Emma's breath hitched as she stepped from the car. "You didn't say—"

"I said it was at Gran's," I reminded her as I took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

She squeezed my hand back. Hard.

"Yes, but you didn't say it was at a castle," she gritted out at her eyes scanned the grid of windows looming down at us.

"It's her home!"

"It's bloody Windsor Castle!" she practically yelped.

Even from the private entrance, I had to admit there was no ignoring the castle's enormity.

I pivoted on my heel to face her and began to stroke the hand adorned with her ring.

"It's just a casual dinner," I lied.

Emma shot me a look dead in the eye calling my bluff.

I sighed. "Alright fine, maybe not on the same level as our dinners in Kerry with your mum but—"

"I don't think I'll ever get used to this Tom," Emma cut me off in a hushed whisper as her eyes drifted wearily back to the windows. "The castles, the... the people always watching what we do."

I cleared my throat and then nodded down at my shoes. "Would, uh, would you like the car to take you back to the flat?"

Emma's eyes flashed to mine, wide in shock. "No! Tom of course not!"

She scooped up my other hand and squeezed both of them until her knuckles shown white in the quickly fading dusk. "No," she repeated emphatically.

I couldn't help but sigh in relief as I bowed slightly forward, my forehead just resting on hers.

"All I meant," she started again, returning to a hoarse whisper. "Was that even with time, I don't think I'll ever acclimate. That, I'll need you to be patient with me."

Her breath tickled my nose as a laugh caught in the back of her throat.

"I'm glad to be in your world, Tom, really I am. But it's not the one most of us grew up in."

I laughed, too. "Suppose not."

"For me, dinner at gran's meant fish and chips at the local pub."

I leaned back, aghast. I had seen pictures of Emma's grandmother and from the woman's delicate frame and impeccable dress, I had a hard time ever imagining that woman stepping foot in a pub—let alone bringing her granddaughter along.

"That's my mum's mum," she giggled as if reading my mind. "My da's mum was always in the pub—she owned the place after all."

I tucked Emma's hand in the crook of my elbow and turned us both to face the daunting castle.

"Well there will be plenty of booze inside as well," I said nodding at the gargantuan structure.

Emma hummed. "Guinness from the tap?"

I laughed again. "'Fraid not. More likely cognac or wine from a decanter."

Emma tisked mockingly in response. "Granny would be scandalized."

"Are you ready?" I murmured as I tucked an errant curl behind Emma's ear.

She had styled it herself and left it down, with just one side pinned back and the rest cascading down in silky curls. I had been doubtful when Emma had announced she'd gone shopping with Cynthia, but the dress was perfect: emerald green, elegantly draping and emphasizing her curves in a way that still made my mouth run dry yet would surely meet the conservative approval of my grandmother.

"Yes," she nodded, suddenly somber. "I am."

"I love you," I grinned.

"Damn well should," she mumbled before she inhaled sharply and strode toward the door.

* * *

The door Emma had been aiming for was the servant door, which would have led us through the kitchens and into the wine cellar, which in all reality really wouldn't have been such a bad place to end up.

The door I steered us through led to a marble entryway flanked by two sets of stairs, which in turn opened up to my grandmother's private apartments. When my uncle ascended the throne, he and my aunt announced they preferred residing in Buckingham and insisted Gran stay on.

It was kind of them, of my aunt particularly, who I knew favored quiet country life to the hubbub of the city. At the time, my grandfather's dementia had almost entirely robbed him of his senses so that most of his days were spent in a sort of delirium. It was for the best he remained somewhere familiar and my grandmother somewhere comfortable with lots of rooms in which she could privately mourn the loss of her husband. She stayed on after his death with my aunt joining her most weekends and family dinners punctuating each month.

I grinned down at Emma as we ascended the stairs. She hardly caught it though as her eyes were roaming wildly over the mass of paintings secured to the walls. Her eyes only widened as we made our way down the corridor and the portraits of my ancestors became increasingly familiar to her.

But it was a real-life figure that brought me to a halt.

Emma gracefully caught her footing and glanced up at me in question before undoubtedly noting my tight smile and following my gaze to my mother standing in foyer directly between us and parlour, from where I could already hear the clinking of glasses and the murmur of conversation.

Mum's smile widened as she stepped toward us. "Tommy..."

"Hiya, Mum," I greeted her with a brief hug.

She patted my cheek as we pulled away and turned to Emma. "And this must be your Emma."

Emma went to extend her hand to my mother but suddenly froze. Despite my urging not to, Emma had spent the afternoon trying to memorize every royal protocol in hopes of avoiding a gaff.

I opened my mouth to intercede but my mother graciously took her hand in her own.

"Th-thank you for having me," Emma managed to stammer out. "I'm honored to be invited to your family's dinner."

My mother smiled primly. "Of course, dear. It is lovely to finally meet you in person. I've heard so much about you."

Emma flushed crimson at that, but Mum only laughed and waved her hand.

"You mustn't pay those damn magazines any mind," she whispered in a conspiratorial tone. "The minute you do, they win. Simple as that."

For once in my life, I was grateful to have been tutored in the finer arts of society as it now helped maintain a calm exterior while inwardly I was gaping at my mother.

Could this possibly be the same woman who had practically shouted at me in a tea room? Who, for all intents and purposes, accused me of being a liar and suggested Emma—who she was now practically embracing—had been the cause?!

Emma nodded and then smiled hesitantly. "Yes, ma'am."

"Eliza, that's what my family calls me," she corrected as she patted Emma's hand one more time before releasing it. "And that's what you shall me, assuming that you two are..."

I groaned audibly at my mother's goading as Emma's cheeks roared to life with a fresh wave of heat.

"Mum—"

"Eliza," Emma squeaked before clearing her throat. "Eliza... it is then."

My mouth hung open just slightly as my mother nodded in approval and steered the two of us toward the open door.

I suppose if this were a well-staged drama, conversations would have hushed into silence and all eyes would have locked onto us as we stepped into the room. But of course, this was not a BBC or Masterpiece mini-series. This was my family.

Matilda's children—my niece and nephew—were bouncing on the sofa while their mother stealthily pulled her phone from her clutch. Cynthia was not at all attempting to be stealthy as she typed away on her blackberry, steadfastly ignoring Charlie's animated retelling of some apparently hysterical happening. Robert, Charlie's elder brother, sat stiffly with his wife, Margaret, on a nearby sofa. His mother, my aunt, was perched in a chair attempting to entice Gran to sit down, but Gran ignored her and instead stood in the center of it all, clapping in time with the bouncing of the children.

Mum waved my father over from the window where he had been speaking with Uncle Henry. My father nodded amiably before clasping his brother on the shoulder and striding toward us.

"Ms. Henderson, I presume," he greeted her warmly as he held out his palm.

Emma grinned sheepishly as she slipped her hand into his. "And you must be Tom's father. It's lovely to meet you."

"Ah, and I you!" He declared theatrically. "My son is quite besotted by you, you know."

Emma's eyebrows shot up in surprise by his frankness. "I..."

"Well of course you know," he continued in his grandiose tone. "No son of mine would present a young woman such as your self a ring such as that without offering her sweet words—and perhaps an offer—first, now would he?"

Emma merely sucked her lips between her teeth and smiled thinly.

"Dad..." I warned him as I stepped up beside her.

He dropped Emma's hand and raised both of his up in innocence. "Fine, fine. Keep your secrets, this family is full of them."

"He teasing," I assured Emma.

My father chuckled before asking me, "What will she drink?"

I glanced down at Emma. "Red wine?"

She nodded, and my father sent her a wink before heading off to the drink cart.

"He's a character..." I mumbled.

"I've read stories about him," Emma whispered as her gaze drifted from my father to my grandmother and the children. "They got it all wrong, all wrong."

"Perhaps not all wrong," I sighed heavily as my uncle stormed across the parlour headed directly for us.