I’ve never done it before. It just seemed so—dirty. That’s what he is. He’s a filthy, sex-crazed maniac wrapped up in a pretty-prince package.
“See?”
I throw my hands up in the air, dismissing him. “I’m done with this.”
Just block out his irritating, sexy voice.
“Just because you don’t like me doesn’t mean you won’t like me inside you.”
“Shut up!”
Now that I have my phone back, I can’t stop obsessing over the many—many—horrific tabloid articles about me. The Royal Exposé is having a fucking field day with me: Daisy Walker: Knocked Up by the Prince?, Yankee Wife-to-be Embarrasses Locals, Daisy Walker: Is She a Slut? There are long articles citing “sources” who claim to know me here in Anglefell, which is a bit rich since I’ve only spoken to a handful of people since my arrival.
News of my engagement has already reached American media. I keep getting emails from concerned friends and family: Is this true? Please write back! My Facebook page is filled with anxious comments demanding to know what’s going on. I know what I can’t tell them, but not what would make them stop writing. Shame burns deep in my chest as I spot Ben’s parents in the list of emails. The subject line reads: Congratulations!
They have no idea what the fuck is going on.
I close the phone and sit back in the car’s leather interior. Liam’s staff gave me a wool dress to wear and a pair of light brown leather heels. He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, just that we were riding to town.
The skies are light gray filled with lots of rolling clouds and dappled sunlight. I’m struck again by the charm of the village. People run out of their homes to wave at the car as we drive by, and Liam sticks his head out with a brilliant smile and waves to them. Should I do the same? I look down at my iPhone, rereading some of the nastier headlines, and I decide not to.
The car stops at a large building with art deco writing: Betty’s Tea Café.
“Are we going inside here?”
“Yes, I thought we might have afternoon tea at a place locals are bound to see us.”
“Afternoon tea is so English.”
I’m very pleased to see Liam’s smile falter. “Careful, love. My hands are still a bit twitchy.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Liam’s security leaves the car and opens the doors for us as I try to remember how I’m supposed to exit vehicles.
Fuck it.
There are people waiting for us outside, and the small crowd erupts into happy cheers as Liam waves at them.
“Is that her? His fiancée?”
Their whispers erupt around me almost immediately as Liam walks to my side and takes my arm. I try to remember everything he taught me. Head high. Shoulders back. Walk like a princess.
Then the photographers start blasting us with flash. My eyeballs burn as I’m forced to stand there like a mannequin and smile.
“Prince Liam! Prince Liam, a word, if you please!”
“Is she pregnant?”
Oh God.
A horde of reporters strain against the guards, jumping at him like rabid dogs, shouting the most profane things.
“Did you get her pregnant? Is that why you’re getting married?”
The paparazzo notices my potent glare and shoves his iPhone in my face. I want to slap it out of his hands.
“Come, dear.”
Instead, I follow Liam’s gentle pressure inside the gilded doorframe of the tea café. The hostess inside, dressed in a slick, black dress, immediately curtseys. “Your Highness.”
“My fiancée and I fancy a table.”
“Of course, sir. This way.”
It’s a big place. There is a bakery attached to the tearooms, and square tables with white tablecloths.
“So, I didn’t want to make you nervous, but there will be a reporter joining us.”
“What? I thought we were just having tea!”
“Relax. She’s a reporter sanctioned by the royal family. She’s here to make you look good.”
“I’m in no way ready for an interview!”
“You need to give one. It’ll be painless.”
Jesus Christ.
We follow the hostess’ rapidly swinging ponytail into the depths of the café, and she leads us to a table tucked in the corner with one other person already sitting there. She looks to be about my age. She stands as Liam introduces us.
“Daisy, this is Kate Daughtry. Kate, this is my fiancée.”
Oh crap. I’m supposed to shake her hand first because I’m royal, or going to be royal.
Kate takes my hand, and I study her apple-like cheeks, the wisps of blonde hair floating around her face. I like her, and I don’t understand why. Maybe she just reminds me of myself.