Page 85 of Royally Wed
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
No.
No!
Amelia was screaming inside.
Asher couldn’t leave. She had to stop him. But it was too late. His performance had brought the house down. She’d never heard anything like it and never would again. People were clapping and cheering so loud that the chandeliers shook. If she called his name, he’d never hear her. The church was too noisy, and he was moving much too fast.His footsteps were swallowing up the space between the altar and the grand entrance.
And in the blink of an eye, he was gone. He’d left everything behind.
His cello.
His bow.
Her.
“No,” Amelia whispered. Her throat felt achy, raw. Like she hadn’t spoken in years.
The archbishop gave her an odd look. “I’ve never heardthe cello played like that before. I wonder where he went. He’s reallysomething, isn’t he?”
You have no idea.
Holden cleared his throat. “Shall we get on with things, then?”
“No,” Amelia said, louder this time.
The archbishop’s gaze flitted toward the BBC television cameras and then back to Amelia. “What did you say, Your Royal Highness?”
“I said no.” It felt good to say it out loud. Right. And now that she’d done it, her fears began to fall away, one by one.
Fear of disappointing her family. Fear of losing the crown. And mostly, fear of never being the perfect daughter.
She wasn’t perfect. She never would be. But if Asher could stare his fear in the face and overcome it, so could she. She could do the right thing and face the consequences, whatever they may be. She could bring the house down just like he had.
“Amelia, what are you doing?” Holdenblinked. His face went pale against the deep red jacket of his military uniform, but somewhere beneath the panic in his gaze, Amelia spied something else.
Relief. Just the barest hint of it, but it was there.
He didn’t want this any more than she did. How could he when he was in love with someone else?
“I can’t marry you, Holden,” she said.
“Thank God,” Eleanor groaned from the second pew.
“Turn off the cameras!” someone yelled.
Her mother. Of course.
She was standing in the first pew with her chin raised in defiance and pointing at the camera crews from BBC, ITN, and Sky News. “As your queen, I order you to stop filming at once.”
The journalists—who numbered nearly two dozen altogether—exchanged worried glances. One by one, the red lights went dark on their television cameras.
“Your Majesty.” The nearest cameraman from the BBC cleared his throat. “The fixed cameras are being manned remotely. We can’t control those from inside the church.”
He pointed toward the ceiling, where tiny, nearly invisible cameras continued to document the ceremony, giving the entire world an aerial view of the unfolding chaos.
