Royally Screwed(5)

“There are always murmurings.”

“Not like this,” she says sharply. “This is different. They’re holding up the trade legislation, unemployment is climbing, wages are down.” She taps the screen. “These headlines aren’t helping. People are worried about putting food on their tables, while their prince cavorts from one luxury hotel to another. We need to give the press something positive to report. We need to give the people something to celebrate. And we need to show Parliament we are firmly in control so they’d best play nicely or we’ll run roughshod over them.”

I’m nodding. Agreeing. Like a stupid moth flapping happily toward the flame.

“What about a day of pride? We could open the ballrooms to the public, have a parade?” I suggest. “People love that sort of thing.”

She taps her chin. “I was thinking something…bigger. Something that will catch the world’s attention. The event of the century.” Her eyes glitter with anticipation—like an executioner right before he swings the ax.

And then the ax comes down.

“The wedding of the century.”





MY WHOLE BODY LOCKS UP. And I think my organs begin to shut down. My voice is rough with pointless, illogical hope.

“Is Great-Aunt Miriam marrying again?”

The Queen folds her hands on the desk. A terrible sign. That’s her tell—it says her mind is made up and not even a gale-force wind could sway her off course.

“When you were a boy, I promised your mother that I would give you the space to choose a wife for yourself, as your father chose her. To fall in love. I’ve watched and waited, and now I’ve given up waiting. Your family needs you; your country needs you. Therefore, you will announce the name of your betrothed at a press conference…at the end of the summer.”

Her declaration breaks me out of my shock and I jump to my feet. “That’s five bloody months from now!”

She shrugs. “I wanted to give you thirty days. You can thank your grandfather for talking me out of it.”

She means the portrait on the wall behind her. My grandfather’s been dead for ten years.

“Maybe you should be less concerned with my personal life and more concerned with the press finding out about your habit of talking to paintings.”

“It comforts me!” Now she’s standing too—hands on her desk, leaning toward me. “And it’s just the one painting—don’t be obnoxious, Nicky.”

“Can’t help it.” I look at her pointedly. “I learned from the best.”

She ignores the dig and sits back down. “I’ve drawn up a list of suitable young ladies—some of them you’ve met, some will be new to you. This is our best course of action, unless you can give me a reason to think otherwise.”

And I’ve got nothing. My wit deserts me so fast there’s a dust trail in my brain. Because politically, public relations–wise, she’s right—a royal wedding kills all the birds with one stone. But the birds don’t give a damn about what’s right—they just see a rock coming at their fucking heads.

“I don’t want to get married.”

She shrugs. “I don’t blame you. I didn’t want to wear your great-great grandmother, Queen Belvidere’s tiara on my twenty-first birthday—it was a gaudy, heavy thing. But we all must do our duty. You know this. Now it’s your turn, Prince Nicholas.”

There’s a reason duty is a homophone for shit.

And she’s not asking me as my grandmother—she’s telling me, as my Queen. A lifetime of upbringing centered around responsibility, legacy, birthright, and honor make it impossible for me to refuse.

I need alcohol. Right fucking now.

“Is that all, Your Majesty?”

She stares at me for several beats, then nods. “It is. Travel safely; we’ll speak again when you return.”

I stand, dip my head, and turn to leave. Just as the door is closing behind me, I hear a sigh. “Oh, Edward, where did we go wrong? Why must they be so difficult?”





An hour later, I’m back at Guthrie House, sitting in front of the fireplace in the morning room, handing my empty glass to Fergus for a refill. Another refill.

It’s not that I haven’t known what’s expected of me—the whole world knows. I have one job: pass my tiger blood on to the next generation. Beget an heir who’ll one day replace me, as I’ll replace my grandmother. And run a country.

Still, it all seemed so theoretical. Some day, one day. The Queen is healthier than a whole stable of horses—she’s not going anywhere anytime soon. But now…a wedding…shit just got real.