Her lips tasted of wine and possibility. I drew back just enough to see her face, to memorize the way sunlight filtered through the canopy above us and painted dappled patterns across her skin. Lola Humphreys - daughter of my brother's most vocal critics, crasher of royal weddings, follower of prophetic dreams - was somehow perfect in ways I couldn't have imagined before yesterday. Leon purred contentedly in my mind, a sensation so foreign I almost laughed aloud. Centuries of careful diplomacy, of maintaining the perfect mask of the dutiful second son, and now I found myself undone by a single kiss in a forest clearing.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, her fingers still resting lightly against the nape of my neck.
"That you're nothing like I expected the daughter of Lord Humphreys to
