Claiming My Duchess

by Jessica Blake

  Nate worked on side projects for me, investigating rumors and intelligence further than I had time to. He was good at it too. His ability with a computer was a gift.

  “Nothing substantial,” he said with a shrug. “Just a lot of online whispers and smoke in mirrors — no details. Frustrating.”

  I grunted as I chewed. I understood perfectly. I was mindlessly flipping through my secret social media account that nobody but Nate knew existed when a random picture of a llama sticking its tongue out popped up on an American celebrity’s profile.

  I couldn’t help but think of the last time I saw a llama and the adorable woman wearing the shirt. I hated to admit that I thought about Little Ana Pipsqueak more often than I should have. I reasoned that it was because she’d disappeared like a wisp of smoke before I woke up, leaving me feeling off-center and more than a little disappointed.

  She hadn’t even left a phone number or a last name, only a scant few details that my hungover brain had struggled to remember the next day. Graduate student. Studying abroad for the remainder of the year. No sex for the past eight months. Nicknamed Squeaks. Spent a summer in Peru. Llama lover. That was it. Despite the lack of details, Ana had never really left my thoughts since that night, and I was impatiently waiting for my memories of our night together to disappear like all the others.

  But it wasn’t.

  Nate slid a paper across the desk toward me, and I glanced down at it. “What is it?”

  “Request to put an official portrait session on His Majesty’s and the princess’s calendar later next week,” Nate said. This was a lot of what my day was about. If anybody in or outside the palace wanted the presence of the princess, they had to submit a formal request, and it was up to me to make sure everything was properly prepared.

  Sometimes, I felt more like a nanny than a duke, the title I preferred to that of prince.

  I looked over the details that the Office of the Royal Photographer sent over. A two-hour session in the throne room and the east gardens next Thursday at nine in the morning. I glanced at the proposed attendees and saw nothing amiss. Thierry Masters, the photographer, three assistants, one new intern who’d been vetted and cleared while I was gone, and a catering team.

  I signed off on the request and put it in the pile that would go to my secretary who would put the events on Penelope’s calendar and forward it to the king’s personal secretary to do the same. So much paperwork for such simple things, I thought to myself as I sent the assignment to our head of security who would then assign guards and agents to spots around the two locations of the photo shoot.

  “Done,” I said and handed a printout of the plans to him. From there, he cleared it with the king’s staff and would take it back to Master’s office.

  Not every event was that simple, but this one involved no outsiders who hadn’t been cleared, and no public would be attending.

  “Thanks,” he said as I finished my lunch. “Settling in okay?”

  I gave a nonchalant shrug at the question. Sitting at a desk wasn’t my favorite thing to do, but I hadn’t been given much choice in the matter. “It’s fine,” I said, but the face Nate gave me let me know he saw right through me.

  “Bored out of your mind, aren’t you?”

  I tossed my linen napkin on the tray and re-covered the plate with the silver dome it’d arrived under. “It’s an adjustment, that’s all.” It had been a difficult adjustment too. When I’d been essentially forced to retire, I’d been head instructor at the army’s search, evacuate, extract, and rescue school. It was a twelve-week course for the elite in the Cassian special forces, and it was one of the hardest combat training schools in the world, something I’d worked to maintain the past six years that I’d been there. We took in special forces operatives from all over the world too. I’d trained soldiers from the States, Canada, Korea, Britain, New Zealand, and Australia, just to name a few.

  But duty had called. More specifically, Uncle Demetrius had called. Repeatedly. To the point that my commanding officer nearly chewed my ear off at the fact that I’d neglected to return three phone calls from our reigning monarch.

  I knew what he wanted — me. He wanted me in the palace and safely away from any conflict brewing in the world, and he wanted my help keeping Penelope safe as the world got scarier and scarier while terrorists and extremists grew bolder every day.

  It was the last half of that request that had won me over in the end, as my uncle would never force me to do anything I didn’t want to. But Penelope? That little cousin of mine could snap her fingers, and I’d come running. The precocious little girl with her blonde hair and bright blue eyes had been born two months after I lost a buddy in a firefight in the Middle East. It was the time I spent on leave holding the baby long nights while her mother struggled to recover that got me through my pain.

  Penelope had me at her first smile. And for her, I’d leave a career that I loved that kept me far from my family and return to the crush of people around the palace. The glare of the paparazzi’s attention to my every move, the celebrity status that meant nothing to me besides a loss of personal freedom.

  I didn’t have to endure the type of exposure most monarchs did, but what I did deal with was much more than I liked.

  In the big picture, I got it. I understood what I was doing and why things needed to change. But during the day-to-day adjustment, I wasn’t particularly thrilled with my life. After so much excitement and comradery, it had grown empty, aside from Penelope, my uncle, and Nate, and full of small tasks that didn’t exactly make me think that I was really doing anything with my life.

  “It’ll get better, Seb,” Nate said with a pointed look, and all I could do was give a curt nod. He’d left his position in army intelligence to join me here as my second-in-command, and while I called him my assistant, he had quite a lot of responsibilities of his own.

  “It’s not bad.” I felt a stab of guilt for even complaining that much. “It’s just not what I’m used to, that’s all.”

  I was trying to be as reasonable as I could, all the while knowing that I was being unreasonable and probably a little ungrateful for having such a hard time adjusting to my loss of personal freedom. I’d been the Duke of Becktonas for three months now, made so the minute after my father died of an aneurism unexpectedly. He had been the king’s younger brother, who was still morning the loss of his most beloved wife, Queen Helena, Penelope’s mother, just a month after my cousin was born.

  It made sense that my uncle was trying to hold his remaining family together as tightly as he could — the royal family had suffered more loss in the last decade than in the past one hundred years.

  But it didn’t make it easier.

  I tried not to follow my friends from the training range too closely on social media because that ugly little jealousy bug would bite now and then, and I’d wonder what I’d be doing in that moment if I were back in my old life.

  Letting out a long breath, I stood and carried the tray to a corner table for a servant to deal with later. “Thanks for lunch,” I said with a carefree smile I didn’t quite feel.

  Nate just narrowed his eyes at me as he stood. “Things will get more exciting, Seb.”

  I looked around the luxurious room and felt guilty for being so damn ungrateful. “You think?”

  He gave me a little salute and headed toward the door. “Yes. I can feel it.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Iliana

  By the time I landed at the Cassia International Airport, I was exhausted. I hadn’t realized how tiring international travel could be.

  While I’d been in London, Paris, and Italy, I hadn’t wanted to miss a single thing and spent most of my time with a camera in front of my face, taking picture after picture of the beautiful cities. Three weeks later, I had calluses on my trigger finger and both feet. And did I mention being exhausted? I thought I might need to up my vitamin intake or something.

  And I was more than a little homesick. I missed Jennifer.r />
  Since first meeting her, I’d never spent this much time away from my friend. But we’d talked daily, and every day, she’d ask me if I spotted him.

  Of course, the odds of seeing Seb again had to have been close to a bazillion to one, especially since I had no idea where he lived. Even so, I didn’t want to admit how often I looked for him. Even now, I couldn’t stop from smiling as I thought of my one-night stand. And even now, I wished I could go back and give him my phone number.

  Not doing so had been my biggest regret.

  I’d known he was visiting from out of the country, and even though I hadn’t known which country, there was always the hope that we might unexpectedly bump into each other as I country hopped through Europe’s major cities.

  But no. Good luck hadn’t smiled on me that much.

  My good fortune took yet another downturn when I realized my great-aunt Hermione Costas Theodorou wasn’t waiting for me as I expected when I shambled out of customs and down the escalator into the baggage claim area. In her place stood a white-haired man with glasses so thick they looked fake and magnified his eyes to at least three times their natural size. He was holding a square of paper with my name scrawled across it.

  I carefully made my way toward the man with my two pull-behind suitcases and waited for him to notice me, which, very strangely, wasn’t happening.

  “Hello,” I said, clearing my throat. He still didn’t notice and kept looking to his left, squinting into the distance.

  “Excuse me,” I said, a little louder this time. Still nothing. “Hi!” I practically shouted, making the elderly man jump in surprise.

  “Saint’s knickers, girl,” he spat, nearly toppling over backward. “You don’t have to shout at an old man!”

  He was genuinely perturbed with me, even after I offered a quick and loud apology. “I’m so sorry. I’m Iliana.”

  “Iliana, you say?” The man was speaking so loudly that people were starting to look over at us. I nodded. “Well, Miss Costas. I’m Nigel, your great-aunt’s chamberlain. I run her house and look after things.”

  While Nigel was the first person I met, Edmund was a close second. A second I was extremely grateful for. The driver. If Nigel had hopped behind the wheel of a vehicle, I might have hopped on a plane back home.

  But as it was, it was a pleasant trip to my father’s former home. The Costas Manor was a thirty-minute drive from the airport, and I listened as Nigel pointed out this historic landmark or that. And when we turned into the lane leading to the manor, there was obvious pride in his voice when he announced our arrival.

  Driving through giant iron gates, I could only gawk. It was huge. I counted at least ten windows across and at least four stories up. Holy cow. And Aunt Hermione lived here alone?

  Minutes later, I was ushered inside by Nigel, with a suitcase-toting Edmund following behind. While the outside was stunning, I was speechless as I walked into the entry, taking in every inch of the spacious area, from the marbled floor to the large chandeliers hanging from vaulted ceilings.

  From up the marble staircase, I got my first glimpse of the tall, elegant woman I’d soon learn was my great-aunt. She was dressed to perfection in a black suit, an emerald green silk blouse beneath the coat. She wore a simple pearl necklace and her long, gray hair was swept into a fancy updo that would take me years to replicate.

  Truth be told, she looked like royalty. But she was nobility, I reminded myself. The daughter of a baron who had married an earl, so she was an earl’s widow, to be exact.

  It was strange to think that if my father hadn’t given up his title of baron, I could be a baroness too.

  “Iliana, darling.” A deep voice that hinted at years’ worth of smoking practically vibrated through the echoing great hall. “I’m so glad you made it. Come here and give your great-aunt a hug.”

  As I was enveloped in her perfumy scent, I knew immediately that I’d like it here. Knew immediately that everything would be okay.

  “You look so much like him,” she told me, sniffing. “It’s like looking at a young Stavros. Is your father well, darling? I’ve not spoken to him in years.”

  “He’s well,” I said, unsure of how to explain my father’s lingering absence or how he now went by Steve by all who knew him. “He and my mother are running a care center in Ghana. Communication is spotty at best.”

  I didn’t know why I was trying to explain why my father might not have reached out to his aunt, but I felt bad that he hadn’t, and more than slightly curious as to why. Whenever I asked, he’d only say that, “My wings were too wide for a little island. I needed to spread them in order to find your mother.”

  A sweet sentiment, but I thought there was more to the story.

  “I know, I know, darling,” my aunt said with a wave of her hand, bringing my tired mind back to the present. “Your father and mother send lovely gifts every year at Christmas and on my birthday. I just wish to see them both at least once before I die.”

  I gave her a concerned look, examining her pale green eyes, so much like mine. “Are you…?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, waving a hand at me. “I’m not dying or such nonsense. We have plenty of time for that.”

  I stood a few moments longer in the foyer, unsure what to do.

  “Bless you,” she finally said as though she realized I must have been waiting on her. “You’re tired and worn out. I can see it from here.”

  I frowned. Was it that obvious? I stealthily sniffed at my armpit, worried that I was near pickled after so much time traveling.

  “Are you tired, darling Iliana?”

  Near comatose.

  “I’m okay,” I said a little lamely, but smiled, trying to rally. But, dammit, even that slight muscle movement took too much effort.

  Aunt Hermione narrowed her eyes at me and frowned. “You don’t need to lie to me, my dear. I can see you’re a little worse for wear. Why don’t I show you to your room, and I’ll have Nigel send you some dinner? We can make plans to spend more time together tomorrow, and I can show you around.”

  Grateful for a chance at a shower and a bed, I nodded. “Thank you. That would be wonderful.”

  “Tomorrow, you’ll get the grand tour, but for now all you need to know is that you’ll stay on the second floor with me. I’m the first door on the left, and you’ll be the fourth door on the right. Does that suit?”

  “Yes, very much.” I clasped her hands, exceedingly grateful to be here and to have been welcomed so warmly and with so much understanding. “Thank you again for having me.”

  “Nonsense,” she said as she practically ran up the stairs, and I was very glad Edmund had taken my bags up for me. Me and my pipsqueak legs would have had a hard time carrying them up. “I couldn’t imagine you staying in a dormitory while staying in your country. Could you?”

  I didn’t have the heart to remind Hermione that I was an American citizen, born and bred. It was actually nice to have her insist I was family and belonged at the manor.

  After showing me to my door, Hermione leaned forward and gave me a kiss on both cheeks, pinching one for good measure.

  “Just like him,” she whispered before seeming to shake herself out of her reverie. “Nigel will send one of the kitchen staff up in just a moment. And then I’ll see you for brunch at eleven tomorrow morning on the dot, yes?”

  Parts of Hermione’s accent seemed French at times, but there were certain lilts to her pronunciation that sounded British. Italian? Spanish, maybe? Greek certainly, since we were so close to that country. It was hard to nail the accent down. I blamed it on a tone-deaf ear, as I’d positively been unable to decipher where Seb was from, either.

  As promised, ten minutes later there was a knock at the door, and a platter of fruit, a salad, and a baked chicken breast on a bed of rice was delivered.

  The way I scarfed the food down in practically one breath was incredibly unladylike, and I promised myself that I’d tone it down tomorrow when I started this new cha
pter for real.

  ***

  There was no such thing as a quick bite or an easy snack with Hermione, or Auntie Hermione as she insisted I call her. Place settings were formal and polished, and meals had at least two courses. At least the lunch did, and she’d called the soup, salad, and perfectly grilled sandwich “something easy.”

  After nearly three days of eating exquisite meals, I was quickly getting used to eating like this, especially after living like a grad student for almost two years, eating whatever was handy, available, and cheap. If I ever saw another bag of Ramen noodles, I’d probably burn the store to the ground.

  “Today, I planned to have Edmund drive us to your university in Abingson.”

  Abingson was the capital city of Cassia. It held the university and Riniasa Castle, where I’d be working. There was a bus that ran a few blocks from the manor straight to the university each day, and that’s what I would use to get back and forth.

  “I need to sign in and get my badge from the palace too,” I said, and she nodded.

  “I haven’t had a reason to go into the castle in years, Iliana dear,” she said, her face lighting up. “I can’t wait to hear what they’ve done with the place.”

  Aunt Hermione was a sucker for good, classical interior design, I was learning. She’d redecorated the Costas Manor entirely on her own throughout the whole of the nineties, she’d informed me during my tour the day after I arrived.

  “We’d cut back on staff, what could I do? Live in an outdated home? Not so!”

  She continued to tell me stories about chintz fabrics and wallpaper as we zipped along the road toward Abingson. From the manor, Hermione said we were roughly twenty minutes from the ocean going south. To the north was Abingson and a few outlying villages in every direction.

  Pulling into Abingson itself, Edmund wound through the narrow city streets. Abingson was an old city, that much was certain, and the cobbled streets gave it a certain otherworldly charm. I could almost hear the clip-clop of hooves from the horses and carriages that traveled these streets a century ago.