Half a dozen male assistants carry in racks of clothes: dresses and pants and blouses and skirts. Then they go back downstairs and bring up bags of lacy undergarments—bras, panties, garters and stockings. Finally, a tailor’s platform is carried in, I assume for me to stand on. By the time the last assistant leaves, the white bedroom isn’t so white anymore, it’s covered in fabrics of every color.

It’s like the entire Women’s department at Barrister’s exploded in here.

Sabine holds up a piece of paper. “Bridget.”

It’s a list, from Nicholas’s secretary, Bridget. A list of events that I’ll need clothes for: the party tonight, a polo match, another party, brunch, afternoon tea with the Queen.

Oh Jesus. Not for the first time, I wonder what the hell I was thinking.

But then I stop—because I’m here. And while I am, I’m going to be here. Be unafraid. Do everything, see everything—with Nicholas.

Trying on clothes is exhausting. I never realized it—until I’d done it for two hours straight. Just as I’m ready to ask for a break, the bedroom door opens—without a knock—and Prince Henry glides in. Carrying long-stemmed glasses and two bottles of Dom Perignon. He’s wearing a black cashmere sweater with a white collared shirt underneath and tan slacks. It’s a neat, preppy look that stands in contrast to his wild, wavy blond hair and the tattoo on his forearm peeking out beneath his rolled-up sleeve.

Henry Pembrook is a walking, living contradiction.

“Everyone’s working,” he says, holding up the bottles and glasses. “I’m bored. Let’s get day-drunk, Olive.”

I look down at Sabine as she fixes the hem on a pair of trim black pants, smiling around the pins in her mouth.

When in Rome…or Wessco…

“Okay.”

After the corks are sprung and the glasses full, Henry looks through the intimate apparel laid out on the bed. “This would look fantastic on you. And that one, there.” He plays with the pink ribbons that tie the front of a daring black lace bustier. “Do these open? Oh, they do—definitely this one—my brother will jizz in his pants when he sees you in it.”

He snatches a peach silk baby-doll nightie, shoving it in his pocket. “This color’s all wrong for you.”

“I don’t think it’s your size, Henry,” I tease. “Have you always liked women’s clothes?”

He smirks, reminding me of his brother. “I like women. I know women. I know one woman who would like this bit very much, and I would enjoy seeing her wearing it.”

Then he moves to the rack of cocktail dresses, going through them one by one. “Crap, crap, crap…”

Sabine is offended. “This is a Louis La Cher original.”

“Oh.” Henry wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Expensive crap.”

Then he stops at a sexy black satin number with lace trim. “This one. Definitely.” He holds it up in front of me. “In silver. It was made for you. Are you’re staying until the end of the summer?”

“That’s the plan.”

He glances to Sabine. “She’ll need a ball gown, too. Preferably something in pale blue.” Then he explains, “For the Summer Jubilee. It’s a party held every year here at the palace—a true ball—all top hats and tails and heaving bosoms. Everyone attends.”

“Then I guess I’ll need a ball gown.”

Henry approaches Sabine slowly, speaking in a string of rapid French. I have no idea what he’s saying, but I understand the blush that comes to her cheeks and the enamored glaze in her pretty eyes when she smiles and says, “Oui, Henry.”

While Sabine sorts the keepers from the rejects and sets up another round in the dressing area, Henry and I sit on the snow-white couch in the sitting room.

“So it’s just that easy for you, huh?” I ask him—referring to whatever proposition Sabine just agreed to with the naughty prince.

“Yes, just that easy.”

Then he downs his Champagne like a shot. And immediately refills his glass. In the sunlight, the planes of his cheeks cast shadows and his eyes, for a moment, take on a distant sheen. What were the words Nicholas used? Haunted. Hunted.

And the big sister in me opens her mouth.

“Are you okay, Henry? I know we just met, but…your brother…he’s worried about you.”

He forces a laugh. “Of course I’m okay. That’s my job—my one job—to be okay all the time.”

My hand finds his shoulder. “But it’s all right not to be. I mean, everyone loses it once in a while—no one’s okay all the time.” I sip my Champagne and add, “Except, probably, serial killers. And nobody wants to be around them.”

Henry laughs easier this time, and his soft green eyes drift over my face.

“I like you, Olivia. Truly. You’re sweet and…naturally honest. That’s rare around here.” He guzzles half his glass, then takes a big breath and says, “So because I like you, I’m going to give you some advice.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t get attached to my brother.”

Everything inside me goes cold, as though my bones turn to hollow icicles. But my palms are sweating.

“He doesn’t belong to you. He doesn’t even belong to himself.”

I swallow. “I understand that.”

“See—” he wags his finger “—you say that, but it doesn’t seem like you understand it—not when you’re looking at him.”