by Casey, Ember
Yeah, I’d make a pretty damn awful prince. I can’t even get myself excited about living in a castle.
But beside me, Sophia’s face has lit up. I don’t even think she realizes it, but there’s a glow about her again—a light that’s been missing since I woke up in that hospital bed. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes bright as she stares up at the towers above us, the flags flapping noisily in the wind.
Fuck, I love her so much. If living in this place makes her look like that all the time, then I’ll suck it up and live here, too. As long as they let me set up a rock studio in one of the twenty-seven hundred extra rooms, of course.
When we reach the front of the palace, her brother William is waiting for us. Definitely better than Andrew, who was our welcome party last time we visited. Still, I slide my arm protectively around her waist as we leave the car and walk toward him. I don’t completely trust anyone in her family, not after everything we’ve been through.
William has only smiles for us.
“How was your flight?” he asks his sister.
“Great,” she says, slipping out of my grip to give him a hug. I try not to get prickly about it.
William turns to me next. “And how are you feeling? Glad to see you’re fully clothed this time.”
“You and me both.” Without even thinking about it, I roll my shoulders, and a dull ache throbs through my chest. It’s so faint these days that half the time I think I’m imagining it, but the scar I see every time I take of my shirt is plenty of a reminder of what I’ve been through. “I’m doing great, Willy boy.”
William chuckles and tries to turn it into a clearing of his throat.
“I see your sense of humor is still intact, but may I suggest toning down the nicknames while you’re here?” he says. “I don’t mind, but a couple of my brothers…”
“A couple of your brothers could learn to lighten up a little,” I say. “Life’s too short to get worked up about stupid little things like that.” Now that I’ve miraculously come back from death, I consider myself an authority on life advice.
William shakes his head, still trying unsuccessfully to hide his amusement. “Just a suggestion,” he says, leading us up the front steps. “Trust me, it will make all of this a lot easier—if not for you, then for Sophia.”
He’s a sharp one, this Willy. He knows how to get me where it actually matters—Sophia.
“I’ll try,” I say, though my tone makes it clear what I think of that idea.
Neither Willy nor Sophia responds, and when I glance their way, I catch them exchanging a look.
What the hell is that about?
“Is Father waiting for us?” Sophia asks as we head through the huge, curved door.
“He’s actually in a meeting with the Senate right now,” William says. “And Mother was detained at the school—they want to expand the campus, and she’s helping draw up an agreement to allow them around some of our normal building regulations. But she wanted me to let you know that she expects to see both of you at dinner.”
“Of course,” Sophia says.
“Your suite has been prepared for you, of course,” William says, “and the kitchen knew you’d be arriving around now. If you’re hungry, I can have them send something up.”
“Sounds perfect,” Sophia says.
“I agree,” I chime in. My stomach is rumbling.
“Good.” We’ve reached the end of a long hallway, and William stops, turning to Sophia. “I took the liberty of putting together a list of…professionals for you. Most are already on retainer. All you have to do is say the word and they can be here within the hour.” He passes a folded sheet of paper to her. “I’d suggest starting with Monsieur Bonnaire. He needs it. Maybe even before dinner, if you can manage it.”
I frown at them. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Sophia glances at me, then quickly looks away again. Willy, on the other hand, doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. If anything, he looks even more amused than before.
“What?!” I demand when neither of them answers me.
Sophia turns back to me, and this time her expression is sweet. Almost too sweet.
“Do you love me, Pax?” she says.
“What kind of question is that? Of course I do.”
She looks up at me through her lashes in a way that makes me instantly hard. And also even more suspicious.
“You’d do anything to make me happy, wouldn’t you, Pax?” she says, her eyes now wide and pleading, her lips pursed in a way that makes my blood pump even harder.
Warning bells are going off in my head. But what can I do?
“Of course I would,” I tell her. “But—”
“William and I just thought we’d help you a little,” she says. “If you want to get through to my father, then it would help you to have a little polish.”
“Polish?” I choke out the word. I don’t like where this is going.
“Just a little,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“Who the hell is this ‘Monsieur Bonnaire’?” I demand.
This time, it’s William who answers. “He’s the foremost expert on etiquette and manners in Montovia. In fact, he gave lessons to all of us growing up.”
“Etiquette?” I spit out. “What am I, some twelve-year-old girl doing her first cotillion? No way. My mom made my sisters do that shit, and—”
“And clearly she should have made you do it, too,” William says, grinning. “Trust me, it’s not nearly as bad as it sounds.”
“Oh, you have no idea how bad it sounds,” I say. I glance back at Sophia, ready to argue my way out of this ridiculous shit, but she’s still looking up at me with wide, pleading eyes.
Fuck, why does she have to look at me like that? I can’t deny her anything when she looks at me like that.
“Please?” she says, running a hand down my chest. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
I sigh. How can I refuse an offer like that? Who cares if I lose a little manliness and dignity along the way?
“Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll take some stupid manners class if it’ll make you happy.” It’s just one class. I can live with that—especially if there’s a reward at the end. And I plan on taking full advantage of her generosity.
“It would make me happy,” she says, standing up on her toes and kissing me. “Thank you.”
It’s not until we’re halfway to her room that I remember William passed her a whole list of names. My stomach sinks. This isn’t just going to be one class, is it? I’m too afraid to ask.
What the hell have I just gotten myself into?
Sophia
We’ve barely enough time to freshen up before Pax’s first lesson with Monsieur Bonnaire.
Pax is grumbling to himself beside me as we walk through the halls.
“It won’t be that bad.” I look over at him with a smile. “Monsieur Bonnaire is quite good at his job. And very patient. In fact, he’ll probably achieve sainthood at some point after what my brothers put him through.”
Pax merely lifts a brow in my direction.
“He’ll go over the basics with you today. Which forks are used for what—”
“I think I know the difference between a salad fork and a dinner fork, Sophia.” There isn’t the slightest bit of amusement in his voice. “This is a little insulting, you know. It isn’t as though I’m some Neanderthal—”
“And no one said you were. You’re perfect the way you are.” I give him my sweetest smile. “This is about refinement. And you said you wanted to please my father, right? Believe me, if anyone appreciates refinement, it would be him.”
He grumbles something to himself again, shaking his head.
“And as far as forks go, dinner tonight is only semi-formal, as all of our family dinners are. But depending on what’s served, there will be a minimum of five forks on the table and at least three spoons. If you start from the outside and work your way in, you’ll be fine.”
&n
bsp; “Great.” He looks over at me, his gaze slightly narrowed. “Then what’s the point of going to this stupid etiquette lesson?”
“It’s not about the forks, Pax.” I let out a sigh. Why doesn’t he understand? “Like I said, it’s about refinement—”
“I can be plenty refined when I want to be.”
“Then you won’t have a problem with this lesson at all.” I can’t help but grin. Monsieur Bonnaire might be the most patient man in the world, but there’s no way he’ll put up with Pax’s definition of refined.
I suppose I shouldn’t be so amused. Pax is also putting up with a lot, especially since he’s still recovering from his ordeal. He thinks I don’t notice, but I see the way he winces when he moves just so. It’s been two months since he was shot, but he’s still suffering.
I stop just outside the dining room, turning to him. “I want you to know how much I love you for doing this for me. For coming here, doing all of this—”
He interrupts by pulling me into his arms. “I know. And I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t love you, Sophia. I’ll do whatever it takes. I just want to see you happy.”
I can’t help but grin. “Nothing makes me happier than being here with you.”
“Mm.” He nuzzles against my neck. “I’ll let you prove that to me later.”
A man clears his throat beside us, and Pax releases me from his embrace.
My husband straightens at the sight of the other man. Monsieur Bonnaire is quite imposing, several inches taller than Pax with much broader shoulders. The fact that he’s wearing a full tuxedo with tails makes him all the more intimidating.
Pax frowns at him. “No one told me this was a formal affair.”
Monsieur Bonnaire looks him up and down. “This won’t do.” He makes a sweeping motion toward the doorway of the dining room. “Come. I took the liberty of bringing some formal dining jackets. We’ll find one that fits you before we sit.”
“What the fuck…” Pax grumbles the words under his breath.
Monsieur Bonnaire lifts a brow but doesn’t respond to my husband’s outburst, guiding him into the room.
This is one of the rarely used dining rooms, bigger than our family’s usual dining area, but too small for a formal dinner party.
Monsieur Bonnaire seems to sense my thoughts as he walks over to the rack of jackets hanging against the wall. “This room is used to host a single dignitary and his companion. Dignitaries usually travel with an entourage, so the family needs a larger space when hosting a party of that size.” He pulls one of the coats from the rack, handing it to Pax. “This one should fit just fine.”
“Why can’t I just wear my shirt? It isn’t like anyone’s going to see us in here—”
“You’re far more likely to act your part if you look and feel your part.” His glance slides over Pax. “I doubt you could feel the part of a dignitary dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.”
Pax narrows his gaze but still slides the jacket on over his shirt. “I’m not some dignitary, though. I thought that was the point of this bullshit—”
“The use of coarse language during a formal dining affair is also prohibited.” He makes a motion toward the dining table. “But I would think that would be obvious.”
“Yeah, it’s all so obvious.” Pax rolls his eyes as he sits at the table, which has been set for a full thirteen-course meal. He stares down at the place setting, shaking his head before he looks back up at me. “You said five forks. There’s fucking eleven—”
“Don’t let the flatware intimidate you.” Monsieur Bonnaire stands at the head of the table, motioning for me to take the seat across from Pax. “We aren’t here to discuss which fork to use. If you start from the outside—”
“Yeah, yeah. Work my way in. I already got that part.” He shakes his head, looking up at the other man. “Then why the fuck are we here? I can just copy Sophia, right? She’ll be sitting next to me—”
“Depending on the event, she may not be sitting next to you. Montovian tradition states that everyone at a dinner party sits with someone they don’t know so that new friendships may form.”
“What the fuck?” Pax shakes his head again. “Why the fuck would I want to make new friends at a stupid dinner party?”
“Pax…” I let out a long breath. “It’s the tradition. And it’s actually quite nice. You meet some lovely people that way.” I glance up at Monsieur Bonnaire. “But we aren’t here for that, either. Tonight will just be the family. You’ll be next to me. And there probably will only be five forks—”
“The what the fuck is this about?” He glares up at Monsieur Bonnaire. “You put eleven forks on the table and six fucking spoons—for what? To make me feel stupid?”
“Quite the contrary, young man.” He takes a step over, straightening a butter knife. “This is only to prepare you for the inevitable.”
“The inevitable.” Pax parrots the words, rolling his eyes. “I’m inevitably going to embarrass myself, is that it? You just want to prepare me—”
“Your jacket will be buttoned when you sit.” Monsieur Bonnaire interrupts, almost as though he can’t tell Pax is trying to tear his head off with his words. “You’ll unbutton it just after you sit down. You’ll then want to take your napkin from the plate in front of you and place it gently on your lap.”
Pax grinds his teeth as he shakes his head, pulling the napkin off the plate in front of him. “Because I might violently put my napkin on my lap?” He slaps it down onto his thighs. “Like that?”
Monsieur Bonnaire lets out a sigh. “Making noise with your napkin would be considered quite rude, especially if you’re seated near the king.”
“Seated near the king?” Pax almost growls the words. “As if that’s going to happen—”
“His wife will be seated to his left. Tradition states that you’ll be seated tonight to his right.”
“What?” Pax looks like his eyes are about to pop from his head. “Why the fuck would I be seated next to him?”
I chew my lip for a moment before looking up at him. “It’s tradition. Only if you’re a man, of course. But a new man invited to dinner with the king would be seated at his side so they might get to know each other. But only if you’re a man. If you’re a woman, you’re off the hook.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. You’re telling me I’m going to be sitting next to your dad tonight? He fucking hates me—”
“The king hates no one.” Monsieur Bonnaire interrupts. “And I doubt he would have invited you to dinner if he hated you. Now…” He motions toward the table again. “After you’ve placed the napkin in your lap, someone will pour your wine. You’ll drink first from the glass nearest you—”
“Yeah, obviously.” Pax rolls his eyes. “And is there a reason there are four wine glasses on the table? Is part of this soiree getting drunk so I don’t have to think about it?”
“Pax…” If I could, I’d reach across the table and take his hand, but he’s too far away. “If you could just—”
“If I could just what? Chill out and let Mister Fancy Pants teach me to be a prince?” He lets out a shaky breath. “I’m not stupid. I—”
“I never said you were stupid, Pax. No one thinks that. But this life… I grew up in it. I took etiquette lessons for years from Monsieur Bonnaire.”
“And a fine job she did.” The man’s expression doesn’t even change. “Her brothers were quite a different story.”
“Except for Andy, I’m sure—”
“Actually, His Highness, Prince Andrew did not take well to etiquette lessons at all.” I could swear I see the faintest hint of a smile come to his lips. “He was quite the challenge.”
“Really? ‘Ol Andy gave you hell at cotillion lessons?” Pax grins. “I’ll have to remember to use that one against him sometime.”
“The children took lessons from quite a young age, Mister Donovan. And as I’m sure your wife would tell you, there is much to learn. There is quite a lot more to etiquette than learning which fork
is used for which part of the meal. Today, we’re merely covering the basics so you can get through your first meal with the king without…” He pauses.
“Embarrassing myself? That’s what you were going to say, right?”
“I should say, to get through your meal successfully. It might be hard to believe, but the king is far more concerned with your conversation than with how you might hold your flatware.”
“Yeah, that would be hard to believe.” Pax twists his mouth, looking over at me. “No one told me I was going to have to talk to him.”
“You’ll be sitting next to him. You’ll have to talk to him.” I force a smile. “But my mother will likely lead the conversation. She’ll keep things on a topic that won’t be too…incendiary.”
“Incendiary.” Pax grins. “I think me being here at all is pretty incendiary.”
I give him a small shrug as I smile across the table at him. If nothing else, our meal tonight will likely be the most eventful family dinner we’ve ever had.
Pax
It turns out, I’m pretty good at knowing which piece of silverware to use. What I’m not so good at is everything else that’s considered “good etiquette” in Montovia. Who decided that you have to keep your elbows in while you eat? Or that you have to cut your food into bites smaller than a quarter—or, excuse me, a Euro? Apparently I’ve also been chewing wrong my whole life. Ma taught me to chew with my mouth shut, but that’s not good enough for royals. Monsieur Bonnaire thinks my chewing is too loud—but how the hell do you chew quieter? Chewing is chewing. I’m not going to belch at the table or anything—why can’t I just eat like a normal person?
And that’s not even getting into the conversational aspects of dinner. Monsieur Bonnaire gives me a chart of the entire royal family—even cousins and stuff—and explains how I should address each one, based on my rank. As a guest, there are also rules about how I should speak and when, rules about what topics I should bring up, rules about how I should answer questions. There are so many rules my head starts to spin. I’ve always hated rules, but now I hate them even more.
