Royally Screwed(76)

“I’m not going to throw money at them. That’s crass.” Henry shakes his head.

“You only say that because you have money,” I tell him. “When you’re struggling—it’s not crass at all, but a blessing. And I don’t just mean the money. You could talk to them…become a friend…maybe start to fill the space they left behind. Not because you’re a prince, but because you’re a pretty cool guy.”

Henry thinks about that a moment. Sniffling and drying his cheeks.

“I am pretty cool.”

And I laugh. My eyes are still wet, but I laugh. Nicholas and Henry do, too.

Then Nicholas sits on the bed and leans forward—pulling his little brother tight into his arms. Just like that moment in the video, on the awful day of their parents’ funeral.

Just like that day, Nicholas tells him that it’s all going to be all right.





THE NEXT WEEK, there’s a polo match Henry and I are expected to play in. He begs off, on physician’s orders—because of his recent concussion. My grandmother doesn’t give him a hint of shit about the “ship incident” even though it’s been reported in the press as “Wild, Drunk Prince Henry At It Again.” I think she senses he’s struggling with something and that, playing or not, he’s not up to a public appearance at a polo match.

I, on the other hand, have no reason to get out of it. And I don’t mind so much. Polo is a challenging game—a busy game—strangely relaxing since you don’t have time to think about anything else. Though it’s sometimes called the game of kings, way back in the day it was used to train cavalry, because in order to play well, controlling the horse has to be automatic, second nature.

Another reason I’m feeling pleasant about attending is Olivia’s reaction to my uniform. I enter her room through the bookcase and her eyes slide all over me—the black and white shirt hugging my biceps, the impressive bulge prominently displayed in my snug pants.

Without a word, Olivia turns, calf-length, summer-pink skirt flaring out. And she locks the door. It snaps into place with a resounding click and I know without a doubt I’m about to get lucky.

She saunters up to me and lowers to her knees, laughing as she pulls my shirt from the pants and yanks at the belt buckle. The riding boots present a problem, so she just leaves them on, working me over with those skillful, glorious lips and tongue, making me come so hard in her mouth I see stars. Possibly the light of God.

Yes, lucky indeed.





Spectators and press are all over the fields and stands—not only am I playing, but the Queen is here to watch. The silky skin peeking out from Olivia’s white crop top makes it hard, but I force myself to maintain a platonic distance from her as we walk toward where she’ll be sitting with Franny. Simon’s playing too. En route to the stands, Olivia laughs, flashing her phone my way to show a text from Marty—a reply to a photo of one of the horses she sent. “Like looking in a mirror,” it says with a red circle drawn around the horse’s cock.

Once she’s settled, I snap on my helmet. And then I slip my father’s teak bracelet off my wrist, handing it her. “Keep this safe for me, will you?”

She’s surprised at first, then her cheeks pinken beautifully. “I’ll guard it with my life.” And she slips it on her own wrist.

“Have a good game,” Olivia says. Then, quieter, “I really want to kiss you right now, for luck. But I know I can’t, so I’ll just tell you instead.”

I wink. “I got my good-luck kiss in your room. If it had been any better, I would’ve gone blind.”

I walk away toward the stables with the sound of her laughter ringing behind me.





Though black clouds gather and the air is heavy with the threat of rain, we’re able to make it through two games. My team wins both, which puts me in a good mood. Sweaty and smudged with dirt, I lead my pony to the stables. I brush her down myself, in her stall, cooing about what a pretty girl she is—because human or beast, every female enjoys a compliment.

Once that’s done, I step out of the stall onto the main walk and come face-to-face with Hannibal Lancaster. Inside, I groan. We went to school together—he’s not a cannibalistic killer like his namesake, but he is a sleazy, disgusting prick. His parents, on the other hand—his family—are good people. And powerful allies to the Crown.

Just goes to show that even a bushel of good apples can produce a bad seed.

They’re completely unaware of Hannibal’s dickishness, which forces the rest of us—me—to put up with him from time to time and not punch his face in.