by Lexi Whitlow
I don’t love Owen. I don’t even like him sometimes. But he’s not a bad person. I could do so much worse for myself and my family. This would make everything right again for them. And think of the good I could do in the world with a platform like this one, and the money I could spend on worthwhile things. I’d have to be a fool to say no, and my mother didn’t raise a fool.
“You don’t need to offer me anything more,” I say. “We’ll figure it all out. But yeah, I’ll be your real fake fiancée.”
“Really?” he asks, optimism lifting his tone. “You’ll do this?”
I nod. “Yes,” I say, half-smiling. “I’d be pretty stupid to say no to becoming an instant duchess, now wouldn’t I?”
6
Owen
He’s completely lost his marbles,” my uncle Rupert says, peering through the one-way mirror at my brother, who sits cross-legged on the floor, dressed in a saffron robe, chanting some gibberish at the top of his lungs like a cat in heat. He never could carry a tune.
It’s hard to look at him. According to the doctor, he’s been living on a diet of white rice and tree bark. He’s bloated and emaciated, pasty-looking. His head is completely shaved, and he has a hieroglyph tattooed on his forehead right between his eyebrows, which are plucked into razor-sharp points like some Japanese anime character.
“He’s batshit crazy,” my cousin David observes with no small amount of glee. “He tried to bite me when we were putting him on the plane.”
“He tried to lick me,” my aunt says. “He’s lost his wits.”
Lloyd has refused to sign the abdication papers; he wants to be king so he can change the official religion of Anglesey to The Exalted Order of the One True Toth and convert Beaumaris Castle into a baboon sanctuary. He even suggested he might appoint me Minister of Cage Sweepers. I thanked him for thinking of me.
There is no doubt that my brother is bonkers, but it remains to be seen what’s going to be done about it. Six different psychiatrists have examined him, and all six agree he’s completely detached from reality. Being crazy has never been used as a reason to depose a prospective king in Anglesey before. To do it, the nobles are going to have to be on board.
My mother has been working the phones all day. She’s calling an emergency meeting of the House of Lords to put the question to them. I haven’t seen her or spoken to her since she returned with Lloyd late last night, but she’s summoned me to her apartments for a meeting at three o’clock. According to everyone I’ve spoken with, she’s in high dungeon, ready to start stripping titles and lands from any noble who opposes her.
I need to calm her down. The last thing we need to do is piss off the peers—not when we need them to back me as the next king.
When I’m shown into her library, I’m surprised to find her in a good mood. She’s sitting cross-legged on a gilt Louis XIV chair, tapping her toe to a Mozart concerto playing in the background. “Ah, Owen!” she greets me. “Finally.”
“I’m glad you’ve returned safely,” I say, kissing her cheek, then taking the seat across from her.
“Have you seen him?” she asks.
I nod.
“He’s deplorable.”
“In a word,” I agree.
“That’s not why I asked for you, however,” she says, setting her teacup down, neatly folding her hands in her lap. “I hear there’s a girl here, living in the Official Companion’s apartments, and I hear she’s wearing a certain sapphire ring that belonged to your grandmother.”
Word travels fast. I nod again. “I was waiting for things to settle down a bit before telling you,” I say. “We haven’t told a soul yet.”
“Yes, well, staff pay attention to these things, and I pay them handsomely to report everything to me. And you’ve been all over the papers.”
She’s taking this better than I expected her to.
“She’s no one I know,” Mother observes. “She’s an American. Where did you find her?”
“We met when I was in Paris a couple months back. We’ve been seeing one another ever since.”
“Really?” she asks, offering a discreet, doubting smile.
“I care a great deal for her, Mother. I know you would have preferred some duchess or a Swedish princess, but new blood might be just what we need to reassure the public we’re not all inbred, raving lunatics.”
She cocks an eyebrow at me. “You might be right,” she admits. “And since I know she passed the background checks you so wisely performed before letting this relationship leak, I’m not going to make a fuss. I need you wed by Christmas, and we need her knocked up by sometime next year. She’ll do just the trick.”
Oh boy. What else do I have to horse-trade with Norah to get that thrown into our deal? I think I’ve already thrown all my chips down.
“One thing at a time,” I suggest. “Let’s make sure the House of Lords vote goes our way first.”
Mother smiles. “It’s going to go our way,” she says confidently. “I’ve had the assurance of every duke and marquess in the chamber. Your cousin David did some early lobbying of his own, threatening to bring back the guillotine if he didn’t get named heir. It didn’t go over well. Your other cousin, Martin, has no interest in being king, much to his mother’s dismay. He’s in a rock band touring South America. He said he couldn’t possibly come back for a coronation.”
If I do become king, my first official act will be to banish my cousin David from the realm, seize all his assets and titles, and give them to our cousin Martin.
“You’re certain?” I ask. “Absolutely certain?”
“I’m certain,” she says. “You’ll be King Owen by your twenty-ninth birthday. And then we’ll get you happily married.”
I’m not sure why, but I can’t wait to share this good news with Norah. I know she’ll have some smart-ass comment, and she’ll find a way to make it bad news while insulting me in the same breath. For some odd reason she’s growing on me; her quips and jabs entertain me. She’s challenging, and I find that more attractive than I ever expected.
She looks good on my arm, too. I like studying the paparazzi photos of us: we’re a striking couple, and we look like we belong together. Sometimes I worry I might be falling for her, especially when I think about how perfect we were in bed back in Paris. I keep reminding myself that this is an arrangement. Norah is in it for the money—not for me. She can barely stand me.
I wish, sometimes, that it weren’t that way. But it is.
“Dinner is at eight,” Mother says. “Bring the young lady to meet me. I want to get a good look at her before we make the announcement.”
“What if she hates me?” Norah asks, checking her hair and dress in the tall mirror in her bedroom.
She’s nervous, and she’s beautiful, too, flitting around to make certain she looks perfect.
“She’s not going to hate you,” I say. “Unless we’re late.”
Norah glares at me in the mirror. She’s changed dresses three times, making me turn my back while she decides which one among a dozen is right. They all look wonderful; she’d look like a princess even if she dressed in a brown paper bag.
“How do you know?” she asks. “She’s Princess Dalia, the ‘World’s Princess,’ the most popular, most beautiful royal on the planet—and I’m just frumpy Norah from Charleston.”
Norah is so far from frumpy the idea makes me laugh.
“You laugh!” she gripes. “But if I screw this up, you’re going to sue me for breach of contract.”
“She’s going to like you just fine,” I assure her.
“How do you know?” she asks again, fiddling with an errant strand of wild, curling hair.
I step up behind her, gazing into the mirror, taking in her lovely figure, admiring the arc of her hip, the bow of cleavage peeking from beneath her neckline. “Because I like you,” I say. “And even if she is the ‘World’s Princess,’ she’s also my mother, and she wants me to be happy.”
Norah stills, gazing back at me in
the glass. Her expression is perplexed.
I’ve rendered her speechless. That’s a first. “We should go,” I say. “It would be better not to keep the ‘World’s Princess’ waiting.”
The poise and elocution classes have paid off. When I present Norah to my mother, she perfectly executes a knee-deep curtsy in her high heels and fitted dress.
My mother graciously—and unexpectedly—offers her hand.
Norah shakes correctly, then returns her posture to hands clasped, eyes down, waiting to be addressed before making eye contact.
“Norah, I’m very pleased to meet you,” Mother says.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness. I’m honored.” She’s forgotten to breathe and is turning pale.
“At your ease, darling,” Mother says. “I promise, I’m genuinely pleased to learn that someone has finally, at long last, caught my son’s heart. I was starting to think I was going to have to pay someone to marry him.”
Norah tries not to smile, and I see her relax a little. I almost expect her to pop off with some smart-ass remark, but I begged her to behave. She seems to be minding me.
“She’s lovely, Owen,” Mother says to me. “You didn’t tell me she was so lovely.”
At dinner, Norah uses the correct fork and the correct spoon at all the correct times. She’s dropped her American table habit of spearing her food, adopting our more refined manners. Mother asks her leading questions about her family and her work, which Norah answers with the grace of a seasoned diplomat.
I stay out of the conversation, letting them banter, until Mother turns to me with a stunning suggestion. “Darling, you know, there’s absolutely no reason whatsoever that Norah should be banished to the Official Companion’s residence in the back wing of the palace. She should move into your wing, attached to your residence. I certainly have no issue with it, and if I approve, that settles it.”
I stare slack-jawed, trying to figure out how to respond, when Norah begins giggling like a school girl. I love her harpsichord ring of laughter; it melts my heart. I can’t help but smile whenever I hear her laugh. I can’t help but laugh with her.
Mother looks to Norah, who’s trying not to laugh and failing miserably. Then she looks to me. She folds her hands over her plate with a self-satisfied smile, shaking her head. “You two really are rather adorable. It’s been a great while since this palace has seen a real love match. It’s long overdue.”
Norah gives me a look that I can’t quite place, and then we move on with dinner.
7
Norah
I reach forward, pressing my fingertips into the smooth, taut flesh of Owen’s chest. The heat of his skin warms me deep in my bones as I trace the firm muscle of his shoulder. He watches me while I touch him, regarding me with perfect contentment. I could sit just like this, the two of us naked together, exploring one another forever. He’s my beau ideal. Our bodies were made for other another. When he lies atop me with his cock inside me, whispering against my ear, he feels like the half of me that’s been missing my entire life, returned to my core where he always belonged.
He makes me nearly come with the way he looks at me, the way he possesses me completely. The scratch of his stubble against my skin is electric. I get wet just catching his scent...
I’m yanked awake, pulled out of my bliss by an unwanted ray of bright sunshine poured over my face with the same bracing effect as a bucket of ice-cold water.
“Mmmmm…” I complain. “I want to sleep.” I want to dream of him.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” says Sally, my maid. She fluffs the curtains she’s just opened. “I thought you might like to see this.”
I pull up the covers, spreading them flat to make way for the tray table she’s brought with my coffee and toast.
She’s also brought the morning papers. Usually I could care less what the papers have to say, but it’s been a tense week with Lloyd going under public scrutiny, being interviewed by the House of Lords on live television, demonstrating to the entire world that he’s a complete basket case, incapable of rational thought. He chanted and howled while the lords tried to question him. When he did speak, it was nonsense. The hearings ended yesterday, and the lords went into convocation to decide what to do. They can’t leave the debate chamber until they’ve legally deposed Lloyd and selected the next king, or decided to leave Lloyd in place, surrendering Anglesey to the baboons.
Owen and his mother are confident the outcome will go the way they want it to, but anything could happen.
Sally opens the paper, laying it by my side. The headline reads “HRH Crown Prince Lloyd is Crowned No More. DEPOSED! Lords Like the Sound of ‘Long Live King Owen!’ Coronation Set for 7th of August.”
“Thank heavens!” I exclaim, lifting the paper, admiring the official palace photograph of Owen in his striking military uniform.
“Yes, ma’am, we’re all very pleased,” Sally says, smiling broadly. “Everyone’s been on tenterhooks the last few months. We’re so happy to have it resolved.”
“Is Owen around?” I ask, taking my first sip of coffee.
“No, ma’am. He left early this morning, as soon as the news arrived. He had to go to the House of Lords to sign documents, making it all official. He should be back soon.”
This is really happening. It’s still so hard to believe. King Owen. And I’m marrying him. We’re announcing our engagement to the public tomorrow night at the Mid-Summer Gala. Princess Dalia told the lords about us, just to bolster their confidence in Owen, but no one knows outside the court. I haven’t even told my parents, which I’m going to do today.
But first I want to see Owen.
“Let me know as soon as he returns, okay?” I ask Sally.
“Of course, ma’am.”
While still incredibly pompous, entitled, and irritating, Owen has endearing qualities. He never ceases to give me new material to laugh at. He never ceases to amaze me with the bottomless depths of his expectations. I learned over lunch a couple days ago that if everything goes according to plan, we’re going to need to get pregnant next year.
“And precisely how is that supposed to happen?” I ask him, mustering all the indignation I can manage, yet truly curious about the answer.
His Royal Cockiness grins at me. “Well, there’s this thing called fertilization that occurs when the man’s sperm reaches…”
I kick him under the table, making him howl.
“You bruised me!” he whines like a brat. “You really are mean.”
“And you’re an asshole,” I remind him. “You’re an entitled asshole with a mightily overblown ego.”
“I’m entitled,” he quips right back. “If everything goes as planned, I’m going to be king. And our son is going to be crown prince. And that’s that.”
“I think not,” I say.
Owen, resigned to my taunts, replies, “Don’t worry, Duchess. In this family we make heirs and spares the old-fashioned way: with artificial insemination.”
That’s somewhat disappointing news. “Are you serious?”
He nods, regarding me with amusement. “Deadly serious. Haven’t you ever wondered why all the royals have boys before they have girls, and how the babies are conceived so swiftly, with no trouble at all, so soon after the wedding?”
“Now that you mention it, that is odd.”
Great. I’m going to be a fake fiancée, a fake wife, and a fake mother. I wish someone could guarantee me a fake, pain-free childbirth. Maybe we can hire a fake surrogate.
“You know, Prince Conniving,” I say, “you’re not all bad. There was that one time in Paris…”
Owen sighs, offering a heartened smile. “Why Duchess, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I huff back. “Just offering to do my duty for crown and country, no matter how awful the duty might be.”
It’s late morning by the time Owen appears, looking panty-melting hot in a fancy tailored suit of shiny gray silk. He
doesn’t dress up often, but I guess when you’re going to the House of Lords to sign papers making yourself king, it’s best to look the part.
“You’re dashing,” I say, meaning it. “Silk suits you.”
He offers me a wide, princely grin followed by an unexpected, brotherly hug. “It’s done,” he sighs over my shoulder. “It’s finally done.”
When he pulls back he keeps his hands on my shoulders, fixing my gaze. “As of this morning, I’m the acting king of Anglesey. Mother even resigned as co-regent, which wasn’t required and was certainly unexpected.”
“Do I need to curtsy?” I ask, only half teasing.
He drops his hands, laughing with me. “No,” he says. “But you do need to make a strong showing tomorrow night when we announce our engagement. We’re going to be scrutinized. Every glance will be analyzed for subtext. We’ll need to put on a convincing performance and engage in a little bit of PDA for the guests and the cameras.”
I can think of worse ways to spend my time. “Fine,” I say. “I don’t care. I just need some assistance picking out a gown. Your mother had seven sent in for me to consider. Will you help?”
Owen smiles. “Of course I’ll help,” he says. “But can it wait until this evening? I’ve got a meeting with the privy counselor at noon, and another with the royal comptroller at one. That one’s important, as I’m giving him instructions on getting your parents’ debts cleared and payments made to them, as well as the payments I owe you. After that, I have a third meeting at two o’clock to interview the three most promising candidates for the job of my private secretary. And I’m sending Lloyd off to Switzerland for a thorough psychological examination to see if anything can be done for him. I won’t be free until at least four-thirty.”
“You’re so very important now, Your Royal Hoity-Toity,” I observe drolly. “Yes, I can wait until this evening. Bring a bottle of something expensive so we can celebrate your grand achievement: being born rich, male, and royal.”
