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“Sure, if we’re not committing a breaking and entering.”
He held out his hand. “We’ll be okay.”
She studied the gesture, recognizing the implicit trust accepting it required. Heeding her gut, she slid her hand into his and followed him into the house.
In the first room they came to, the largest rug she’d ever seen covered the gleaming dark wooden floor. The same wood shrouded the walls, carved into an exquisite, intricate design. The amount of work it must’ve taken to complete this room, large as some apartments, would’ve been insane. And when she looked up, she was stunned by the masterpiece of elaborate composition on the ceiling.
It was a spectacular place.
“It must be awe-inspiring to live in something that qualifies as a work of art,” she breathed, staring out at the magnificent view framed by windows dressed in luxurious draperies, made from a glimmering floral fabric.
“You’ve seen one drawing room, you’ve seen them all,” he said, hands in his pockets, the picture of casual elegance.
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. It’s nice, but there’s a space like this in many country homes. I spent much of my childhood in rooms like this one.”
Wow.
Her smile held little amusement as she turned away from him and strode over to the large floor-to-ceiling, eighteenth-century fireplace. In only a week, she’d come to see him as Jay, this smart, sexy British professor whose mouth, whether it was his accent or his tongue, scrambled her insides.
But he wasn’t Jay. He was Prince Jameson. Of course he’d seen lots of places like this one.
“We had entirely different upbringings. The only time I would’ve seen anything like this would’ve been in a museum.”
The privileged ennui slid from his face. “I must sound like a right prat. I’m sorry.”
She waved his words away with a nonchalant gesture. Maybe he’d been experiencing the same thing she’d been. Seeing her as Duchess, but forgetting she’d grown up as Dani.
In the States, and by her fans, her upbringing was pretty well known. And if it wasn’t, they would’ve correctly assumed part of it, believing “real” rappers only came from poverty.
A discussion for another day.
But Jay had seen the outer trimmings and thought this was how she’d always lived.
Another difference between them.
“Was it difficult for you? Your childhood?” he asked.
She stiffened, automatically anticipating the morbid fascination that usually accompanied that question.
“Sometimes. But I wouldn’t change anything. It made me who I am today.”
His bark of amusement jarred her.
She flinched. “Seriously? You find my pain amusing?”
“Of course not,” he said with a knowing look. “But while our experiences were different, our public response to it is the same.”
“Excuse me?”
“I recognize a canned answer when I hear one. On the rare occasions I am forced to grant an interview and am asked what it’s like growing up royal, I say”—he cleared his throat—“we’re like most families in that we have our share of eccentricities, traditions, and family disagreements. Ours happens to capture the interest of millions of people, instead of just our neighbors.”
She stared at him and they both burst out laughing.
She pressed her palms to her aching cheeks. “It’s really ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“It is. No one wants the real truth.”
