Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

He loved when she wore her hair up like that, showing her long, slender neck.

And where had she found that gown? Emerald green silk, one-shouldered, perfectly fit and cascading down her body, save for a slit up one thigh. She looked as regal as an empress.

He would usually have felt uncomfortable with something so attention-grabbing. After all, the higher echelons of London society were still conservative compared to what she was probably used to back home. But he had seen her at enough parties to know that she charmed everyone she met. He didn’t have to worry about her.

This evening would be a little different than usual. Black had been invited—by the commissioner himself—to a private party thrown by the Home Secretary in honor of his wife’s fiftieth birthday.

Black rarely hobnobbed with the British political elite. The commissioner had invited him because Black was considered a rising star in the London police. In line for promotion to commander within a few months, and maybe eventually to the commissioner position itself.

They liked using him as a poster-boy: the chav who had risen through the ranks with such speed and perfection, and such excellent absorption of the rules of the game, spoken and unspoken.

Because that, of course, was the part that was actually difficult. Not solving cases—he was very good at that. The hard part was learning the right vocabulary and the right methods of pronunciation, the right way to dress and to behave, the right people to trade favors with. That was how you got ahead.

Black hated the games he had to play. Though he never let it show, he resented them. The wealthy that had been born that way. The people who didn’t have to work to get to the same place to which he had to kick and claw and struggle for years.

Had Lex grown up rich or poor? It was so hard to tell. She didn’t like to talk about her family or her childhood. He hoped she would be more open with him once they were married.

Assuming she said yes.

He had the ring, already bought. He’d been carrying it around in his breast pocket for a month, looking for the right moment to bring it out.

Of course, there had been plenty of moments—after a particularly enthusiastic session in bed, during a walk through the falling leaves in Hyde Park, when he’d taken her to dinner at Le Pont de la Tour.

The real reason he hadn’t yet proposed was because he wasn’t sure of her answer. He thought that she loved him. But he could never be certain.

Black knew that most women would consider him a catch. He was 190 cm tall, broad shouldered, blond, handsome. A decorated police officer, who had solved several prestigious cases, including saving the hostages from the bombing of the NSC building, a feat that had made him the hero of the city for a time.

Yet, Lex wasn’t like most women. He’d never seen her equal for intelligence or beauty. And she had that wildness to her.

So, he kept the ring with him at all times, looking for the right opportunity, the moment when he felt sure she’d say yes.

It was a perfect ring, just what he knew she would like. White gold and diamond, antique, probably made in 1890, or close thereto, in jolly old England. She had told him that Art Nouveau was her favorite style. He made sure the slender little band would be small enough to fit her hand.

She worked in art appraisal, so he knew it had to be something special. Something she’d be proud to wear, that fit her tastes.

Of course, he couldn’t afford the size of stone she really deserved, but maybe eventually. After a few more promotions.

He liked the finer things in life. He could tell she did too, from the few items she kept in her sparse apartment. Her place was near empty and always scrupulously clean, but what she had looked expensive and tasteful.

For his part, Black was enjoying driving this hired car. It was heavy and substantial. It handled smoothly.

It smelled like new leather. Maybe they’d have a car like this someday, and a little house.

He kept no vehicle of his own, usually. He lived in the heart of London and drove a patrol car when required. But you couldn’t pull up to the Home Secretary’s house in a cab, so he’d rented something fancy for the night.

They were coming up to the place now. He’d never been in Hamstead Garden before, though of course he knew of it. It was one of the most prestigious suburbs in London. The poshest street of all was The Bishop’s Avenue, where the Home Secretary’s mansion took pride of place.

The house itself was a massive red brick monstrosity, rather squarish, with lots of chimneys and brightly-lit rectangular windows. It had a pretty, private drive up to the front, lined with trees, but the actual house seemed to have been built in stages, with a large four-story addition tacked on to the right side like some sort of growth.

“Not very aesthetic, is it?” Black said to Lex.

“Mmm,” she said, in mild agreement.

Black saw that she wasn’t looking at the house at all. She seemed to be scanning the grounds, glancing around at the gates, the guardhouse, and the valets parking the many cars for the partygoers.

It was so funny how she never seemed to be looking at quite the same things as him. There was something different in the way their minds worked.

“I heard they rushed through the purchase a few years ago to avoid the higher Stamp Duty costs,” Black told her. “Probably saved them almost two million pounds. You’d think if you could afford this place, you wouldn’t care about taxes, but the rich always seem to want to get a deal, don’t they?”