and Prince Edward be honeymooning, Your Majesty?” Matilda, my uncle Warwitch’s wife, asks.
Edward received his new title last week—Prince of Wessco—in a ceremony he would’ve missed if he’d had his way. But he attended because it was expected.
He attended for me.
“Saint Augustine’s. A small, privately owned island off the Dutch coast.”
There’s a sparking flash of white in the sky outside the large arched window. Lightning.
“And do you have all your unmentionables packed for your new husband to enjoy?” my cousin Calliope—the one who told a “fictional” story about a young queen’s death by poisoned wedding cake earlier—asks me.
“The staff is taking care of the packing,” is my non-answer reply—a trick I learned from my father.
Because the answer is yes. I wanted delicate and beautiful lingerie, but I also wanted things that were meant to be torn, shredded. Articles that would shatter Edward’s self-control—that would make him feel wild, like he makes me feel.
When I needed advice on choosing such things, I was sure just whom to go to. And when I did, Miriam flung her arms around me and exclaimed, “I knew you were my sister!”
But I’m not going to tell any of these women that. Because they aren’t my friends—most I barely know and those that I do, I don’t like at’all.
A burst of thunder rattles the window, turning my head again.
And I realize there’s somewhere else—somewhere infinitely better—I could be, right now.
I pop up from my chair. “I have to go.”
From across the room, my sister desperately mouths the words, Take me with you. And then she winks at a waiter, clearing drinks from the table.
“Go where?” asks Lady Dorchester—the most notorious gossip in the Wessco aristocracy.
“I . . . ah—”
“Urgent government business.” Cora Barrister comes to my rescue. “We just got the call. Very urgent. The Queen must go.” She turns to me, a knowing look in her sparkling blue eyes. “You must go straight away, Your Majesty.”
“Yes.” I take Cora’s hand, squeezing. “Thank you, Cora.”
The thunder crashes outside the window again.
“Until tomorrow, Ladies.”
They each dip their head to me as I make for the door. In the outer hall, I kick off my shoes, pick them up . . . and I run. I run through the halls of the palace and I don’t stop running until I get to the other side. To the library.
I don’t knock—I don’t have to. There’s a guard outside, and I’m the bloody Queen, so he opens the door for me. The library is filled with deep chattering voices and thick ashy smoke. It’s so thick, Edward spots me before I spot him.
“Lenora?”
That brings the attention of the men in the room straight to me. They all bow and immediately stop talking. Automatically, my back straightens and my face slides into neutral.
“Pardon the interruption. There is a matter I must speak with Prince Edward about.”
Edward follows me out into the hall.
“Leave us,” I tell the guard.
“What’s the matter, Lenny?” He cups my jaw. “You’re all flushed.”
I glance at the door to the library. “Are you . . . enjoying yourself?”
“Not even a little. If I have to spend five more minutes talking to those pompous wankers, I’m going to climb up, take your great-uncle Ethelbert’s historical gun off the wall and shoot them all.”
I nod, chuckling. “There’s something I want to show you. But we must hurry or we’ll miss it.”
Edward gestures for me to wait and steps back inside the door. “Gentlemen, there is urgent wedding business that needs my attention. But . . . the bar is stocked, the cigars are plentiful, so please carry on and enjoy yourselves. Good evening.”
He comes back out into the hall, arms open. “I’m all yours.”
I take his hand. “Come on, then.”
And we both run. I lead him down the hall of portraits, where dozens of my ancestors watch over us, and then passed the Capella Suite—the room where I and all my siblings were born. Finally, we reach the narrow white door at the very end of the Eggshell Hallway—named after the wallpaper that gives the appearance of cracked eggshells.
“Where are we going, Lenny?” Edward asks.
“You’ll see.”
Behind the door is a winding staircase with narrow brick walls and no windows. And I lead Edward up and up and up, until finally . . . we’re there. We exit through another door at the top and walk out onto the roof of the Palace of Wessco. It hasn’t started raining yet but the breeze is cool and clouds are low. I spin in a giddy circle before him, the air crackling with electricity and static all around us.
Then, grasping Edward’s hand, I point to the sky a bit farther out from where we stand. “Watch . . . there.”
And as if I commanded it, the lightning flashes in a jagged, bright line of white against the pitch-black sky. Another strike comes just a few seconds later—tinting the clouds in dark purple. And then another, and another in hues of orange and pink. Because the palace is so high, every strike of lightning is visible for miles around. It’s a light show—nature’s fireworks. A few seconds later, the thunder booms so loud I feel it in my bones.
Edward smiles at the sky. “It’s beautiful. Amazing.”
“I used to come up here when I was a little girl. When I was . . . well . . . when I was lonely. I would watch the lightning and feel the thunder tremble and I knew there were others, seeing and feeling the very same thing. And it made me feel—not alone.”
He turns to me, his features tight and his eyes bright—burning with emotion.
“You were the first person I thought of when I saw the storm,” I tell him over another boom of thunder. The vibration rattles beneath our feet. “The first person I wanted to share it with . . . the only person. I wanted you to know that.”
He takes my face in his hands and slants his mouth across mine. I can taste desire on his tongue—feel his need, his want for me, with every press of his lips. The bristles of Edward’s stubble tickle my cheek as our mouths move and meld. The kiss is hot and hurried, and then with the next great burst of thunder . . . the kiss becomes very, very wet.
The rain shower pours down over us, slicking our clothes to our skin, drenching our hair, our bodies, our fused lips.
Edward presses his forehead to mine and the water runs in little rivulets down his cheek.
“Come to my room.”
I nod, because I would go anywhere with Edward.
And it’s such a big change from who I was just a few short months ago. And yet, following him feels like the rightest thing I’ve ever done.
We run through the pouring rain down to Guthrie House. In the foyer, we don’t wait for the staff to bring us towels, but instead go right up to Edward’s bedroom.
I try to wipe the water off my face and arms with my hands.
“You’re always getting me wet.”
Edward comes up behind me, with a towel in his hands, chuckling, “I do seem to have that effect on you.”
He rubs the towel over my arms, my neck, patting my dripping hair. I feel his mouth right up against my ear, and I shiver at the promise in his voice.
“We need to get you out of these clothes.”