Emmy could tell that something strange was going on. The moment she had followed her father into the vast entrance hall of Highgrove, she had known that the last few weeks' of his weird behaviour were culminating in this evening. His secret phone calls that had been cut short whenever she had entered the room, his hushed conversations with Chelsea – it hadn't taken Emmy long to become suspicious. And the week before, when her father, Alexander, had invited her to this party, had practically forced her to come without actually forcing, Emmy had grown nervous. She had no idea what her father was planning, but if it had something to do with Highgrove then maybe she didn't want to know.
"Ah, Alexander."
Her father was greeted at the entrance to the banquet hall by the Prince of Wales, an old family friend whom Emmy had only had the luck of meeting once before in her life.
"Charles, how do you do?"
"I'm very well," Charles said, smiling, before he turned to Emmy. "Ah, this must be Emmaline."
Surprise flickered within her; he'd remembered her name. Wow. That was unexpected.
"Yes, this is Emmaline," Alexander answered, raising an eyebrow at her. "Say hello, Emmaline."
Emmy cringed at the use of her full name by her father. She outstretched a hand, a timid 'hello' falling from her mouth, but before she could urge the prince to call her 'Emmy', Alexander was talking once more.
"I shall take Emmaline in, you and Henry can come and join us when you have a moment."
"Of course, of course," Charles said, smiling warmly at them. Emmy frowned curiously, nervously even, as she followed her father into the hall. Henry? She didn't know a Henry. She didn't know whether she wanted to know a Henry either.
"Father," she murmured, running a few steps to catch up with him, for his large strides swept him away from her. "Who's Henry?"
Alexander smirked to himself. "You'll soon see."
Emmy didn't like that answer. She'll soon see? What if she didn't want to see? What if she didn't want to meet a 'Henry'?
The first half an hour was as boring as Emmy had predicted and anticipated. She stood beside her father and listened to dreary, monotonous conversations as he spoke to his friends about Chelsea and the children. Oh yes, he would say, Benedict's wife is expecting a baby. Oh yes, he would say, Lucy is engaged. Oh yes, he would say, Romeo has just started Eton. And Emmy listened, wondering what she had achieved. If she hadn't been there, would her father have had anything to tell his friends about her? Oh yes, he would have said, Emmaline has just gotten a job as a waitress, I know, I'm so proud!
After thirty minutes of listening to how great her siblings were, she was annoyed and feeling rather useless.
"Alexander!"
Alexander turned to the sound of Charles' voice, and Emmy's gaze followed reluctantly. Great, she thought, now Father can tell the heir to the throne how useless I am!
Already resigning herself to listening glumly to another dull conversation, Emmy almost looked away. Almost. She stopped as her eyes fell upon the man accompanying Prince Charles.
"Emmaline, this is Henry."
Henry?! Emmy almost kicked herself, wanting to smack her forehead for being so stupid. Henry. Of course she knew who Henry was. Everyone in the country knew who Henry was. Although most knew him under a different name.
"Pa-" The tall redhead shuffled uncomfortably, a hand rubbing the back of his neck as his head ducked. "Don't call me that."
Charles chuckled, and Alexander followed suit. "He's a menace, aren't you, Harry? Henry is your name, after all."
"No one calls me that." Harry's voice was deep, the most eloquent tone Emmy had ever heard, and she caught herself staring at him. She wasn't starstruck, no. More....surprised to see him. She hadn't prepared herself for meeting Charles' sons.
"Well, Henry," Charles said – he earned himself a scowl from his second son. "I have someone I want you to meet."
"Your highness," Alexander said graciously, bowing his head in respect. "This is Emmaline."
Emmy looked between the two fathers, confusion suddenly giving way to horror. What was this, some kind of aristocratic blind date? I have someone I want you to meet – why would Prince Charles want to introduce her to his son?! Why would her father want to introduce her to Prince Harry? She stared at Alexander: matchmaking seriously was not his strong point.
Alexander's smile disappeared, revealing a scowl, and he nodded tersely, impatiently urging her to turn to the prince. Emmy had no choice but to obey.
Harry was watching her, looking her up and down, not sure what to make of this small woman he was being presented with. Why was his father introducing the two of them? Who was she to him? He'd never seen her before. He had no reason to want to see her. Yes – she was pretty, remarkably attractive, even, but she looked no older than twenty, maybe even younger. What business did he have with a girl ten years younger than him?
"Emmy," Alexander hissed, loud enough that only his daughter could hear. Emmy hastily stumbled forward, a hand outstretched.
"Nice to meet you," she said, her words falling messily from her mouth, garbled. She saw the hint of a smile flicker in his eyes as he took her fingers in his and gently shook her hand.
"Nice to meet you too," he said. He may have been completely and utterly unamused at his father's attempt at introducing him to knew friends – or worse – but he wasn't going to take it out on this girl.
"Henry," Charles said, and Emmy couldn't miss the anger that passed from the son to the father at the continued use of his real name. "I was thinking that you could take Emmaline on a tour of the house?"
Alexander piped up, "I'd greatly appreciate it, Henry. Emmaline didn't really want to come tonight for she knew she'd be listening to my boring conversations all evening."
Harry didn't really look like he wanted to, but under Charles' stern gaze, he managed a smile and said, "Of course. I'll...get her out of your hair."
Both Alexander and Charles chuckled, but Emmy frowned. She didn't appreciate being spoken about as if she were an annoying child, about to be babysat. She turned her back on the two princes and gazed up at her father.
"I don't mind staying with you, Father," she said. "I'm fine."
He smiled affectionately down at her, but in his eyes he was severe and commanding. "Don't be silly, Emmaline. Go with Henry."
Two minutes later, Emmy found herself walking down an empty corridor with a man that wanted to be there no more than she did.
"For the record," Harry finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "I prefer to be called Harry."
Emmy managed a smile. "I guessed."
"I think my father did accidentally call me it earlier. I can't fathom why he was calling me Henry all of a sudden."
"Hmm, I don't know why my father was calling me Emmaline either. He doesn't normally."
Harry fixed her with a confused, mildly curious gaze. "What name do you like?"
"Emmy."
"Emmy?" He tested the name on his tongue, liking the way it fell from his lips. At that moment, he had no idea how many times he would say those two simple syllables in the future. "The name Emmaline, it's..."
"A mouthful?" she suggested.
"No." He chuckled. "Well, yes. But it's...different."
"It's French."
"Ah," he said. "I see."
"I was the only one of my siblings lucky enough to get a foreign name."
"I was the only one lucky enough to get red hair."
Emmy smiled. "There's nothing wrong with red hair."
"That's because you don't have red hair," he said, grinning. "Honestly, the amount of times someone calls me 'ginger' is unbelievable."
"Is ginger offensive?"
"Not to me."
They continued to walk in silence for a few moments, before Emmy said, "I don't know why my father was acting so weird."
"No, mine was as well."
"You don't need to take me for a tour, I'll just head back to the party-"
"No, it's fine," he said. "We'll only be bored there. I'll show you the garden."
She glanced out a window as they past, seeing the dark night which could only be freezing. She was wearing a thin dress. Reluctance burst within her, but she shyly said, "Okay."
Emmy followed him down corridors lined with famous portraits, before finally they reached some French doors which led to the grounds. The moon was crisp in the sky and sent rays of moonlight down to highlight the frozen grass. Emmy's breath steamed before her in the air as she followed him outside.
"Want one?"
She looked down to see Harry holding out a pack of cigarettes, and she hastily shook her head. "I don't smoke."
"Oh." He himself gazed down at the box, as though wondering whether he should smoke one, before he shrugged and took one out, shielding it from the icy wind with his hand as he lit it. After taking a puff, he sighed with content.
"Your dad doesn't know," Emmy observed, guessing from the way he'd desperately led her outside, the relief on his face as he'd inhaled the first bit of smoke.
"No, and he can't, either," Harry said. "So, you know, don't be a bitch and don't tell him."
Emmy arched an eyebrow. "I'm not mean enough to go and ruin your life for you, you know. After all, you're nice enough to get me out of my dad's hair."
Harry swallowed at her bitter tone. "About that, I didn't mean-"
"Yes you did," she said. "I may be short, but I'm not a child."
Emmy was indeed short. She barely came to his shoulders.
"I never said you were," Harry said. "Anyway, why are you here tonight? I've never seen you at any of these parties before."
She held out her hands in a confused, innocent way. "I have no idea. I guess for the same reason that my father's been whispering behind my back for the last few weeks."
Harry arched an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Mm-hmm. God knows why."
"Hmm." He looked as though he didn't know what to make of that information. He had also noticed his own father's different,somewhat agitated, behaviour, and he had spent the last week wondering what was the cause. "How old are you, Emmy?"
Emmy peered up at him for a few moments, one eyebrow raised, and her prolonged silence eventually attracted his attention. He glanced at her innocently, then shuffled, uncomfortable.
"Was that wrong to ask?"
"You never ask a lady her age," she said lightly, almost mocking.
"How about you tell me? Then I won't need to ask again."
"What does it matter?" she asked, shrugging gently. "Or does my height make you doubt my maturity?"
"I have nothing against your height."
"Are you wondering whether I'm legal?"
Harry managed a wry grin, before taking another puff of his cigarette. "I prefer blondes."
"I'm blonde," Emmy said too quickly. It wasn't exactly a lie: her hair, although more of a mousy brown, made her more of a blonde than a brunette.
"Forgive me for not wanting to jump into bed with a stranger," he replied cheekily.
"Oh." Her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth. "Sorry."
"Don't apologise," he said, leaning back against the wall and blowing into the cool air, the smoke looking remarkably like Emmy's breath that was visible as it fell from her mouth. "I've just had so many people try and squirm their way into bed with me, to then simply sell me out for money. I've even had a whole relationship from her desire for fame." He sighed. "So don't think you're fooling me."
"For the record, I didn't even know you were going to be here tonight," she said. "Nor do I need any of your money. My father has enough."
Harry surveyed her through the dark, the light from the inside of the house illuminating her face. She was classically beautiful, her skin pale and creamy, her eyes deep blue and sparkling. Her makeup was subtle, her gaze gentle. She looked younger than she maybe was, and she had an aura of innocence about her.
"You didn't answer my question," he said finally.
"Question?"
"How old are you?"
Emmy raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, before she took a step back, also pressing herself against the wall and turning her face to him. "Guess."
"Guess?" he quoted, before horror flickered on his face. "Well, this is going to end badly."
She laughed lightly, a soft sound. "Just try. I won't be offended."
"You look young."
Emmy's smile was encouraging. "I am."
"You barely look – how did you so aptly put it? – legal."
Her smile seemed a bit more forced. "I assure you I am. But barely, like you said."
"You can't be sixteen."
Emmy laughed incredulously. "Do I look that young?!"
"No, but you said barely-"
"I'm not sixteen."
"Seventeen?"
"Not seventeen either."
"Eighteen?"
"Are you just going to keep guessing until you get the right age?" She arched an eyebrow at him, and he grinned sheepishly.
"Not eighteen, then."
"No," she said, staring ahead of her, at the dark void that was the grounds of his father's estate. "But close."
Harry desperately didn't want to offend her, so he carried on counting. "Nineteen?"
Emmy smiled. "Well done."
"You're nineteen?"
"Yep. Nearly twenty"
"Youngster," he said, almost teasing. "Oh to be so young and carefree again."
"I'm guessing you're not twenty."
He barked a laugh. "I wish. No, I've got the big Three-Oh coming up."
"Ooh, fun."
Harry scowled at her sarcasm. "If you thought the responsibilities at twenty were bad, just you wait."
"Do you know what you're getting?"
"I'm getting a night at a concert for my birthday," he said. "The Invictus Games. The closing ceremony. It's on my birthday."
"Convenient," Emmy said. She lived in Central London and had heard all about the upcoming Invictus Games on the news. "I bet you did that on purpose."
"I didn't, actually," he said, grinning. "But you can still buy me a present. Don't worry."
"Oh yes, let's pretend we're actually going to see each other again after this."
"I'm sure our dads will bully us into it."
Again, the subject concerning her father and his apparent attempt at matchmaking took over her mind, and she sighed, leaning back against the wall. "I wonder why."
"I don't know about you, but my father often likes to have a say in who I date. Obviously he doesn't tell me who to date, but he always gives his opinion. No matter what."
"Well, I haven't had many boyfriends, so I don't know how my father would be." Emmy seemed almost ashamed to reveal her embarrassing romantic history, but Harry didn't bat an eyelid. He, too, hadn't had many girls to call his own by the time he was twenty. He only started getting alright-looking after his eighteenth, and almost straight away he'd met Chelsy.
"Do you think it's nearly time to go back?" Emmy asked.
"You kidding? I've only had one cigarette. Your dad won't even have finished his first conversation."
She huffed and tipped her head back, letting her eyes wander across the star-ridden sky. "It's cold."
"You should smoke. It warms you up."
"It warms you up with cancer," she answered instantly, turning disapproving eyes to him.
Harry shrugged and put his finished cigarette out. "If you smoked, you wouldn't say that."
They stood in silence for a while, Emmy trying to forget the shivers attempting to force their way down her spine while Harry slipped his hands in his pockets, trying to warm them from being exposed to the cold air. It may be August, but it was a cold night.
"You didn't want to come tonight?" he finally asked.
"No," she said instantly. "Not at all. My dad bullied me into it."
"Bullied?"
"He..." She sighed. "He has a way of talking to you, he makes you want to obey him. And if you don't, he makes you feel guilty. To the point that you actually just do what he asked in the first place."
"Passive aggressive?" Harry said.
"I suppose," she replied, then ducked her head and tucked her hair behind her ear. "It's cold, can we go inside?"
"Sure, I'm supposedly giving you a tour of the house, after all. Not just the French windows."
Emmy wasn't in the mood for laughing; she quietly thanked him for opening the door for her, before he followed her back inside.
"Anywhere you want to see?"
"Anywhere worth seeing?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"My bedroom," he said casually, then laughed to himself and hastily added, "I'm joking, I'm joking."
"You've already given me the 'I don't sleep with strangers' talk."
"Right. Sorry." He racked his brains, desperately wondering where he could take her to pass some more time. Neither of them wanted to be at this party, they might as well resent their fathers together. Tentatively, he asked, "Do you read?"
Emmy turned unamused eyes to his. "Can I read or do I like reading?"
"Do you like reading?" he said, half-smiling.
"I do, yes."
"Shall I show you the library?"
A smile flickered on her face. "That would be great."
He led her down another corridor, somehow knowing his way round the never-ending maze of the first floor, then he gestured to an open door. "In here."
Emmy adored reading. Many times she'd lost herself in a good book to distract from the mayhem and pain of her real life, putting herself in the shoes of a wizard, or cancer-ridden lovers, a girl trapped in Nazi Germany or a family of sisters all trying to find love. She stepped inside, and a smile instantly lit up her face.
"Wow."
Wow was an understatement. Never had she seen so many books in one place. Not even at her home library, though not many of her family enjoyed the pastime. Rows and rows of bookshelves, each of them stacked with delicately bound books, the titles scrawled in sparkling, silver writing. The nearest shelf had an Ad printed on the oak. So they were in alphabetical order.
Harry watched her take it in, amused. "Like it?"
"I'm jealous, all right."
"Choose whichever you want," he said, walking languidly to the armchairs at the far end of the room, crowded round an empty log fire. "You've got all evening to read it."
Emmy's lip once again disappeared between her teeth, and she nibbled nervously, wondering how on Earth she would choose a book out of so many screaming to her. Worrying about not being able to finish it before the party was up, she settled for a thin book of short stories that had caught her eye. Moving almost on tip-toes for fear of breaking the calm silence, she set herself in the chair opposite Harry and opened the book.
It was amazing how unaffected she was by his presence. He sat there on his phone, playing a game by the sound of it, for he cursed every now and again under his breath, and she read her book, lost in its pages. She even managed to forget he was there, before he reminded her with the simple question, "Any good?"
She jumped slightly and looked up. "Yes. Great."
"Good," he said, setting his mobile down on the arm of his chair and sighing. "Flappy Bird will be the end of me."
"Flappy Bird?"
"You know, the game."
"Oh, that."
"It's not some weird porn site, don't worry."
Emmy looked at him, confused, then shook her head to herself and returned to her book. He was so much older than her, and it noted. At nineteen, she was shy and, to an extent, innocent. Her father had always been enough to keep the boys from throwing rocks at her window, that and the fact that she had gone to an all-girls boarding school. They'd played truth or dare, they'd snuck alcohol in and had gotten drunk, but Emmy had never taken part in their games. She'd stood watch, or she'd been the one who called the shots. She'd been drunk a total of twice. She'd never, and she didn't like to admit it, but she'd never... done that.
And there Harry was, talking casually about porn and preferring blondes and joking about his bedroom. Not only were their ages miles apart, but they were too. He was a usual lad, liked to flirt with girls and take one home. Emmy had never even been taken home.
They dissolved into silence once more. Emmy had no idea how long she read, but she'd finished half of the short stories in the book by the time someone entered the room.
"Ah, here you are," Alexander said. He had his coat on, and Emmy's was draped over his arm. "Ready to go?"
Emmy got to her feet and nodded, smiling. "Ready."
From the corner of her eye, she saw Harry lazily stand up too.
"Thank you, Henry," Alexander said, smiling warmly at the young man. "You've saved Emmy from an evening of bore."
Harry chuckled dismissively. "Any time."
She handed Harry the book and smiled shyly. "Thank you. For the evening."
"You're welcome." The night hadn't been that bad after all.
"And thank you for showing me this." She cast her eyes up, over the room that they were in, and she smiled.
Harry couldn't help but smile back. "You're welcome," he said again.
He showed Alexander and Emmy to the door, where his father was waiting. Charles shook hands with Alexander before stooping to kiss Emmy's cheek in farewell.
"It's been wonderful seeing you," Charles said, smiling at them both. "I'm sure we'll see each other again soon."
Emmy highly doubted that. She hadn't seen Charles since she was ten. Another nine years before they would meet again.
"Henry, say goodbye to Emmaline."
Harry's eyebrows rose. "Goodbye to Emmaline," he said cheekily.
"Henry."
He sighed, turning to her and smiling tiredly. "Goodbye."
"A proper goodbye, Henry."
Harry growled in frustration and impatience and took Emmy's hand. He didn't feel right kissing her cheek, he could feel so many eyes on him anyway. He pressed his lips to her skin, avoiding her gaze, then dropped her palm and stood back.
"Happy now?" he hissed at his father, before turning on his heel and stalking from the room.
Charles sighed. "He'll be a lot politer next time," he told Emmy.
Then, all of a sudden, Emmy and her father were on their way. She sat in the cool leather seat in the back of the car and let her head tip back.
That had been a pointless evening. But nice, nonetheless.