Holding Court Read Free Page A

hope to be.
    But despite the utter lack of romantic possibilities, I am apparently incapable of passing up the chance to ogle a tights-wearing Grayson Chandler from afar, because just before one thirty I find myself cursing Cami under my breath as I pedal into the staff parking lot at Tudor Times.

Chapter Three
    The Maid of Kent
    I find a place to lock my bike and attempt to revive my helmet hair before reporting for my interview. I’ve never been inside the famed Lunewood Castle before, although I snuck onto the grounds once with Cami on a dare. Up until last year it had been owned by old Mrs. Lune, whose husband’s grandfather had the castle shipped over stone by stone from his ancestral homeland as a gift for his bride. The whole marriage thing hadn’t turned out so well for the original Mr. Lune, who was rumored to be a pervy nutjob, but the castle was pretty amazing.
    Old Mrs. Lune had come into my mom’s antique shop once, but I’d scared her off when I blurted something about not being afraid of alligators and hot pants. Mom was seriously peeved, considering how much money Mrs. Lune has to spend on Fabergé ashtrays.
    Anyway, after refusing offers from interested buyers for years, last year Mrs. Lune had suddenly decided to retire to Florida. She sold Lunewood Castle to Hank Bacon, aka King Henry, an über-wealthy Tudor fanatic who, according to the internet research I’d done in preparation for my interview, had made his millions by inventing some sort of hemorrhoid gel. Hank apparently had a thing for Henry VIII and thought everyone else should, too, because he’d decided to turn Lunewood Castle into a Tudor-themed tourist attraction.
    Tudor Times had opened a few months ago, and the citizens of Lunevale were pretty much split down the middle on how they felt about it. The half that liked the idea saw job opportunities and tourist dollars; the half that didn’t griped about the fact that the castle had been bought by a nutcase with a Tudor obsession. But since “nutcase with a Tudor obsession” also described the original Mr. Lune, I’m not sure what all the fuss was about, especially since most of Lunevale gets off on being Quirky Town, USA. Plus, Hank Bacon had opened the castle to anyone who was willing to pay the price of admission, whereas the Lunes had been notoriously snooty.
    All I want from Tudor Times is the chance to make some money and to ogle Grayson Chandler from afar. And possibly wear a sumptuous gown that gives me awesome cleavage.
    Lunewood Castle sits on a hill overlooking Lune Valley and is everything you’d expect a castle to be, right down to the lily pads floating in the moat. I follow the hedge-lined gravel path that leads from the parking lot to the rear of the castle and pass a small courtyard in which a bunch of sweaty guys in tights are thwacking each other around with wooden practice swords. As I’m craning to see if one of them is Grayson, I run smack into someone’s sweaty chest.
    “Excuse me, milady,” Sweaty Chest says, grabbing my arms to keep me from falling.
    I look up at his face and make a sound between a whimper and a sigh. It’s Grayson Chandler, and he looks like he just stepped out of one of my Princess Bride fantasies. His brown hair is perfectly tousled, and he has on a flowy white shirt with a slit down the front that exposes his chest and a hint of his infamous abs. I look into his mesmerizing green eyes and instead of saying something spectacularly witty like, “Is that your sword or are you just happy to see me?” I blurt, “The Hepplewhite hides the boogers!” Then I tear myself out of his grip and run the rest of the way to the castle without looking back.
    I pull open the door marked Servant’s Entrance and take a second to catch my breath. I’m leaning over with my hands on my knees when an enormous pair of embroidered white leather Mary Janes steps into my line of vision. I look up to see a crusty old guy dressed in a red uniform with a poufy