Page 52 of Deposed

“Are they both bisexual?”

“Edward’s mostly straight, although he likes to watch. Henry… He’s never expressed an interest in anyone else until you.”

“Are you and Henry a couple?”

He paused. “Best friends with benefits.”

My hand, which had been rubbing up and down Blake’s abs bumped his silk-covered erection.

Blake chuckled. “Sorry about that. It has a mind of its own.”

A tiny laugh bubbled up in my chest. “I’m not complaining.”

Someone rattled the door. Blake raised his head. “Bugger off!”

A mechanism turned, and an elegant woman stepped into the room, her dark eyes blazing. Flanking her were two burly men who were either bodyguards or plain-clothed detectives. From the black hair swept in a messy chignon, dark skin, high cheekbones, and full lips, she could only be one person. Blake’s mother.

“Boy,” she snapped. “I’ve just had to take a helicopter from Balmoral because eight different members of staff have called my husband with news that my son is hiding a battered girl in his room. What the hell is going on?”

Chapter 18

Mrs. Simpson-West strode to the end of the bed, clad in a teal, one-piece suit I suspected was backless. She wore it with a pearl necklace and a matching tuxedo-style jacket. In real life and up close, the woman was stunning. She combined the slender figure of a young Bianca Jagger with the curves of Mata Hari. Dark, olive skin stretched over sharp, prominent cheekbones that set off huge, ebony eyes framed by long, dark lashes. The only visible scrap of makeup on her face was blood-red lipstick on her full, sensual lips. Long, loose curls hung down from the front of her chignon, framing her face to dramatic effect.

Rolling back to my nest of pillows, I turned my gaze to Blake, not wanting to continue gaping at his mother.

Blake sat up and scowled. “You could have called.”

“And missed another one of your antics? Does Henry know of your new proclivity for battering women, or will he read about it in another article of the Sunday Correspondent?”

I bit down on my lip. Did she really think Blake was in a relationship with Henry just because she saw the pictures of them together?

Blake’s nostrils flared. “Saturday.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What did you say?”

“It’s the Saturday Correspondent, Mother,” he spat the last word like an insult.

I pushed myself up. “Ummmm…”

Mrs. Simpson-West’s eyes softened. “Yes, dear?”

“I don’t know how to address you.”

“Lucia.” She gave me a tight smile.

“The Duchess of Surrey,” said a middle-aged man in a black uniform who I suspected was the servant who had tried twice to enter the room. “Or Ma’am.”

My insides cringed. The English said the word a little differently to Americans, and I didn’t want to offend her by pronouncing it wrong. And I didn’t want to ask if I needed to call her Lady Lucia in front of the servants and detectives. Blake’s silk pajamas covered my body, but everyone could see what had become of my face.

I gave myself a mental slap. None of this mattered. If I didn’t speak up for Blake, he’d probably get sent to rehab or have to suffer some other unnecessary penance. “I got abducted by two men last night, and Blake risked his life to save me.”

Confusion twisted her elegant features, and she turned to Blake and crossed her arms. I caught sight of her white knuckles, pursed lips, and narrowed eyes and guessed that she was about to ask why he had risked his life for someone he didn’t know.

Actually, Mrs. Simpson-West looked the type to object to Blake bringing a stray to the palace, so I blurted out, “I’m not a stranger. My name’s Emilia Hobson. I’m—”

“Rudolph Trommel’s new stepdaughter,” she said.

“Yes.” My brows drew together. Did she know Rudolph, or had Blake spoken to his mother about me? “And I’m Blake’s classmate.”