To Kiss a King (Royal Scandals: San Rimini Book 6)

by Nicole Burnham

  “Your Highness?”

  He waved toward the device as she tapped its screen. “You won't need that, Luisa. This is just a quick task. I’d like you to send a bouquet to Claire Peyton's office.”

  She hesitated, but to her credit, recovered quickly. “She’s the new American ambassador, correct?”

  “Yes. Now that the formalities are complete, she should be in her embassy office. If you could arrange for a delivery this afternoon?”

  At Luisa’s inquisitive look, he added, “Oh, yes, the card. I’ll leave the niceties up to you—welcome to San Rimini, that it was a pleasure to have her and her personal assistant at La Rocca—whatever you think is appropriate. Then state that I'd be happy to arrange a meeting at her convenience to discuss her goals.”

  Luisa made a quick note. “When her office calls, where should I schedule the appointment? Here, or at the embassy? And how much time will you need? Thirty minutes?”

  “Here is fine. Wait, no, on second thought, scratch that.” He frowned. He needed the proper venue so the ambassador would feel she’d been heard. However, he didn’t want to be trapped listening to an expanded presentation on a project he couldn’t seriously consider in the near future.

  Luisa interrupted his internal debate. “I’ll speak with Ambassador Peyton’s office about arranging the meeting there. I assume they’re reorganizing the embassy's office space with Ambassador Cartwright’s departure, but there should be a meeting room available—”

  “No, hold on.” He raised one hand in a silent request for time to think. This shouldn’t be complicated. He’d made a minor political mistake in cutting off the ambassador’s pitch. Such mistakes happened as often with him as with any other government official. It could be remedied quickly enough. It was simply a matter of learning her personality and finding the rhythm of their political relationship.

  And not winking at her.

  “Scratch the whole card, Luisa. I’ll write one myself. I assume I’m still clear tomorrow after six p.m.?”

  “As of now, Your Highness.”

  “All right. Pencil in the ambassador and I’ll include a dinner invitation in the card. If she can’t make dinner on such short notice, I’d appreciate it if you’d make other arrangements with her office.”

  A flash of surprise registered on Luisa’s face, but she hid it by quickly consulting her schedule…the one he’d told her she wouldn’t need. “Prince Marco is hosting an event in the formal dining room tomorrow evening. The garden terrace is a possibility, but rain is expected around seven. Let me see what else might be available.”

  “My apartment should be fine. Richard Cartwright was there for dinner last year. I’ll have Samuel and his staff make the preparations. Is he on duty tomorrow?”

  Luisa’s eyes widened briefly, but she kept her focus on the schedule in her hand. “He is. Any special requests for the meal?”

  “Whatever Samuel feels is best.” Samuel Barden, his longtime private chef, was happiest when given latitude to create meals based on what he found at the market on any given day. Eduardo had learned long ago to let Samuel do exactly that.

  “Yes, Your Highness. I’ll get right on it.”

  “Thank you. If you could also confirm the transportation to the War Museum for tonight, then I’m set for now.”

  He expected her to leave, but instead, she asked, “While I’m on the phone with the florist, what would you like for the Duomo?”

  It took him a beat to follow. Once again, the visit had slipped his mind. “A dozen white roses, assuming they’re available. They were her favorite. If not, then red.”

  “Shall I have them waiting for you in the sanctuary, or in the car?”

  “The car, please. I’d prefer to carry them inside so I can place them myself.”

  Luisa nodded and turned to go just as Zeno entered the office, causing a near-collision in the doorway. Once he and Luisa muttered their apologies, Zeno asked, “You were talking about your Duomo visit, Your Highness?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know you’d prefer not to make remarks, but something brief might be in order.”

  Eduardo leaned back in his chair and gave his press secretary a long look. “Let me guess. You received an interview request?”

  “Several, but two specifically in regard to the anniversary. One from San Rimini Today and one from Val Dempsey at Today’s Royals. The latter can be skipped. She’s always angling for an interview and no matter what you say, she’ll give her piece the slant she wants to run. San Rimini Today requires more delicate handling.”

  “Would a few words on the steps of the Duomo be sufficient?”

  “If you make a brief statement, I can easily tell both outlets—and anyone else who asks for an interview—that this is a personal occasion and that you’d prefer to limit your statements to what you say outside.”

  “Have my children received any requests?”

  “Yes, all of them. Their offices referred the requests to me. They’d rather follow your lead.”

  “All right. Put off what you can until tomorrow. I’ll prepare something to say as I leave the Duomo.”

  “If you’d like me to review your remarks, I’m available, Your Highness.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” At the big man’s look of consternation, Eduardo added, “I know, I know. Every word will be picked apart. I’ll keep it brief and make sure I don’t repeat what I’ve said in previous years.”

  Eduardo stood, tucked a file under his arm, then escorted Zeno out of the office. “Sergio and I finished the edits on tonight’s speech for the War Museum. Luisa should have a copy to you shortly.”

  Mollified, Zeno wished Eduardo good luck at the War Museum before leaving for his own office.

  Luisa was on the phone when Eduardo reached her desk, but was apparently on hold. She lowered the receiver and looked at him.

  “If anyone needs me, I’ll be working in my apartment for the next few hours.”

  “You’ll get the card to me shortly?”

  At his nod, she said, “I’ll call if anything urgent arises,” then shifted the receiver as the person on the other end came on the line.

  Within a few minutes, Eduardo entered his apartment, strode to his private study, and toed off his shoes. It had been a long day and he had several things to do before his War Museum appearance. On late afternoons when his energy flagged, this was where he retreated whenever possible. He drew a sense of peace and order from the room’s familiar keepsakes and the smell of its floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Better yet, few people interrupted him here, which allowed him to focus.

  The file he carried contained a briefing on his upcoming trip to South America. Rather than open it, he dropped it on the desktop and leaned forward, planting his knuckles on either side of the file and closing his eyes. He allowed himself five long breaths, then straightened, resolved to get to work.

  Before he could sit, his gaze snagged on the framed photo of Aletta he kept on the corner of his desk. It had been taken as they’d emerged from the Duomo following their wedding ceremony.

  “Can you believe it's been nine years?” he asked her image. “You’d hate the way the press makes a yearly production out of your death. You’d have something witty to say about it. Something morbid and hilarious and completely unfit to print.”

  He reached past the photo to pick up a smaller one he’d taken during an official visit to Spain the year before she'd passed away, before they'd realized her exhaustion was more than a result of her overbooked schedule. They’d had a few minutes alone in Madrid’s Campo del Moro park. Aletta was walking in front of him and had stopped to look at a curled leaf on a tree. He’d captured the image just as she’d reached for the leaf, a smile brightening her face at having discovered a caterpillar inside.

  In some ways, it seemed as if they’d taken that trip just a few weeks ago. He could still remember how she’d jumped when the caterpillar moved from the leaf to her hand. In other ways, it seemed like an even
t from another lifetime, as if he’d watched from far away as two other people lived the experience.

  Aletta’s condition had deteriorated rapidly and the end came earlier than any of them had expected. The night she’d passed away, Antony had been in Africa on a diplomatic mission. Federico and Lucrezia had just married and were in New Zealand on their first state visit. Isabella had been in her final semester of university in London. She’d wanted to come home, but stayed to graduate at Aletta’s insistence, though she’d called nearly every night and flew home more weekends than not.

  Only Eduardo and Marco had been at the palace on that final, painful night. Marco had started at Princeton the previous fall. He’d entered with a number of credits and had taken a heavy load his first semester, then took off the spring semester to stay in San Rimini. The situation hadn’t been easy for any of them and Eduardo still wasn’t sure whether Aletta’s rapid decline was a blessing or a curse. There were times he wondered how he and his children ever managed to get through the intensity of those days and the massive state funeral that followed.

  Somehow, they had. Now all four children were grown and thriving in their royal roles. Federico and Antony had children of their own. He suspected Isabella and Marco, each recently married, also planned to start families soon.

  His children’s lives had changed drastically in nine years. Yet he’d remained the same. Working to improve his country’s economy, promoting charitable causes, attending events late into the night, and then rising again at dawn to go for a run—or to work out with Greta the taskmaster—so he could be back in his office right after breakfast to begin again.

  Or…perhaps he wasn’t the same.

  He couldn’t look at the picture of Aletta in Spain without feeling as if she’d been frozen at that age. The shining, beautiful woman who smiled at the caterpillar no longer looked like someone he could banter with at the end of a long day, someone with the wisdom and maturity to understand the complexities of his life. Close, but not quite. They’d married young, and for many years they had grown and learned together.

  Then they hadn’t.

  A pang of guilt grabbed his gut at the stunning thought that, in the last decade, he’d outgrown his own wife.

  Deep down, he’d known it for some time, but today it hit him with more clarity. He shoved the thought aside and replaced the photo. “You’d be proud of them all,” he told her image. “You’d love their spouses, Isabella's most of all. Nick’s an expert in medieval history, a man after your own heart.”

  He let his mind wander for a few minutes, remembering Aletta telling him at length about the museums she’d visited on her royal tour and how much she’d enjoyed the country’s art. She’d hit Madrid’s shops afterward, picking up fashions she hadn't seen in San Rimini. At the memory of her showing him a pink dress she thought would suit her complexion, he laughed aloud.

  “You’d probably tell me to color my hair if you were here. You wouldn’t like the gray at all. You’d say it made you look like you were married to an old man.”

  Though these days, despite the confidence he knew age and experience gave him, he felt younger than ever. Now that his children were happily married and he’d recovered from heart surgery, he had more energy and looked better than he had in years. He’d heard his staff comment on it when they thought he wasn’t listening, and he’d read as much in the tabloids when he knew no one was looking over his shoulder at his reading material.

  And for the first time in years, he’d looked twice at another woman. Why Claire Peyton, and why now, he couldn't guess. Maybe it was her backbone. Or the way she told a story. When she’d mentioned the scene in Out of Africa and the history of the ambassador’s house, he’d been riveted. Though others might’ve found the topics boring, she’d seemed to sense his interest. Then again, perhaps there was nothing to it. Just his mind playing tricks, given the anniversary of Aletta’s death and his annual visit to the royal family’s crypt at the Duomo.

  He’d come to dread visiting Aletta the last three or four years. Not because of her, but because the entire day felt staged. The media stationed themselves across the street, their array of cameras aimed at the Duomo steps with the goal of capturing a momentary look of anguish to show the world that the king still mourned his beautiful queen. But Eduardo no longer felt the anguish when he thought of her, only a dull, leaden ache. And that, only when he shared a moment of joy with one of his children—such as at the birth of a grandchild—and regretted that Aletta wasn't able to experience it herself.

  Somehow, over the years, Aletta had transformed in his mind almost as much as she had in the mind of the public. She’d become an image to rally around, someone to hold out to the world as a symbol of the romance and beauty of San Rimini, just as the late Princess Grace had become a symbol of Monaco.

  She’d become someone—something—different than the woman who’d entered his life so long ago.

  The phone on his desk rang, startling him. He leaned forward and hit the speaker.

  “Your Highness,” Luisa's clear voice came across the line, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but the florist would like to know if you have any particular arrangement in mind.”

  He frowned to himself. “Plain white roses, same as last year. Loose is fine. No need for a vase.”

  “Excuse me. I wasn’t clear. I meant the arrangement for Ambassador Peyton.”

  He swiped a hand over his face. He never lost concentration like this, never dwelled on the personal side of his life. His country demanded his full attention and he liked it that way. “I’m sorry, Luisa. I should have specified. You can tell the florist to use whatever is in season. Something uplifting and local. We want the ambassador to feel welcome in San Rimini.”

  He heard a familiar voice in the background and paused. “Count Giovanni Sozzani, I presume?”

  Luisa made a noise of affirmation. “He stopped to drop off—what is it?—oh, I see. He stopped to drop off a book he borrowed from you.”

  “He could have brought it Sunday.”

  Luisa repeated the statement, then Eduardo heard a male voice say, “I was in the building and had it with me. Why send flowers to the embassy, Your Highness? Did you insult the new ambassador already?”

  His friend was teasing him for the amusement of the staff, Eduardo knew, but since the two of them weren’t in the same room with the ability to make eye contact, Giovanni had no idea his comment hit the mark.

  “Luisa, please tell the count to leave the diplomacy to me, then inform him that I look forward to beating him at cribbage this Sunday.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” She relayed the message, then heard Giovanni’s robust laugh as he said goodbye to the staff. Luisa quickly came back on the line and said, “I’ll ask the florist about her stock of local flowers. I believe he’ll be able to deliver the arrangement this afternoon, as soon as the card is ready.”

  “I’m writing it now.” Making the delivery today was good. The press would salivate if they spotted a florist making a delivery to the embassy on the same day he was at the Duomo. Whether or not the flowers were sent as an official courtesy, some news outlet would post a misleading headline speculating on whether the king had a new romantic interest.

  The thought made him realize what he’d done. He pressed a hand to his forehead, astounded at the mistake he’d nearly made. “Luisa, could you check something? Do I have any dinners scheduled for Friday?”

  “Not a dinner, but you have the Our Place reception that runs from six to eight p.m. After that, you have thirty minutes with Sergio to discuss the Strada il Teatro project, then three phone calls to congratulate the winners of the national library essay contest.”

  He remembered now. “All right. What about Saturday?”

  “Saturday you have breakfast with Prince Marco in his palace apartment. After that, a few quick meetings, then a luncheon at the aquarium to celebrate their new conservation initiative. You’re free in the evening.”

  “All right.
If Samuel could make arrangements, let’s move dinner with Ambassador Peyton from Thursday to Saturday. That way she has more notice.” It would also give the dinner separation from his visit to the Duomo. Such separation shouldn’t be necessary, but he wasn’t willing to take a chance.

  “I’ll talk to Samuel, but I don’t foresee a problem.”

  “Thank you, Luisa. I’ll have the note to you shortly.”

  After hanging up, he pushed aside the briefing folder, opened his desk drawer, and located a monogrammed notecard. Though he sent several personal notes each week, he stared at the card for a moment, at a loss for words.

  Dear Madam Ambassador was as far as he got when a child's happy yell echoed from outside.

  Latching onto the excuse, he rose, left the study, and strode to the far side of the great room, where one of the windows afforded a view of the palace garden. Eduardo leaned out the open window just in time to see Prince Federico’s two sons, Paolo and Arturo, racing toward the private lawn that was located on the far side of the rose garden. The boys enjoyed wrestling in the grass, kicking balls, and climbing trees in the open area whenever possible. Eduardo smiled to himself as the boys tore along the gravel path, then disappeared from view.

  It didn’t surprise him to see Federico start jogging to catch up with his sons, despite the fact he wore a business suit and dress shoes. This was an entirely different Federico than the dutiful, contemplative man he’d been for most of his life. After being suddenly widowed a few years ago, he’d struggled to find meaning in his royal role as he raised a pair of toddlers who were deep in mourning for their mother.

  But the recent changes in Federico had been positive. He’d found the strength to move on and had fallen in love with a wonderful woman. Pia Renati made Federico livelier and happier than Eduardo ever would have imagined in the weeks and months following the loss of Lucrezia, the boys’ mother. Though the prince worked as hard as ever and remained a rule-follower at heart, Pia had helped Federico find a lightness of being that softened the stress lines that had taken up residence around his eyes. The two of them even planned a hiking trip in Columbia next month…without the children, and without a single public outing or political meeting on their agenda. Federico never would have done such a thing before Pia came into his life.