Sovereign. pt 2 (Patreon)

Summary: Harry, crown prince and a spirited commoner are drawn together, defying society, duty, and the rules of the ton.

Author's note: Let me know! What you think! 

 The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of fresh dew and blooming lavender as Hyde Park stretched before them in quiet splendor. The world was awake but not yet bustling—the perfect hour for a private engagement, or at least as private as a prince’s promenade could be.

Harry stood tall, gloved hands clasped behind his back as he waited near the park’s entrance, his dark navy coat crisp against the morning light. He had never particularly cared for such outings—mindless strolls accompanied by idle chatter—but today, something unfamiliar curled in his chest.

Anticipation.

And then, she arrived.

Lady Y/N stepped down from the carriage, her gloved fingers barely grazing the hand of the footman who assisted her. The soft blue of her gown complemented the delicate flush on her cheeks, no doubt from the chill of the morning. But it was not her appearance that held Harry’s attention.

It was the way she moved.

Not with the precise, calculated grace of the other women in the ton, but with something unpolished—charming in its own way. As she approached, her steps were a touch too hurried, and when she reached him, she dipped into a curtsy that was almost too deep, as if overcompensating for her own lack of perfect poise.

Clumsy.

The thought amused him.

"Your Highness," she greeted, lifting her gaze to meet his.

A lesser woman would have bowed her head, spoken in meek tones, and waited for him to speak first. But she… she was already watching him, already studying him, as if she had yet to decide whether this moment would amuse her or bore her entirely.

Harry fought the urge to smile.

"Lady Y/N," he returned smoothly, extending his arm. "Shall we?"

She hesitated—just for a second. As if weighing the implications of slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. Then, with a quiet breath, she did.

And the moment her fingers curled around his sleeve, something in his chest tightened.

They walked in measured steps, the sound of gravel crunching beneath their shoes the only noise between them for a long moment.

Then, she sighed.

"Forgive me, Your Highness," she murmured, "but I must ask… do you enjoy promenades?"

Harry turned his head slightly. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you do not seem to enjoy them," she replied, glancing up at him, mischief glinting in her eyes. "In fact, I daresay you look rather bored."

His lips twitched. "I am hardly bored."

"No?" she mused. "And yet, you have glanced over your shoulder three times, as if in search of an escape."

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Observant, aren’t you?"

"I must be," she said airily. "How else am I to keep up with the game of court?"

"Ah, so this is a game to you?"

She tilted her head, a playful glint in her gaze. "Is it not?"

Harry fell silent at that. Because perhaps, to everyone else, it was a game—an endless round of strategies, alliances, and silent victories won with nothing but a well-timed glance.

But not with her.

With her, it felt… different.

And that was precisely what made her dangerous.

As they continued down the path, Harry caught sight of two noblewomen seated on a nearby bench, their conversation abruptly stopping the moment their eyes landed on them. Y/N noticed as well, though instead of feigning ignorance, she let out a quiet sigh.

"You see?" she said. "Already, the court watches."

Harry hummed. "Do they always watch you so closely?"

"Not usually," she admitted, casting him a knowing look. "But then again, I am not usually on the arm of the future king."

Something about the way she said it—lightly, teasingly—made his grip on his gloves tighten.

He did not want her to see him as a prince first.

And yet, how could she not?

After all, that was what she was supposed to see.

He had been raised to be watched. To be measured, assessed, and ultimately claimed by whatever choice best suited the needs of the crown.

And yet, when she turned to him—her expression amused, her steps just slightly uneven as if she might stumble at any moment—Harry could not shake the feeling that she was the one who might be his undoing.

He cleared his throat. "If the court is to watch, then let us give them something worth their attention."

Y/N arched a brow. "And what, pray tell, do you suggest?"

Harry’s lips curved. Then, in one smooth motion, he released her arm and stepped in front of her, offering his hand.

"One dance, my lady."

Her eyes widened. "Here? Now?"

"Why not?" he mused. "Unless, of course, you are afraid."

Her spine straightened at that. "I am afraid of nothing, Your Highness."

"Then indulge me."

She hesitated.

And then, with a breathless sort of recklessness, she placed her hand in his.

And as Harry led her in slow, measured steps—there, in the quiet of the morning, with nothing but the wind and the distant whispers of the ton as their audience—he realized that whatever this was…

It had already begun.

The world had shrunk to nothing more than the space between them.

Y/N had never danced outside of a ballroom before—had never imagined she would, much less with the future king of England. And yet, here she was, her hand in his, their steps moving in slow, deliberate circles upon the garden path as though they had all the time in the world.

There was no orchestra, no expectant crowd, no watchful mother ensuring she held the proper form. Just the wind, the distant rustling of leaves, and the steady, unshaken presence of him.

Prince Harry.

She should have been nervous. Perhaps she would have been, had it not been for the slight press of his fingers against hers, grounding her.

But then, in true Y/N fashion, her foot caught the hem of her own gown.

A sharp gasp left her lips as she lost her balance, stumbling forward.

Harry reacted instantly. His grip tightened, an arm slipping around her waist before she could so much as think of falling. The movement pulled her closer, too close, the warmth of his body seeping into hers even through the layers of silk and wool.

Her breath hitched.

His grip did not loosen.

Instead, he looked at her—truly looked at her.

“Are you hurt?” he murmured.

His voice had softened, enough that she swore she felt it more than heard it.

Y/N swallowed hard, her heart hammering in her chest. “No,” she whispered. “Just… my pride, perhaps.”

Something flickered in his gaze—something unreadable, something that made her stomach twist in a way she absolutely refused to name.

Harry let out a quiet chuckle, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. “Then I shall do my best to keep you from any further injuries.”

She did not know what compelled her to say it—perhaps the lingering traces of embarrassment, or perhaps something far more dangerous—but before she could stop herself, she tilted her chin up and whispered, “And who will keep you from injury, Your Highness?”

The air between them shifted.

His hand was still at her waist.

His eyes were still locked onto hers.

And for a single, reckless moment, she thought he might say something.

Might do something.

But then—

A voice rang out from across the path.

“Your Highness!”

Y/N flinched, stepping back. At once, Harry released her, the warmth of his touch vanishing like a cruel trick of the wind.

A pair of noblewomen stood a few paces away, their eyes wide with unmistakable intrigue. One covered her mouth with a gloved hand, her gaze darting between them as though she had just witnessed something of great consequence.

Which, of course, she had.

Y/N swallowed, her pulse pounding in her ears. If those women so much as breathed a word of this, it would be the only thing the ton would discuss by sundown.

She dared a glance at Harry, expecting to see concern.

But he did not look concerned.

He looked… amused.

His lips curled at the edges, his green eyes glinting with something that could only be described as mischief.

He was enjoying this.

The absolute menace.

Y/N cleared her throat, smoothing her skirts as she forced a smile. “I believe, Your Highness, that our promenade has come to an end.”

Harry tilted his head. “Such a shame. I was rather enjoying myself.”

She shot him a look.

He only grinned.

With as much dignity as she could muster, Y/N dipped into a curtsy. “Your Highness.”

He bowed in return, but as she turned to leave, his voice stopped her.

“Lady Y/N?”

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. “Yes?”

Harry’s smile did not fade.

“Do be careful on your way home. I would hate for you to trip over your own feet again.”

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again—only to find that she had absolutely no appropriate response.

And so, she did the only thing she could do.

She turned on her heel and walked away, head held high, cheeks burning with a heat she could not shake.

Behind her, she swore she heard him chuckle.

Y/N spent the remainder of the day in a state of mortified frustration.

The moment she had returned home from the promenade, Lady Hathaway had taken one look at her and sighed, as if she could already sense her daughter’s social failure before a word had been spoken.

"You did manage to remain upright in His Highness’s presence, I presume?" her mother had asked, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Y/N had only muttered something about the uneven cobblestones and promptly excused herself to her room.

Now, hours later, she sat by her window, watching the sun sink below the rooftops of Mayfair. The evening was quiet save for the distant sound of carriages rattling down the street. And yet, her mind was anything but.

Why had he been smiling at her like that? With that insufferable, knowing glint in his eye? Did he find amusement in her humiliation?

She scowled.

It wasn’t as if she had wanted to stumble in front of him like some bumbling fool. She had been raised to be graceful, poised, elegant. But there was something about him—his unwavering gaze, the smoothness of his voice, the quiet confidence in the way he carried himself—that made her entirely too aware of her own body.

With an aggravated sigh, she flopped onto her bed.

Perhaps it was best if she never saw him again.

The thought should have been a relief. So why did it make her stomach twist uncomfortably?

Before she could dwell on it further, a knock at her door jolted her upright.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open, revealing her lady’s maid, Margaret. “My lady, your mother requests your presence in the drawing room. You have a visitor.”

Y/N frowned. A visitor? At this hour?

Curious, she smoothed out her gown and made her way downstairs, where Lady Hathaway stood near the hearth, looking distinctly pleased with herself.

The moment Y/N entered, her mother turned to her with a smile that was far too smug for comfort.

“Darling, the royal guard has just arrived with a message.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

A uniformed man stood by the door, his posture rigid with the discipline of years spent in service to the Crown. He cleared his throat and addressed her with the utmost formality.

“His Royal Highness, Prince Harry, extends an invitation for you to accompany him to a private exhibition at the Royal Academy tomorrow afternoon.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

A private exhibition?

That was not what she had expected.

She had assumed that, should he wish to see her again, it would be another promenade—a public, respectable affair where their conversation could remain light and inconsequential.

But an exhibition…

That meant hours in his company, walking through quiet galleries, speaking of art and history, sharing thoughts and opinions without the ever-present noise of society filling the gaps between them.

It was intimate.

Too intimate.

She swallowed. “That is… very kind of His Highness.”

The guard dipped his head. “Shall I inform the prince that you accept?”

Y/N hesitated, acutely aware of her mother’s expectant gaze burning into the side of her head.

There was only one answer that would not result in a lecture about the opportunity of a lifetime.

So, with a steadying breath, she lifted her chin and said—

“Yes.”

Margaret, standing quietly in the corner, swore she saw Lady Hathaway’s eyes gleam in triumph.

The following afternoon arrived far too quickly.

Despite her best efforts, Y/N found herself staring at her reflection with a knot of unease curling in her stomach. She had chosen an elegant yet modest gown—a soft shade of blue with delicate embroidery along the bodice, its fabric light enough to move easily yet structured enough to lend her an air of grace. Her hair had been arranged in a simple but becoming style, pinned back just enough to keep her curls from tumbling into her face.

It was appropriate. That was what mattered.

And yet, despite her outward composure, she could not ignore the strange tightness in her chest.

This was not a promenade.

This was not a fleeting encounter in the gardens.

This was time alone—well, as alone as one could be in the presence of a royal guard and her ever-watchful chaperone.

A knock at her chamber door startled her from her thoughts.

“My lady?” came Margaret’s voice. “The carriage has arrived.”

Y/N exhaled sharply, smoothing her skirts before stepping out into the hall.

Margaret, ever the dutiful chaperone, fell into step beside her as they made their way downstairs. Despite her usual quiet nature, there was a twinkle of mischief in the older woman’s eyes as she gave Y/N a knowing glance.

“Well,” Margaret mused. “I must say, this is quite the turn of events.”

Y/N shot her a look. “Not a word, Margaret.”

Margaret only hummed in amusement as she followed her outside.

A royal carriage awaited them at the entrance, its gleaming black frame adorned with the unmistakable gold detailing of the palace. The driver tipped his hat in greeting before assisting them inside.

Y/N settled into the plush seat, hands folded neatly in her lap as the carriage rolled forward.

She would remain composed. She would not allow herself to be flustered. She would—

The carriage came to a halt.

And then the door swung open.

A gloved hand extended toward her.

Prince Harry.

He stood just outside the grand entrance of the Royal Academy, dressed in a finely tailored navy coat, his golden curls just slightly tousled from the breeze.

His expression was unreadable. But there was something in his eyes—a flicker of amusement, perhaps, or intrigue—that made her stomach lurch in a way she did not appreciate.

“Lady Y/N,” he greeted smoothly.

Y/N inhaled through her nose, willing herself to remain unaffected as she placed her hand in his and allowed him to help her down.

His grip was warm. Steady.

She withdrew her hand the moment her feet touched the ground.

“Your Highness,” she returned with a curtsy.

Margaret stepped out behind her, offering a polite but knowing smile. “Your Highness,” she echoed, before discreetly falling a few paces behind them.

Y/N squared her shoulders. She would not let herself be intimidated.

Harry gestured toward the entrance. “Shall we?”

With a measured nod, she took his offered arm, allowing him to guide her inside.

The moment they stepped through the grand doors, the quiet hum of the exhibition hall wrapped around them like a cocoon. Unlike the bustling soirées of the ton, the museum held a different kind of atmosphere—one of hushed voices and unspoken reverence, where art spoke louder than any conversation.

Y/N had always loved museums. There was something intoxicating about them—the way history lingered in the air, the stories woven into every painting, every sculpture.

She had never imagined she would be experiencing one alongside the future king.

A curator greeted them at the entrance, bowing deeply before leading them into the first gallery. The collection on display was a rare selection of classical portraits—grand, sweeping masterpieces of noblemen and women captured in their finest attire, their eyes forever watching, forever whispering their secrets through the brushstrokes of the past.

Harry walked beside her in comfortable silence, hands clasped behind his back as he studied the paintings.

Y/N, ever the observer, could not help but steal glances at him.

He looked at the artwork with genuine interest. Not the kind that was feigned for appearances, but the kind that suggested he actually cared.

And then—

“You are staring, Lady Y/N.”

Y/N startled, warmth creeping up her neck as she snapped her gaze away.

“I was not,” she countered quickly.

Harry’s lips twitched. “Oh? I must have imagined it, then.”

She shot him a glare before turning her attention back to the portraits.

A comfortable silence stretched between them before Harry spoke again.

“Do you have a favorite?”

Y/N glanced at him. “A favorite?”

“A painting,” he clarified. “Or a particular artist, perhaps.”

Y/N hesitated before stepping forward, gesturing toward a smaller portrait nestled between two grander works. It depicted a young woman—not a noble, nor a queen, but an artist herself, caught mid-thought, a brush held delicately in her hand.

“I have always liked this one,” Y/N admitted. “There is something… alive about it. As if she were just about to speak, but the artist caught her in the moment before the words left her lips.”

Harry studied the painting, tilting his head slightly.

“You see more than most,” he murmured.

Y/N glanced at him. “Is that surprising?”

Harry met her gaze.

“No,” he said quietly. “Not in the slightest.”

Something passed between them then—something that made Y/N’s pulse quicken, though she could not name it.

Margaret cleared her throat from behind them, and the moment was broken.

Harry exhaled, turning away as if shaking off whatever had just transpired.

“Well,” he mused, his voice lighter now. “Shall we see the rest?”

Y/N, desperate to ignore the warmth still lingering in her chest, nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”

And so, they continued on.

But Y/N could not shake the feeling that something had shifted.

The days that followed their morning at the museum were agonizingly slow.

Y/N had replayed every moment, every glance, every word exchanged between them. Had he truly been teasing her? Or was she imagining the warmth in his eyes, the amusement laced within his tone? Margaret had insisted that Y/N was overthinking it, but how could she not? No matter how much she tried to distract herself with embroidery, reading, or her mother’s endless lectures on propriety, she could not stop thinking about him.

About Prince Harry.

But then… nothing.

No invitations. No unexpected encounters. No word from the palace.

Had she imagined the entire thing?

She told herself she didn’t care, that it hardly mattered what the heir to the throne thought of her. But if that were true, then why did her stomach twist with every passing day, waiting—hoping—for something more?

Little did she know, she was not the only one waiting.

Harry had never considered himself an impatient man.

And yet, as the third day passed since their last meeting, he found himself staring at the door of his study, as though willing it to open and deliver news of her.

But, of course, no news came.

He had expected something—anything. Perhaps a conveniently planned meeting at the park, an invitation to some society function, or at the very least, a letter. But no. Y/N Hathaway was proving to be as unpredictable as she was intriguing.

Harry drummed his fingers against the desk, irritation blooming in his chest. Not at her, but at himself. Why was he waiting? Had he not spent years doing precisely as he pleased? Was he not the heir to the throne?

Why, then, was he hesitating?

He exhaled sharply, pushing himself up from his chair. Enough. If she would not make the next move, he would.

By the time the sun began to set, an invitation had been sent to the Hathaway residence, sealed with the royal crest.

An invitation to a ball at the palace.

A ball that, up until an hour ago, had not even been planned.

But Y/N did not need to know that.