“When we take a lap every evening around our swan pond, the scent of lavender is positively soporific.” The duke patted the medallion on his chest. “A garden is good for the soul.”
Holy fuck.
Was his father serious? The man held two degrees, sat in Parliament, traveled the world extensively, and this was the best he could do for small talk?
Theo enjoyed touching the princess. Too much for his own good. But right now? He was ready to saw off his own arm with a Swiss Army Knife, like that guy stuck in the American desert cave did, just to escape her hand on his arm…and thus this brain-numbing conversation.
The trumpets blatted a few high, warning notes. Genevieve lifted her head at the sound. “It’s been lovely chatting with both of you, but we should take our seats. The ceremony is about to begin.”
That set off another round of bow, curtsey, double head-bobs from the Holsts. Then they backed away.
Still without actually saying a single word to Theo.
Well.
So that’s how it was to be. A royal mention of their son and, oh, freaking heir elicited only a not-so-deft change of topic. Neither could muster up a response to her compliment of Theo.
Had they spent so long shoving him into the shadows that they couldn’t voice some simple familial pride?
That…smarted. What would it take for them to stop treating him like a pariah?
Would he have to clap on a white, poofy hat and get his own purple sash of the Order? Would that be enough? Or perhaps nothing less than a full pardon from the King…for something that had happened when he was eleven and wasn’t even his fault?
Theo tried to lead them out of the turret and over to the dais. But Genny resisted his gentle tug. With a squeeze of his arm, she said, “Wow. That was about as warm as the peacock ice sculpture inside. Do you want to tell me what all that tension was about?”
Ah, there it was. The sharp reminder that the princess didn’t remember that she was the reason he’d been exiled.
A few weeks ago, Theo would’ve sworn that he’d never need a reminder.
But…
If he wanted his father to stop blaming him for what happened when he was just a kid—then shouldn’t he stop blaming the princess, as well?
Talk about a mind-blowing game-changer. He’d spent most of his life honing his bitterness toward her to laser-sharpness. But why should one day, one action, define his entire life? A life, by the way, that had turned out pretty damned great.
Theo wasn’t ready to just erase the past as if it had never happened.
Taking a different approach going forward, though…that was worthy of consideration.
Especially if said consideration gave him the emotional elbow room to get closer to the princess without feeling like a fucking hypocrite.
“It’s too long a story to get into now.” Mindful that people could be watching, he angled his body to hide her and brushed his lips along her cheek. “Thanks for asking. I do want to tell you…when the time is right.”
The princess cocked her head to the side. “I’m intrigued, Lord Theo.”
He couldn’t hide it anymore. Not from her, and definitely not from himself. “Me, too.”
Five minutes later, after another trumpet interlude and an opening speech that Prince Christian kept mercifully short, the ceremony was underway. A footman in gloves (Oh, FFS! What was the annual cleaning bill on unnecessary and outdated gloves for the palace staff?) removed the white velvet drape covering a long table.
Oddly, more than half of it was empty. The princess stepped up to it and lifted the first purple sash.
Prince Christian did a poorly veiled double take. “Where’s the pledge?” he asked his sister. “And the roses?” Without waiting for her to answer, he twisted the other direction and motioned to a staff member.
Theo hadn’t been to a royal ceremony in forever. He had, however, assumed that something that had endured for centuries—yes, he read the damn program notes during the prince’s remarks—would run smoother than this.
The staff member shook off the Prince’s questions like a Yankees catcher ignoring the pitcher. Belatedly, the Prince covered the microphone with one hand.
Princess Genevieve moved to her brother’s side and pushed his hand off the microphone. “You have the pledge on the podium.” She looked out at the murmuring crowd. “Our father, the King, is quite sad that he was unexpectedly called away and unable to perform the ceremony. Christian was asked to step in at the last minute. So please forgive any stumbles. We will get everyone invested properly.”
“I’m not stumbling. I’m missing the traditional ceremony items. There’s a difference.” The prince said it with a self-deprecating grin. But Theo saw tension in the brackets around his mouth, heard it in the sharp tinge to his words.
His Royal Highness did not know what the fuck was up.
Theo had a sneaking suspicion, however, that Her Royal Highness did.
She seemed prepared for this snafu. Unsurprised. Genuinely calm, as opposed to the prince’s façade of calm.
Pinching out a laminated sheet of paper, Genevieve handed it to her brother. “Here’s the pledge.”
A man in the front row who looked to be the same age as the royal siblings half-stood. “That looks like a bar menu. Where’s the handwritten version? The one you give to every new initiate to the Order? I’ve waited my whole life to get a love note from you, Your Highness. This was my one shot.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. His seat partner flicked at the velvet hat. “Fat chance, Ivan.”
Genevieve shook her head with just the right mixture of regret and humor. “Lord Varga, you may have heard that the royal family is undergoing an audit of their finances.”
Pulling a flask out of his coat pocket and brandishing it, Ivan said, “Oh, we heard. And we came prepared in case you close the bar after one round.”
This time, there was a definite age cutoff between who laughed—under forty—and who scowled their disapproval—over forty, all staff, and even the prince.
“We’ve been tasked by the Royal Auditor, Lord Theo Holst, to streamline our expenses.” Genevieve gestured to him with one arm, her diamond and opal bracelet glinting in the sun for added effect. There was a rustling of clothes and programs as everyone in the garden shifted to look at Theo.
Shit. Shit.
Yes, they’d been parrying back and forth for nine days. They’d taken jabs and stabs at each other. The princess hadn’t been subtle about her intent to resist most of his suggestions.
Without even hearing the rest of her explanation, Theo instinctively knew that her capitulation, however, was far more dangerous than her resistance.
And instead of doing it privately? She’d gone the route of a public shaming. Not just public—but with his father present. His father, who still believed Theo dripped shame with every step from the childhood incident.
This was a disaster.
After the pair of peacocks squawked a couple of times, she continued. “Specifically, my gold-embossed personal stationery was deemed to be an extravagance that our subjects would simply not uphold. So this year, initiates to the Order of the Peacock will not receive a hand-written keepsake of their pledge to Crown and Country.”
Gasps fell down the rows of chairs like dominoes.
Gasps? As though Genevieve had announced that Theo had ordered the ceremonial peacocks slaughtered and put in the pie for lunch? C’mon.
The part of Theo that had lived in America—clearly too long—could not believe a freaking note could cause this much of an uproar.
But the part of him raised here in the feudal kingdom and schooled in the shadow of the ultra-traditional British empire? That part knew this omission to be a deep disappointment to today’s initiates.
That part knew, without turning around, that more tha
n a hundred pairs of eyes were shooting daggers at the back of his head. That for all of its expense and ornate ridiculousness, this ceremony was a great and sincere and coveted honor.
One that he had now been called out publicly as responsible for ruining.
“What about the roses?” Lord Varga persisted, with a noticeable slur to his words.
Lord Varga was officially on Theo’s shit-list.
The purple-slicked lips of the princess twisted downward. “For years now, we’ve flown in Amnesia roses from Argentina. That seemed neither ecologically nor budget friendly. So we dropped those, as well.”
Prince Christian gaped at his sister for a long moment. Then he shook off his shock and took the laminated page from her. “Good to know we saved some trees today.” A faint smattering of polite laughter was barely audible. “It will cement the brotherhood of the Order if we all read from the same paper for the pledge. That’s today’s House of Villani, ladies and gentlemen—ready to modernize and keep up with what is important to our subjects.”
It was a masterful pivot by the prince. Smooth and, more importantly, meaningful. He deserved applause for pulling it off.
But Theo was too furious. If he moved a muscle, it’d be to charge the stage and put the princess over his knees and spank her.
Did she even know what she’d done? Or did she not care, as long as she drove her point home to him?
He knew who would care, and that was his father. The one so obsessed with court standing and the way he was perceived by the other nobles that he’d sent away his son for more than half of his life.
Sure enough, the moment the ceremony ended, there they stood at the end of his row, blocking his exit.
Oh, now they’d deign to talk to him in public.
Francia tucked her hand around his arm, digging her fingers in so hard he felt them through his morning coat. With a smile plastered on her face, she said, “What did you do?”
“My job,” Theo replied. He bit off each word with a snap. Was it too much to hope that the finality in his tone would shut them down?
Alain laid a heavy hand on the back of his neck. Bending his head close to his son’s, he said, “You have brought shame to the House of Villani, the Order of the Peacock, and your family. You made a mockery of a centuries-old tradition. And you’ve only been back in Moncriano for a few weeks? What do you have to say for yourself?”
Rage burned through his veins. He’d waited so long, planned for the moment today when he could talk to his father, impress him with the initiatives to refresh their ducal holdings—and thus finally, finally earn an invitation to return home.
The princess had stolen that moment from him…and possibly any future chances, as well.
Well, Theo would not stand here and endure a tongue lashing. Nor would he pretend that they weren’t fighting.
He didn’t care what the crowd thought about their family squabble. He didn’t care what they thought about him, either. Because Theo was proud of how he did his job. Proud to be chosen at such a young age for such an important assignment. He stood behind every suggestion and demand he’d made to the princess on her budget.
And nobody could fault him for it.
Theo twisted away from Alain, shook off Francia’s hand, and drew himself up, every muscle in his face pinched and frowning.
“I have done none of those things. I have a charge from the prime minister herself. I have the full support of the King, who, in fact, personally approved me for this position. The only way I could bring any shame to the Holst name is if I wavered at all in fulfilling that duty.”
“People will talk, son.”
“Let them.” He remembered the compliments Genevieve had heaped on him an hour ago that his parents had flatly ignored. “Perhaps, if you listen more closely, you might be surprised by what they say.”
Theo gave the briefest of nods and wove through the milling crowd. The trumpets were blaring again, which felt like appropriate exit music to storm out. He wouldn’t bother waiting for the ushers to lead him in to the lunch.
He needed to find a certain princess and have it out. Let her know that this wasn’t a game. It was his life. And the future of her family’s monarchy.
Hopefully one of those things would get through to her spoiled, scheming brain.
Or maybe he’d have to spank her, after all…
Chapter Nine
Was Genevieve coward enough to skip the luncheon just to avoid Theo’s fierce, furious glare?
No.
But was she glad—so tremendously glad—to have a built-in excuse to slip away for a few minutes? Oh, yes.
She’d remembered last night that Regali Palace had a room barely disturbed since her mother’s death. The sitting room to the king’s former quarters had been closed off. Her father stayed in an entirely different wing once he came back to the palace—which took years before he managed more than a few hours.
Regali, so her aunt Mathilde claimed, had been Queen Serena’s favorite palace. Close to the capital, but just far enough into the countryside to feel like an escape. A place where her children could play outside without any chance of being gawked at. A place where protocol loosened its noose-like grip. A place where they were just a regular family.
Genevieve only had a few hazy memories of being with her mother here. Snapshots, almost, along with a deep sense of being loved and happy.
On her eleventh birthday, King Julian had brought her to her mother’s sitting room. Genevieve had stayed for the entire afternoon, soaking up the essence of the Queen. Smelling old perfume bottles, touching half-remembered dresses.
It brought a few memories back to the forefront. But mostly, it made her feel close to her mother once more. The gold fabric on the walls, the burgundy velvet-covered furniture gave Genevieve the illusion of being inside a gilded dollhouse that wholly encapsulated the Queen.
Every oval portrait in ornate gold frames on the walls was a relative, some going back centuries. The fireplace mantel, end tables, and shelves all held her antique ormolu clock collection. The king had gifted one to the queen every Christmas. Now they sat, unseen, unappreciated.
The clocks were symbols of the love her parents had shared. So Genevieve had decided to bring one back to Alcarsa Palace to give to Kelsey. A tangible link to the mother her sister would never be able to remember.
Maybe Kelsey wouldn’t like the ornate clock draped in cherubs with two matching miniature gold candelabras. The set was very old and might not at all be to the taste of a modern, mostly American woman. But Genevieve at least wanted to offer it.
She hadn’t asked her father for permission. Partly because she was sure he wouldn’t begrudge the gift to his youngest daughter. Mostly, though, because she couldn’t bear to bring up a cherished reminder that might send the king sliding even further away from them.
He didn’t seem to be able to grapple with the present. He still deeply mourned the past. It was seeming more and more impossible to dig him out of the valley of sadness where he wallowed.
And yes, “wallowed” might be harsh, but after twenty-four years, the man finally had all his children together once more. Wasn’t that reason enough to celebrate? Rather than becoming immeasurably frightened that he might lose one of them again?
At the sound of footsteps clicking down the parquet floors, Genevieve hurried to the door. It should be a footman with a box to transport the clock set.
It was not.
Theo stomped down the hallway toward her. At the sight of the frown lines cutting across his forehead, she gave in to cowardice and backpedaled from the doorway.
Her hands were full of the clock. Which meant un-backpedaling to kick the door shut.
Theo got there first.
He shot a shiny black Oxford into the narrowing gap. “Don’t think you can hide from me, Princess.”
That
was precisely what Genevieve wanted to do.
Because she knew she’d gone too far with the stunt during the ceremony. Knew Theo was—rightly—mad at her. But pride and stubbornness prevented her from knowing how to fix it.
When all else failed, falling back on protocol usually gave her an out. She clutched the heavy clock to her chest with both hands. “You are in the private quarters of the royal family. You’re not allowed back here without an invitation.”
“I have one, remember? From the prime minister.” He straight-armed the door shut. “An invitation to stick to you like glue, greenlit by the king.”
“Nobody is allowed in this room,” she insisted. Even maids weren’t allowed in here to dust. Only the head housekeeper had a key. She alone dusted it regularly. And oh, Maire’s eyes had lit up when Genevieve requested the key.
Theo turned on his heel, taking in the pulled-back, gold brocade curtain that led to the dressing room. The pile of dresses draped over the back of a chair—the queen refused to allow maids to pick up after any of them in Regali Palace. It was her retreat, and she didn’t want perfection but comfort. A little sloppy normalcy. Again, according to Aunt Mathilde.
Shrugging one impossibly broad shoulder, he asked, “What’s so special about this room?”
“It was my mother’s.”
Genevieve hadn’t made a calculated decision to play the grief card. First of all, she didn’t play games like that. And second, she’d stated the simple truth before thinking of the implications.
But her reveal caught Theo off guard. He reeled back as if she’d slapped him with the fact. “Jesus. I’m sorry to intrude.”
That he saw it as an intrusion was what made Genevieve decide to let him stay. Obviously, Theo understood that this wasn’t just another one of the 327 rooms in Regali Palace.
“You see, I’m not hiding. I’m selecting a memento of our mother to give to Kelsey.” With great care, she set the clock back down.
He came closer. Close enough that Genevieve felt the residual heat from the afternoon sun on his coat. “It’s beautiful.”
“While not the traditional roses or a heart-shaped locket, these were the romantic presents my father gave my mother.” She gestured to the more than a dozen other clocks displayed around the room.
Ruling the Princess Page 11
