by Rachel Hauck
“I read it.” Nathaniel rubbed his hands over his eyes. He’d bet his last quid that Ginny was behind all of this. After he’d read the piece, he had stood in front of the mirror and practiced proposing to her.
Ginny, would you do me the honor?
Lady Genevieve, will you marry me?
Hey, let’s just do this, get it over with?
But he couldn’t do it. His love for Susanna sat too close to the surface. Despite her declaration she’d never marry him, he still loved her. His strategy now was to give himself time to get over her.
It’d been ten hours since he’d walked out of St. Stephen’s Chapel into the camera firing squad, embroiled in gossip, speculation, and political debate. But it felt like weeks.
Nathaniel pressed his hand against his chest where the ache of missing her persisted.
“We’re fortunate the explosion last night and this morning harmed no one,” Henry said, “and the people are carrying on with their celebrations. We’ve doubled your security to walk the streets this evening, Nathaniel.”
“It’s just the free Hessenberg nationals.” Seamus shifted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. “Feeling their oats, ol’ boy.”
“What do you propose?”
“Stay away from the American, Nathaniel.” Henry capped the bourbon bottle.
“Seriously? You think avoiding Susanna Truitt will appease the faction that blows up bombs?”
“Rebels, gossips …” Henry came ’round to face him. “Whatever. This is about the future government of both countries. A hundred years of pent-up emotions are rising to the fore. There’s going to be more trouble.” He glanced at Seamus. “Let’s minimize what we can.”
“Hessenberg becoming a part of Brighton is not new. We’ve known for at least sixty years we’d lost track of Prince Francis’s family. And despite the ongoing economic strain to us, they’d in all likelihood become a province.”
“But in the last ten years, a hundred-year-old entail feels old-fashioned, unnecessary.” Henry loved to counterpoint and debate.
“Tell that to the EU court.”
“She’s a rich land, Nathaniel.” Seamus puffed on his pipe so smoke encircled his head. He looked like a tweed St. Nicholas. “If we can just get her back on track.”
“Yes, but she keeps falling into financial trouble, which harms Brighton’s economy.”
“Either way, Your Majesty”—Henry arched his brow—“we must prepare for Hessenberg to become a permanent province. The EU will downgrade our credit rating again if we combine our treasuries.”
“We may not have a choice, Henry.” Nathaniel braced for one of the men to push the conversation toward Ginny. It’s what they all wanted … two nations.
“Well if you’re going to be king, then be a king. Lead. Don’t be wishy-washy.” Henry’s admonition surprised Nathaniel. “No one likes wishy-washy royals.”
“All right. You want decisiveness? Announce Hessenberg will become a province.”
Henry arched his brow. “Let’s not be hasty.”
Ah finally, his true colors. “You want me to marry Ginny, then?”
Seamus frowned and lowered his pipe.
“Something wrong, Seamus?” Nathaniel said. An old-guard Hessen, the man’s years in Brighton-Hessenberg politics had softened him to the province cause. But faced with its reality …
“I never believed you should marry Lady Genevieve to save the entail.” He tapped his pipe on a crystal ashtray. “I always thought someone would come ’round to save us. But now that Henry’s indicated his opinion, I might change my mind.”
In that moment, Nathaniel’s thoughts and feelings cleared and aligned. No more dallying with the idea he might marry Ginny. “I’m sorry. I hinted I was willing to marry Ginny, but alas, I’m not.”
Seamus sighed, his large chest rising then falling.
Nathaniel decided to meet with Jonathan and discuss one last heroic effort to find a niece or nephew of Prince Francis. Somewhere in the world one must exist.
In the meantime …
“What can we do about changing the Marriage Act?” asked Nathaniel.
“What?” The question caught Henry completely unaware.
“We can do nothing.” Seamus returned to puffing his pipe. A human chimney. In a room with no windows.
“Seamus, please, your pipe.” Nathaniel batted away the smoke.
“Sorry, Your Majesty, but I can’t think without it.”
“Nathaniel, you go after the Marriage Act and the press will serve you for tea,” Henry said.
“Talk about old laws that make no sense. We’re all for abolishing an ironclad hundred-year-old entail, but squeamish on examining a two-hundred-year-old marriage act. The world has changed more since 1792 than 1914.”
“The press will call it treason, my good lad,” Seamus said.
Henry added, “Or worse. Call for the end of the monarchy.”
“Henry, who’s going to call for the end of the monarchy because we change a law that only impacts me and mine? Let the royal heirs marry who they will as long as there is no formidable objection.”
“Some saying marrying a foreigner is objection enough,” Seamus said.
“Then let them speak up when and if it happens.”
“When and if?” Henry arched his brow and sat in the nearest leather chair. The worn material creaked and moaned. “Whom you marry impacts Brighton, Nathaniel. It’s why the law came into being in the first place. You cannot marry someone who might cause potential harm to our sovereignty.”
“And I’m quite sure Hessenberg will see it as an end-run, Nathaniel,” Seamus said. “It will only fuel the dissidents. Brighton changes laws to suit themselves but not Hessenberg.”
“It will appear to be an abuse of power,” Henry said. “The rest of us poor common folks must obey the law, seek out representatives to plead our case, but not the royals.”
“Are you sure you cannot see your way to marry Lady Genevieve?” Seamus cleared his throat and again moved his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Open your eyes. She’s scheming, plotting. She’s behind most of the rubbish in the press.”
“She’d make a fine queen,” Seamus said, unmasking his support for Ginny.
“Really? A schemer and plotter?”
“You’d not be the first Stratton to marry for the kingdom.” Henry poured another shot in his glass.
“Oh? What does that mean?”
Henry glanced at Seamus, then to Sir George, who had been listening in quiet contemplation. “It means love for the kingdom overcomes love of the heart.”
Nathaniel eyed Henry as he took a shot of the liquor in his glass. The prime minster was brilliant, layered and nuanced.
“I cannot do it.”
“Nathaniel, despite these small protests, your coronation has stirred a lot of goodwill,” Sir George said. “I support your notion to adjust the marriage act, but let’s wait awhile before the king marches down to parliament with his own Order of Council.”
“Wait for what?”
“End of the entail.”
“End of the entail? That’s a year off, Sir George.” Plenty of time for Ginny to do her worst. Nathaniel paced to the end of the long, rectangular room. Why were there no blasted windows?
“Nathaniel, would this American even marry you if you asked her?” Henry asked, removing the cloak from their conversation.
He faced the painting of his father and grandfather. “She said she would not.”
“Then why cause all this needless fuss?”
Because he didn’t believe Susanna. Because he wanted a chance to woo her and change her mind. “Because I want my children, should I have any, to marry whom they love.”
“She’s thinking of Brighton even if you’re not,” Sir George said.
“It’s a grave thing to let a nation disappear from the face of the earth, Nathaniel.” Seamus continued to shed his congenial politician persona. “The h
istory books will remember us, remember you, for giving Hessenberg her independence. Allowing her to remain a sovereign nation.”
“I’ll say it now. I won’t marry Ginny. Even if I can’t pursue Susanna. I don’t love her.”
“What does love have to do with freeing a nation?” Seamus, so casual, so practical. Because his heart wasn’t on the line. Perhaps Ginny had wooed him too. Like Henry and Mum. And promised him a lofty reward should she become the grand duchess.
“Love has everything to do with freeing a nation, Seamus.”
The room fell silent. The arguments had been mounted and failed.
“Thank you, gentlemen, for your council.” Nathaniel made his way to the door, tired, ready for luncheon. “It is a grave thing to let a nation disappear from the earth, Seamus. I grant you it will be a sad day in Hessenberg. But it’s an even graver thing to ask a man to disappear from his own heart.”
Out the door and down the hall, his heels tapped the marble mezzanine and echoed between the crystal chandeliers. Liam fell in step behind him.
Jogging down the sweeping staircase, Nathaniel checked the time. Six-ten. Rollins had sent a car ’round for Susanna by now. She was back at Parrsons, but he’d not be able to see her before the evening stroll through the street parties.
He’d have to arrange a way to see her later tonight. He nearly ached to see her.
At the bottom of the stairs, Jon waited with a knowing grin. “Nathaniel, I received an interesting call this afternoon from Tanner Burkhard.” Jonathan fell into step with Nathaniel, heading for the Parliament House main doors. “It has to do with the entail.”
“Go on.” Tanner was Hessenberg’s Minister of Culture and a former university mate of Nathaniel’s and Jonathan’s.
“Tanner Burkhard studied the entail at the law college the same year as I. It kind of became a hobby for him. Anyway, in his pursuit of entail trivia, he came across an old navy chaplain, Yardley Prather.”
“Yardley Prather. Didn’t he perform services on campus when we were in university?” Nathaniel hurried toward the waiting SUV. The street stroll began in an hour, and he wanted to dine first. “He was old then. He must be nearing a hundred now.”
“He’s ninety-four, and Nathaniel,” Jonathan said, pausing by the passenger door of the motor, “his older brother Otto witnessed the signing of the entail.”
Nathaniel stood aside as Liam opened his door, regarding Jon with a suspicious gaze. “And we’re just now hearing of it? Come on, man, is Tanner serious?”
“Apparently the old chap was sworn to secrecy, but he hinted at something when Tanner interviewed him on the anniversary of D-Day about life in Brighton right after World War I. Yardley kind of drifted on him and said something about the ‘entail’ and ‘the secret princess.’”
“The princess? You think he might really know something?” Nathaniel asked. “Can we talk to him? Is he around? Of sane mind?”
“He’s living in a senior home on the north end of the County Haybryer. I’ve an appointment with him in the morning. He’s sharp, Nathaniel.” Jonathan’s eyes lit. “Told me his older brother Otto was sworn to secrecy by Nathaniel I and Prince Francis. But he got into his father’s bourbon one Festive Day and confessed something to Yardley, swearing him to secrecy. The old man has never told a soul. But with the end drawing near, he’s ready to tell his tale.”
“I’m going with you.” Nathaniel clapped his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, his hope rising.
“You can’t, your diary is full tomorrow, Nathaniel. It’s the last day of the coronation celebration. Tanner and the entail barrister are going with me.”
Why the governments hadn’t done this research before was beyond Nathaniel. A task lost in translation? Lost in transition? It was right and fitting to find the true heir to Prince Francis, not settle for a counterfeit who was doing her level best to manipulate the king of Brighton.
Outside Parliament, the retiring day pulled the night shade over Cathedral City. This was not how Nathaniel planned to spend his first day as king, but the overnight in St. Stephen’s and the bomb ignited a media storm.
As he climbed into the motorcar, firecrackers popped in the distance. A band began to play. The glow of a central city party pushed back the darkness. Another night of coronation celebrations awaited.
“Liam, can we send a security detail to Parrsons, pick up Susanna and Avery later this evening?” Nathaniel asked. “Jon, how is she? She returned to Parrsons safely, I presume.”
Jon and Liam exchanged a look.
“What? Don’t hide anything from me.”
Jonathan turned around in his seat, facing Nathaniel. “She’s gone,” he said. “Rollins called. Susanna and Avery left for the airport this afternoon.”
“Liam”—Nathaniel tapped the big man’s shoulder—“to the airport.”
“Nathaniel,” Jon said, concern making his eyes appear sadder than usual. “Let her go. Let this whole mess go. She’s most likely gone by now.”
“Then I have to see for myself. Liam, to the airport.”
“She’s leaving without saying good-bye to you, Nathaniel. What does that tell you? Don’t do this … another Lady—”
“Adel?”
“—all over again. Don’t scoff … you know I’m right.”
“No, you are not right,” Nathaniel huffed, crashing back against his seat, staring out his window at the night sky. Was Jon right? Was Susanna just this decade’s Lady Adel? Was he doomed always to lose his heart to a woman who didn’t love him? And make a fool of himself in the midst of it?
“Nathaniel, it’s a security risk for you to go to the airport. Liam?”
“I have to agree.”
“She did leave without a word to me. I suppose that says more than a thousand words.” Nathaniel frowned at his aide, his heart heavy and sad. “You’re right too often these days.”
Jon faced forward, shaking his head. “Sorry, Nathaniel. I know she meant a great deal to you.”
Yeah, whatever. He closed his eyes, breathed deep and tried to focus on the night ahead, his responsibility, his duty to Brighton. “Stratton Palace, Liam. I’d like to dine and change before the street stroll.”
As Liam motored through the crowded, festive city toward home, Nathaniel watched the celebrations from his window. Pints were being raised in his honor. Music and dancing celebrated him. But it all seemed stars and moons away.
Did they know, under the banner of their merriment, his heart was breaking?
Tomorrow evening would be the Grand Coronation Parade. He’d ride in a gilded white horse-drawn carriage—alone—toward the palace through a city overflowing with citizens wishing him well.
The day after that, life would return to normal, and Nathaniel would settle into his duties. Settle into a life without Susanna Truitt.
TWENTY-THREE
Susanna wore the gold Louboutins out of Parrsons House and into the taxi, through airport security, and down the long thoroughfare to their gate for home.
Brighton to Atlanta. Nine hours. All while wearing the magic, stupid shoes. A reminder never to believe in fairy tales, nor the wild musings of a half-sane homeless woman. Even if she was a millionaire.
“You look ridiculous.” Avery pointed at the shoes, her elbows propped on her knee.
“Do I look like I care?” Susanna crossed her legs, exposing her right shoe in all of its crystal and glitter glory, pumping her leg up and down as she flipped through a magazine.
“What if someone recognizes you?”
Susanna tugged the brim of the wide hat she’d purchased at a souvenir shop in the airport. “They won’t be expecting me under a hat.”
“I can’t believe this.” Avery stood, flapping her hands against her thighs. “Colin said he’d bring us around when the flight actually left. But no, we have to sit here all day like a couple of jack wagons.”
“I’m sorry, but we have to get out of here before it gets worse.” While packing, Susanna had turned on the
television to discover she was the topic of a TV show. Madeline & Hyacinth went on and on about “the American,” playing the coronation video where Susanna stood instead of kneeling and popping up pictures of her this morning at St. Stephen’s in Nathaniel’s arms.
“He was going to take me riding.” Avery pouted, kicking at Susanna’s chair.
“You don’t ride.”
“If I can stand on a board and ride an unpredictable wave, I think I can manage a horse.”
“Aves.” Susanna flipped the magazine closed. “We’re going home. Stop complaining.”
With a sigh, Avery flopped back down to her seat and peered at Susanna through a reddish sheen of her chestnut hair. “We were living a fairy tale, weren’t we? Just for a moment.”
“For a moment,” Susanna said, “though I never wanted the fairy tale thing or to be a princess. I just wanted true love. The one.”
“You just happened to find a real prince.”
“But not true love. Not the one.”
Avery sat up and gripped Susanna’s forearm with her hands. “You are such a liar. You do so love him.”
