The Royal Wedding Collection

by Rachel Hauck

  “Gracie,” Gage said, his tone low and warning as he gave her a familiar, knowing look. What’s with that? “I came to talk to her about—”

  “Yeah, he told me,” Susanna said.

  “He did? You don’t look upset. I know you’ve been handling all this so well, but I expected you to be at least aggravated.” Gracie peeled off a strip of duct tape and anchored the tree stand to the desk. “I got some fake snow to cover that up.”

  “Why would I be upset?” Susanna peered inside the Christmas box. Come to think of it, a bit of holiday decorating would cheer her up. She picked up a string of silver tinsel and wrapped it around her neck. “He tried to get me back but I refused. I don’t blame him.”

  “What?” Gracie grabbed her arms, turning Susanna toward her. “When did he ever try to get you back?”

  “Since the summer.”

  “Since the summer? Are you kidding me? You never said a word. Girl, I’m about to take away your best-friend card.”

  “What? I said a million words. You cheered me on. ‘Go, girl, tell him no, girl.’”

  “When did I ever?” Gracie glanced at her before retrieving cottony snow drape from the box.

  “Gracie, think now before you—”

  “Gage, shhhh.” Gracie shot him a curled-lip look. “This is girlfriend talk. She never told me Adam tried to get her back.”

  “And there you go …” Gage stepped back, grinning, arms folded. “After this you can never call me a big mouth again.”

  “Adam?” Susanna twisted the tinsel around her fingers. “I’m talking about Gage trying to get me to work for him again. What are you talking about?”

  “Yeah, Gracie, what are you talking about?” Gage shoved aside Susanna’s pencil canister and collection of McDonald’s toys to perch on the edge of her desk. “I came to tell her I’d finally hired a landscape architect.”

  “Oh.” Gracie’s cheeks flushed pink. A rare and unusual sight.

  “Gracie, what’s this about Adam?” Five minutes ago, Susanna was confident about throwing her life into God’s hands. He had her back and she could do anything he called her to do. But news about Adam speared her confidence with doubt.

  Gracie buried her attention in the Christmas box. “Won’t these white lights brighten things up around here?”

  “Gracie.”

  “You tell her.” She shot up and cut a pleading glance toward Gage.

  “No way. You started this.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Susanna said. “I don’t care who started it, but someone had better finish it.”

  “Adam’s getting married.” Gracie and Gage. In harmony.

  “Married?” Susanna unwound the tinsel and let it slither back into the box. “To Sheree?”

  “Yeah, so you knew?” Gracie worked the knots from a string of lights.

  “He told me about her when we broke up.” Susanna motioned to the Christmas box. “Is that what this is about?”

  “No, I really think this office needs some Christmas cheer.” Gracie dropped the lights. “I’m so sorry, Suz.”

  “Don’t be. I’m glad you told me. I’d find out sooner or later.”

  So Adam was moving on. Getting married.

  Susanna didn’t have a place to live, but she’d surrendered her last offering to the Lord. Her time. Her will. Her very heart. No sense taking it back now. If all else failed, she knew of a good spot in the woods next to Aurora.

  Brighton

  Snow in early December put Nathaniel in a festive spirit, opened his heart for the Christmas season, and for a moment allowed him to forget the weight of preparing for his coronation.

  He grieved his father still, wishing he could stride down the hall to ask him questions, glean from his wisdom. He longed for his strength and experience, his knowledge of the kingdom, of the family, of the entail.

  This time next month, Nathaniel would be king. Regent of the Brighton Kingdom, the de facto Archduke of the Grand Duchy Hessenberg, head of the state and constitutional monarchy.

  Ten million citizens under his care. Ten million hearts funneled into one—his. He must be an advocate for them all. Even the rumbling Hessens whose demand for their independence increased every day.

  But they were all bound by the decisions of their forefathers and the ironclad entail. One of the latest headlines declared Brighton had stolen the rights to Hessenberg. Another declared that the royal family from the House of Augustine-Saxon had been murdered or exiled so far away they’d never be found again.

  And yet, somehow, in the midst of the recent turmoil, the lovely Lady Genevieve came to the surface, a bright star willing to “save the day.”

  Recently, Nathaniel resolved, if it came down to it, he would sacrifice himself, his heart, for the welfare of Brighton and independence of Hessenberg and marry Ginny.

  Shouts from the staff’s children playing in the fresh snow beneath his window drew his attention from his worries. Gladly, Nathaniel shoved away from his desk for the window.

  Whoa … Young Seamus Mackinder plastered pretty Sarah Warren with a fat snowball. She chased him ’round a tree, tackled him, and pushed his face beneath the snow.

  Atta, girl. Don’t let the lads best you.

  He wanted to be out there with them, laughing and forgetting how alone he felt. He’d felt isolated on occasion. Distinctly different from his mates, as if he walked alongside them but on a different path.

  Yet he never felt as if he were on the outside looking in. But since Dad’s funeral, that brand of aloneness hit him. Along with a bit of fear.

  He was the king. Walking in the giant footsteps of his father, grandfather, and every Stratton king back to King Stephen I.

  Dad’s death took living history with it. The people looked to Nathaniel as king. But to whom did he look? The pondering question overwhelmed him and more and more brought him to his knees.

  Prayer was his saving grace.

  The children jumped on their sleds and headed down the hill—just like Nathaniel and Stephen had done so many times.

  But there was work to be done. Dailies to review, emails to read, newspapers to ignore.

  Nathaniel sat at his desk, sipped his coffee, and scanned the Daily Times and Hessen Today headlines.

  They were dry, more businesslike papers. Nathaniel had asked Jon to stop bringing him the LibP and the Informant.

  The LibP read like a revolutionary propaganda sheet, and the Informant remained true to its tabloid origins, turning every little thing into a scandal.

  By their assertions, Nathaniel and Lady Genevieve would be engaged, if not married, and their first child on the way by the end for the year. What was the term the Informant used? “Looking for an heir bump.”

  Horrid.

  However, Jon informed him that the odds were now at fifty-to-one that Nathaniel would not propose to Lady Genevieve by Christmas. If he were a betting man, he’d take those odds.

  The mantel clock chimed, and Nathaniel focused on the palace Christmas schedule, which required his approval.

  Then he reviewed his weekly diary and answered a few emails before he shoved back from his desk, unable to shake the yearning to be out in the snow.

  A good brisk walk ought to satisfy.

  He headed for his private living quarters, knowing the subtle disturbance in his heart was about more than being king or wanting to play in the snow like a child.

  Since he’d come home from St. Simons Island, he’d struggled with the quiet moments in his life.

  Because that’s when he thought of her. Five months had passed since he’d left her standing on the beach, soaking wet. And he could not get her out of his mind. Or his heart.

  Susanna Truitt had taken up residence in his head and refused to vacate. The more time passed, the more prevalent she became in his thoughts.

  Was he in love?

  He had no idea. But what did it matter? He could not marry her. The Duke of Wabash, his great-grandfather’s cousin, attempted to marry
an English lady in the early nineteen hundreds and failed. If he’d married her, he would’ve lost his title, his inheritance, and his very way of life.

  The duke gave up his intended. His love for her was not strong enough to endure a life without privilege.

  Could Nathaniel give up everything for love? Or was he more devoted to duty? To his way of life? Title and privilege? Money?

  But if God had placed him in Brighton at this moment in history, then surely he would help Nathaniel find love in the midst of it all.

  Meanwhile, Jon informed him the LibP and Informant called for him to marry Lady Genevieve, saying it was the solution to both economies above all. But all the pressure to marry only made him want Susanna more.

  In his day-to-day, he avoided marriage talk, preferring to give his heart and mind to becoming king. He’d fortified his emotional walls as best he could by eliminating all contact with Susanna.

  When she completed “A King’s Garden,” Jonathan granted the final approval and sent the bonus check.

  From the pictures, it appeared she had done a splendid job. Though he never doubted her. Nathaniel toyed with the idea of traveling to St. Simons Island to see the garden in person, but if he did, he’d feared his heart would never come home.

  Arriving at his apartment, his butler Malcolm greeted him. “Your brother is in the living room.”

  “Good. He can join me outside.” Nathaniel patted the elderly man on the shoulder. “Care to come, Malcolm? The snow is fresh.”

  “I prefer the fire, Your Majesty.”

  “Your choice. But at least put on a coat and step out on the balcony. It’s a beautiful day. Christmas is in the air.”

  “Yes, sir,” Malcolm said, bowing slightly. “I’ll have tea and cakes waiting for your return.”

  “Stephen?” Nathaniel rounded the corner into the living quarters, a rectangular space with a southern wall of windows, hand-woven tapestries adorning the clean, cream-colored walls, and imported Italian carpets in the living areas. Polished marble in the walkways and kitchen. The design was his—crisp, clean, masculine. Simple.

  His younger brother stood by the fireplace in his stocking feet while his muddy trainers left a brown puddle on the hearth. His rugby gear was wet and muddy. “We’ve a shot, Nate. To win the cup. Brighton Union is coming on strong.”

  “And with a prince as their star wing.” Nathaniel raised his hand, his fingers forming the U of the Brighton Union sign. Stephen gave his all to making the national team, overcoming the stigma of being a rejected first-year player. “Want to go for a walk in the snow? The staff children inspired me.”

  “I just came from the snow.” He offered up his cold red hands as proof. Stephen communicated with his entire being. His hands, his mannerisms, his movements. The way his dark hair stood on end made him look as if he were in a constant state of shock. But there wasn’t a more steady, peaceful man.

  Nathaniel crossed toward his room. “Have Malcolm bring ’round tea if you want. I’m going for a stroll outside.”

  “You can’t ignore them.” Stephen’s voice trailed after him, giving advice to a notion Nathaniel never verbalized. “The call to marry Lady Genevieve.”

  “I can and I will.” He turned back to his brother.

  “Why don’t you just address them?” Stephen dropped to the couch, tugging his rucksack to the cushion beside him. He dug around until he produced a plastic-wrapped sandwich of some sort. He took a big bite, then spread his arms across the back of the couch, glaring at Nathaniel and expecting an answer. And a darn good one.

  “They’ll draw me into the debate. Have me publicly announce I don’t love Lady Genevieve, and I won’t marry her to save Hessenberg or our economy. Then the political pundits and factions will explode, calling me mean-spirited, selfish, only caring for myself. I have so much; they have so little. Though they themselves would not require this standard of themselves.”

  “What about the American girl?”

  “What American girl?” He’d not talked to anyone but Jonathan about Susanna. Even then, only when she finished the garden. He believed his silence would help him forget her.

  “The one in the LibP picture.”

  “From five months ago?”

  Stephen shoved the corner of his sandwich into his mouth for another ravenous bite. “I don’t know …” He spoke and chewed at the same time, like a rugby player rather than the man of manners Mum worked so hard to raise.

  “If you’re hungry, Stephen, I can ring for Malcolm.”

  He shook his head, finished his sandwich—in one bite, no less—and dusted crumbs from his fingers. “I’ve dinner plans.” Still with his mouth full.

  “Did you stop by just to see how I fared with the press?”

  “That and to see if the jeweler delivered Mum’s birthday gift.”

  “This morning.” Nathaniel had one of Dad’s pocket watches refurbished, the one he’d inherited from his grandfather, King Leopold IV. After Dad died, Mum said the ticking clocks reminded her of Dad’s heart. Nathaniel thought the watch would bring her comfort.

  “Did you give it to her? Did she cry?”

  “In her way, yes. Wouldn’t look at me for a few moments. You remember we’re taking her to the symphony tomorrow night for her birthday celebration. Black tie. And no wild-colored cummerbunds.”

  “It’s on my diary.” Stephen reached into his rucksack and tossed a velvet box toward Nathaniel. “Mum sent it over to me. Asked if I’d give it to you.”

  Nathaniel caught the box with one hand. He didn’t have to ask what it was. He knew. Granny’s engagement ring. “Mum already tried to give this to me a month ago, but I refused. I’m not getting engaged.” About to toss the ring back to his brother, Nathaniel paused to lift the lid. A sparkling five-karat diamond rested in a bed of white velvet. Prisms of color splashed over Nathaniel’s fingers. “Queen Anne-Marie’s ring.”

  “Mum seems to think you need a bit of encouragement is all.”

  “Are you Mum’s accomplice?” Nathaniel tossed the box back to his brother. “Conspiring to get me to marry Ginny?”

  The ring had been in the family for over a century, but his paternal grandmother was the last to wear it. Grandfather King Stephen VII proposed marriage to Granny, Lady Isabelle, when she was a mere seventeen years old.

  But exactly one hundred years before, Lord Thomas Winthrop had the ring made for Brighton’s last reigning queen, Anne-Marie, in 1852.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger.” Stephen caught the box and fired it back at Nathaniel as Malcolm entered the room with the tea cart. Stephen hopped up, aiming for the sweet cakes.

  “I thought you were going to dinner.” Nathaniel set the ring on the coffee table. He’d have Jon return it to the vault.

  “A sweet cake is just what I need to hold me over.” He shoved the whole thing in his mouth and reached for another. “Mum thinks Ginny would make a grand wife and future queen.”

  “Then you can marry her.”

  “Me? You’re the heir. She’s not in love with me.”

  “Nor is she in love with me.” Nathaniel thought better of leaving the ring on the coffee table and placed it on the mantel behind the clock. A seventy-thousand-dollar ring was not to be tossed about like a football.

  “Love? Do any of us ever know if we’re really in love?”

  Yes. “All your brilliant logic aside, Steve, I’m not marrying Lady Genevieve.”

  “You have to marry someone. All that jazz about heirs producing heirs, carrying on royal lines.”

  “You can produce an heir just as well as I can.” The mantel clock chimed the hour. Four o’clock. He’d missed his moment to walk in the snow. Nathaniel peered at the window, the gray lines of the winter evening already shading the remains of the day. “Prince Francis had no children.”

  “He’s your example? I daresay he’s the reason why you’re in this mess. All I’m saying is you should not count Ginny out so quickly.”

  Nathaniel watched St
ephen go for a fourth, or was it his fifth, cake. Nathaniel didn’t feel like having this conversation.

  “Stephen, did Mum put you up to this? Or perhaps Morris Alderman?”

  “Morris? You’ve lost your mind, man. The press? I avoid them.”

  “Ginny’s spent more time wooing you and Mum, the King’s Office, the prime minister, and the press than relating to me.”

  “How much time have you spent wooing her?” He was clearing the entire tea cart of sweet cakes.

  “None.” Nathaniel rammed his hands into his pockets—a habit he must break, since it was considered ill form to put his hands in his pocket during parliamentary meetings or government functions.

  “If you marry her, the entail becomes a moot point. All is well.”

  Stephen must be reading the newspapers. “No, Stephen, it becomes more complicated. If I marry her and style her as Her Royal Highness queen of Brighton, she is no longer nobility but royalty. Then Parliament must decide whether she is a true enough descendant of Prince Francis to be his royal heir at the end of the entail agreement. She becomes the grand duchess of Hessenberg and the queen of Brighton. While I’ll only be king of Brighton.”