by T. K. Leigh
Nothing else.
Apart from being the heirs, Esme and I no longer mattered to him. We were no longer viewed as human beings in need of a father’s love, but as a necessary commodity to keep the monarchy going. There are times I still feel that way, despite any breakthroughs to mend our relationship my father and I may have had over the years.
Like when he learned I was considering removing myself from the line of succession upon being diagnosed with MS. He convinced me I didn’t have to. That I could use my diagnosis to bring attention to the disease. That I could still be an effective leader.
It was one of those rare moments he acted like my father, not the king.
But I haven’t seen that human side of him since.
And I certainly don’t see it now, especially when he’s in the presence of the head of the royal household who, for all intents and purposes, is one of the people who makes the real decisions. My father may not see it, but I do. He’s just one piece on a giant chess board, and the members of the royal household are the chess masters moving us around as they see fit in search of victory.
“I appreciate your candor, Gabriel,” he begins. “I didn’t realize things between you and this American—”
“Nora,” I correct him. “She has a name. And it’s Nora. I’d appreciate it if you used it.” I look from him to Dalton on his right, then my grandmother to his left. “All of you.”
My father doesn’t respond for several moments. He simply stares at me, as if waiting for Dalton to give him permission to move one square or remain where he is. Finally, he nods. “Nora. I didn’t realize things between you and Nora were serious.”
“How could you when you never seem to show much interest in my life?” I snip back. “Apart from how it relates to the monarchy.”
“Gabriel, darling,” my grandmother interjects in a formal, well-practiced tone evidencing her noble upbringing.
I look in her direction, her demeanor as cold and aloof as I’ve always remembered. Sure, on the outside, she’s beautiful, her short, straight, silver hair, piercing, gray eyes, and tall, slender frame repeatedly earning her a place on a popular magazine’s list of the most beautiful women over fifty. But her inner beauty could use some work.
“What your father’s trying to say is he believed her to be more of a…dalliance,” she finishes with a trite smile.
I arch a brow. “A dalliance?”
“Can you blame him?” She narrows her gaze on me. “Up until a year ago, that seemed to be your M.O., so to speak. We had no reason to believe this woman was anything more than another distraction while you sorted through the stress of your diagnosis. We assumed once you got it all out of your system, you’d return and marry someone more…” She trails off, searching for the correct word.
“More what?” I grind out.
This conversation isn’t helping to keep my stress level to a minimum, as my doctors have advised. Heat courses through my veins. And not out of desire like mere minutes ago when I was alone with Nora. Instead, it’s out of a rage desperate to be unleashed. But I can’t do that. I know the rules. Worse, I know the ramifications of showing too much emotion. In this life, emotions are a weakness to be used against you. I have no doubt they’ll use the way I feel about Nora against me.
They’ll use Nora against me.
“Someone more appropriate,” Dalton Peel interjects without hesitation.
“If you ask me, there’s no one more appropriate to marry than the woman I love.”
“This isn’t about love, Gabriel,” my grandmother states dismissively, waving a bony hand through the air.
“Not about love? How can marriage not be about love?”
“For most people, it is. But I don’t need to remind you that we’re not most people. You’re not most people. You’re the heir apparent. The future king. And you have a duty to produce the next heir to the throne. You can’t do so with some American we know nothing about. Especially with the referendum on the ballot this November. And unlike the previous occasions a constitutional amendment to severely limit the powers of the monarchy has made it onto the ballot, it has quite a lot of support this time. If we make one wrong step, we risk it passing, essentially turning the monarch into more a figurehead than an actual leader. And this…” She leans toward me, eyes like ice. “This is a serious misstep, Gabriel.”
I grip the arms of the chair, needing it to keep me grounded when I’m ready to lash out at every single person in this room. “You got to marry for love,” I remind my father.
“He was never supposed to be king,” my grandmother points out. As if I need the reminder that my life was once normal. That I once had two parents who loved me and my sister. That I once had all the opportunity in the world.
Not anymore.
People are under the impression we lead a charmed life, because that’s what we want them to believe. What we’re taught to make them believe. In reality, we’re prisoners. Our cage may be gilded, but it’s still a cage.
“And look what happened. Your mother was too weak to handle the stress of this life. She very well could have destroyed everything we’ve built for centuries. Over the decades, there’s been increasing sentiment that the monarchy is an antiquated notion. All it will take is enough people to show up on election day who share those sentiments for this all to disappear. We cannot have that. We cannot have the king married to someone weak.”
I glance at my father, seeing his own jaw tighten as he seems to hold back what he wants to say in defense of his wife. But he won’t. And not because he doesn’t want to be disrespectful toward his mother, but because he’s been trained.
Thankfully, I haven’t been around this life long enough to have all my humanity erased.
“That woman was my mother. And if my wife ends up being half the queen she was, even in her short time at my father’s side before her untimely death, I’d consider myself blessed.”
“There are a number of respectful women you could marry, Gabriel,” she insists. “Especially Caroline DeVries. She’s a much better option, in my opinion. From a good family. A noble family. Most of the country assumed you’d eventually marry anyway.”
“We’ve already prepared a response,” Dalton interjects, extending a file folder toward me. “The king will offer his congratulations, but remain tight-lipped about any forthcoming approval of the marriage. After a few weeks have passed, we’ll announce your engagement to Ms. Tremblay has ended. That she wasn’t prepared to give up everything she’d have to in order to stay in this life, including her American citizenship. You’ll act heartbroken for a while, but we’ll stage some photographs of Ms. DeVries comforting you. You’ll rekindle your relationship.”
“We didn’t have a relationship,” I retort, my eyes flaming. I glance at my grandmother, giving her a smug grin. “It was more of a…dalliance.”
“After sufficient time has passed…,” Dalton continues, ignoring my previous comment, “His Majesty will announce your engagement to Ms. DeVries, preferably by November. Before the referendum goes to a vote. The publicity team feels that would have the greatest impact on swaying voters. After all, people love a wedding. Especially a royal wedding.”
I can’t believe what I’m looking at, but here it is in black and white. A plan for me to marry a woman I’m not in love with, all because these people think she’ll be a better fit.
“As you can see in the report, Ms. DeVries is in optimal health. And is fertile.”
I fight to swallow down the bile rising to my throat. “Fertile?”
Is this actually happening? Am I really listening to my father’s chief advisor detailing Caroline’s ability to conceive a child? How do they even know this information?
This is too similar to the discussions I’ve had with Esme about some of the horses she’s trained that she decided to put out to stud. Is this all we are, too? Something bred with another carefully selected specimen in the hopes of producing offspring that will be at the top of his or her game?
I know the answer to that.
I’ve always known the answer to that.
“She’ll be able to provide you with an heir without complications,” Dalton clarifies, as if this is a normal conversation. “We don’t know anything about this American.”
“Nora,” I hiss.
“Nora,” he corrects, but shows no hint of an apology. “We have no way of knowing whether she can produce an heir.”
“She can,” I argue.
“Right now,” he adds. “I’m well aware of her…history. How she lost her first pregnancy.”
“Ember.”
“Excuse me?” my grandmother asks.
I pin her with a glare, not caring about decorum or protocol. “Her daughter’s name was Ember. She didn’t just lose her first pregnancy. She went through labor and gave birth, all the while knowing that when her baby was born, she wouldn’t have a heartbeat.”
“Which is precisely why you should reconsider this course of action,” she responds flippantly, her pointed nose upturned. “You don’t know if she’s still able to conceive after that…trauma.” She says the word like it leaves a sour taste in her mouth. She’s one of the few people who knows precisely what trauma Nora endured that caused her to lose Ember.
And Hunter.
“She’s fine,” I insist once more.
“You don’t know that. What happens if, by some miracle, this wedding does happen and you find yourself saddled with a wife who can’t provide you the one thing she’s under an obligation to — an heir?”
The longer I sit here and listen to my grandmother speak about Nora as if her only value to me is as a womb, the more my temper rises. The more my hand twitches. The fewer fucks I give about the consequences of my actions.
“You’re already well past the age most royals marry. When I was your age, I’d already had five children. But you’re not even married. Your uncle was married at twenty-two. Had his first heir at twenty-three. You’re nearing forty, for crying out loud. All the more reason to give serious consideration to Caroline DeVries. She’s a respectable girl we know can produce an heir. There’s a real possibility Ms. Tremblay may never be able to give you an heir, as is required of your wife. She—”
“Nora’s already pregnant!” I bellow, fists clenching, chest heaving.
The room falls eerily silent.
Chapter Eight
Anderson
“What did you say?” my grandmother asks, still the picture of grace and refinement. No matter how angry she may be on the inside, her composure never wavers.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I shouldn’t have allowed my emotions to overpower my rationale. Shouldn’t have lost my cool. And I certainly shouldn’t have shared that piece of information.
I look away from her and toward the only person in this room who can remotely be considered an ally — my father.
“Nora’s pregnant. I’m going to be a father.”
“And you’re certain the baby is yours?” Dalton asks. “Have you had a paternity test conducted?”
I glower at him, my lip curling in the corner. “Why would I need that?”
“With all due respect, sir, we don’t know anything about this woman. She could simply be after your money. The pregnancy could be a trap. She may not even be pregnant.”
Placing my hands on the table, I lean across it, fire in my eyes. “I will not have you talking about my fiancée and your future queen that way,” I grind out. I almost want him to argue with me on this point. “Not to mention the mother of your future king or queen, as well.”
“Not necessarily,” he counters.
“Why? Because you think you can sit here and dictate who I can and can’t marry? I’m sorry to tell you, but I don’t give a damn what you think. I—”
“As it stands,” he interrupts, tone icy, his small, dark eyes trained on me in superiority, “even if she is pregnant with your child, he or she will not be considered a full heir with rights of succession unless you’re married when the baby is born. And the marriage is one approved by the sovereign.” He looks at my father.
While Dalton’s opinion on the matter is clear, based on the disgust covering his expression, my father’s isn’t. I can sense his turmoil.
Feel his humanity.
So that’s what I need to appeal to. His human side. His reasonable side.
“Would you really withhold your approval of my marriage to the woman I love and would do anything for, a woman who’s currently carrying your grandchild, because some advisor told you to? You’re the king, Father. You make the decisions.”
He peers at me, torn. As king, he needs to act according to what’s best for his country and the monarchy. Right now, that appears to conflict with his role as my father, who should support his son when he’s finally found the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with.
“You’ve really dug yourself into a hole here,” he exhales, breaking the silence.
“I just want to marry the woman of my dreams. Like you were able to.”
“That was before anyone thought I’d be king. I wasn’t under an obligation to get the monarch’s approval because I’d already been pushed down to sixth in line by that time. It’s different with you. You are the heir apparent. Whom you decide to marry holds a great deal of weight on how people will view the strength of the monarchy.”
“And how will it make the monarchy look if people find out I’m forbidden from marrying the woman carrying my child?” I look from him to my grandmother. “I’ve always remembered my place, stayed quiet about a lot.” I return my attention to my father. “But if you allow this to happen, I will not stay quiet about it. You can be damn certain about that.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, the stress of this situation wearing on him. When he looks at me again, his gaze goes to my hand. I follow his line of sight, noticing the tremors.
“I thought you were doing better.”
I shake out my hand. “I was.”
“You were?”
“Am,” I correct. “I am. It’s fine. Probably just jet lag.”
He studies me for a protracted beat, then sighs. “I won’t withhold my approval.”
I exhale a huge breath of relief. “Thank you. I—”
“Your Majesty,” Dalton interjects, eyes frantic. “You’ve seen the reports from the polling the publicity team did. Those numbers don’t—”
My father holds up his hand, cutting him off. Dalton quickly falls silent, but it’s obvious it kills him to do so, to know the king is no longer following his advice. At least not on this matter.
“I have complete control over my approval,” he says, giving Dalton a pointed stare before looking back at me. “But I can’t do anything about the law of succession. For your child to be an heir, to be considered part of the royal family, he or she cannot be illegitimate.”
“What is this? The bloody 1950s? People have babies all the time without being married.”
“The rules on who can and can’t ascend to the throne are clear. Granted, they were put in place because some of our ancestors seemed to think it a competition to see how many women they could impregnate.”
“That was centuries ago. Times change.”
“Yes. But the purpose for it is still valid. To—”
“I know. I know. Protect the monarchy.” I run a hand over my face.
It’s amazing how I could go from being on cloud nine when I asked Nora to marry me a week ago to being absolutely miserable. A part of me wishes I’d never come home. But I couldn’t just ignore my duty, especially with the referendum on the ballot. The people need to be reminded of exactly what they’re voting for — having me as their king in a few years when my father voluntarily abdicates, as is the tradition.
“And if we decide we don’t care about the baby being a full heir?” I ask. “If we don’t want to be rushed to marry before he or she is born?”
“If that’s—” my father begins, but Dalton places his h
and on his arm, stopping him.
“There’s also the Royal Marriages Act to consider.”
“All that says is I need the monarch’s approval prior to marrying.”
“Essentially, yes. But if you recall your schooling, you’ll remember it also sets forth restrictions on this grant of approval. The Royal Marriages Act forbids the king from approving a marriage between an heir to the throne and someone of…loose morals.”
“Loose morals?” I couldn’t have heard him right. This must be some sort of alternative universe. That’s the only possible explanation for what’s going on right now. “What does that even mean?”
“According to the act, that includes but isn’t limited to prostitutes, habitual drug users, and women who bear a child outside of wedlock.”
“You do realize it’s the goddamn twenty-first century, right?” I seethe. “Someone choosing to have a child outside of wedlock isn’t evidence of loose morals. It’s a personal decision.”
“May I ask how far along Nora is in her pregnancy?” my grandmother inquires.
“Six weeks.”
She nods, keeping her shoulders square.
“There are…options,” Dalton says after a beat.
“Options?”
“We can still fix this situation.”
“Fix?” I struggle to say, knowing all too well what he’s suggesting.
“It’s still early on in the pregnancy. There’s still time to…” He waves a hand, “make it go away. I believe that’s better for all involved, given the referendum vote.”
It takes every ounce of self-control I have to not fly across this table and land a hard blow to his face. I find it ironic they’ll forbid me from marrying Nora if she’s already given birth to my child, but they’ll sit here and suggest I do something unthinkable.
Hypocrisy at its finest.
“It doesn’t help you haven’t been in the picture much lately, sir,” he continues. “People are already concerned about your…condition.”
“Condition?”
“Yes. They remember how quickly your mother died from MS—”
