The Royal Consort

by Jeana E. Mann

  The Royal Consort

  Prequel to The Rebel Queen

  Jeana E. Mann

  Untitled

  Blurb

  I’m the daughter of American royalty, but our family has fallen from grace. My reputation is tarnished, my love life is in tatters, and my life is in danger. There’s no way out of the mess I’ve created until the Crown Prince of Androvia arrives to rescue me. Even though he’s a stranger, I’m captivated by his air of command and his blue-green eyes. They’re the color of the Aegean Sea; warm, clear, and bottomless. I’m no fool, however. The most beautiful waters often hide the most threatening dangers. His marriage proposal comes as a total shock.

  If I want to live, I’ll accept his offer. If I want to protect my heart, I need to run.

  **This is the prequel to The Rebel Queen and is meant to be read in conjunction with The Exiled Prince Trilogy.

  Contents

  1. Henry

  2. Everly

  3. Everly

  4. Everly

  5. Henry

  6. Everly

  7. Everly

  Also by Jeana E. Mann

  About the Author

  Stay in Touch

  1

  Henry

  The call from Androvia arrives a few minutes after midnight, New York time. Darkness blankets the hotel room. I’ve been in bed for an hour, unable to sleep, dreading the upcoming conversation. The caller ID flashes, taunting me. Even though I’ve been expecting to hear from Alfred, the Chief Minister of the Inner Cabinet, I never thought it would come so soon. Before I answer, I draw in one last, steadying breath. My world is about to change forever.

  “Alfred? What’s going on?” As I speak, I swing my legs from the bed. The cool fibers of the Turkish rug tickle the bottoms of my feet. I dig my toes into the plushness and wait for his reply.

  “It’s your father. The doctors don’t think he’ll last much longer. A few days at most.”

  I wait for the pain to sink in, but it never arrives. It's hard to feel sad over a man known for his cruelty and greed. Instead, I feel guilt and shame—guilt for not caring enough and shame for my lack of devastation. I'm a horrible son. "How is Mother?”

  “She’s doing as well as can be expected.” He pauses. Delicate innuendo thickens the silence. “She needs you to get here as soon as possible. Once he passes, things will move quickly.”

  The royal countdown clock begins to tick, marking the last precious seconds of my freedom. Even though I knew this moment was coming, I’m still not prepared. I thought I had years not days. Panic constricts my chest. I shove a hand through my hair and try to steady my nerves. “I need to tie up loose ends here then I’ll be on my way.”

  “Shall I contact Lady Crenshaw?”

  “No. Not yet.” The steel vice of my birthright tightens its hold on me. More than anything, I want to run, clutching the remaining shreds of independence about me. Already, I can feel them disintegrating into dust.

  “Don’t wait too long, Henry.” His voice holds the merest hint of rebuke.

  “I won’t.”

  “We’ll wait to hear back from you then.” Alfred ends the call, taking my hopes along with him.

  In the black of night, resignation mingles with dread and forms a knot in the bottom of my stomach. I scroll through the address book on my phone to for Suzanne Crenshaw's personal assistant. My thumb hovers over the number. Like me, they've been expecting this call. Even though I know I have to do it, I can't quite make myself press the send button.

  Instead, my mind drifts to a certain redhead I’d seen chained to the wall of the dungeon room in the Devil’s Playground last month. I’d been mesmerized by the way her perfect tits bounced as that tosser, Nicky, pounded into her. A requisite mask and non-disclosure agreement with stiff penalties had protected Everly McElroy’s identity, but I didn’t let them deter me. Even though it was against club rules, Nicky had been more than happy to trade a weekend at my Santorini villa for her name. Since then, I’d been following her social media accounts like some obsessed stalker, hoping to get her into my bed before I was forced to bind myself to the ill-mannered, self-absorbed Lady Crenshaw.

  In the morning, I prepare for my return to Androvia. My team of assistants scurries around the hotel suite, packing and planning, canceling personal appearances and social engagements. For the last year, I’ve been running around the world like a sex-crazed party animal, shagging random beauties and drinking myself into a stupor. On my final day of freedom, I’d like nothing better than to barricade myself in a hotel room with a bottle of scotch and a sexy temptress, but I have business deals to close and arrangements to make.

  I’m on hold for Lady Crenshaw’s admin when a news clip catches my attention on the telly. The female reporter speaks from a Manhattan sidewalk crowded with onlookers. “In a shocking twist of events, former Vice President Don McElroy has been implicated in the murder of Lavender Cunningham. These telling photos were taken hours before her death and leaked to the media by his daughter, socialite Everly McElroy.” My mouth drops open as grainy pictures of Don alongside the now deceased party planner are replaced with a headshot of my dream girl.

  “Your Royal Highness, I apologize for your wait. Lady Crenshaw will be with you in a moment,” says the admin into my ear.

  “I’ll call back.” I toss the phone aside then sink onto the edge of a chair to stare at the television. Full, pink lips smile back at me, revealing a row of blinding white teeth. Her mouth is fuckable, tempting enough to make me adjust the placement of my dick in my boxer shorts. It’s her eyes, however, that have me mesmerized. Clear, blue, and sparkling, they hold a million secrets, secrets I’d like to investigate.

  “Pardon me, Prince Heinrich. I’ve spoken with the pilot. The royal jet will be ready for takeoff tomorrow, as you instructed.” It takes a second for my thoughts to leave Everly and reform around my current situation. Shasta, my personal assistant, peers at me over the top of her black-rimmed glasses. Her gaze darts back to the tablet in her hands. “Everything has been taken care of.”

  “Great.” I should be focusing on my problems, but I can’t stop thinking about Everly. What would drive a daughter to implicate her national hero father in a murder scheme? By outward appearances, the McElroys represent the perfect American family. Through my personal dealings with Don, I know he’s a vicious snake of the lowest caliber. He’s been backing my uncle Rupert’s schemes to undermine the Androvian dynasty, hoping to steal the throne from my father. “Shasta, what do you know about Everly McElroy?” I ask before she reaches the door of my bedroom.

  “Well…” She stops and turns to face me, drawing her lower lip between her teeth. “Not a lot. Just the basics. She heads up her mother’s charity against sex trafficking. She was married to an Australian playboy for less than a year. Oh, and she graduated at the top of her class from Brown.”

  This tidbit piques my curiosity. So my crush has brains as well as beauty. “Anything else?”

  “Not really, except her mother is a distant relative of the British aristocracy.“ Shasta blinks up at me, waiting for my reply.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. My college roommate works at Windsor Castle. She’s mentioned it before.” Shasta’s eyes narrow. “I can find out more if you’d like.”

  “Please.” Somewhere, in the very back of my mind, a ridiculous idea takes shape. This small morsel of trivia could change my fate for the better.

  Minutes later, she’s back in my room, tablet in hand. She sets the device on the table in front of me. “I’ve downloaded a file for you.”

  “Thank you.” I swipe across the screen, scrolling through dozens of press photos and interviews. In each, Everly is the picture of class from the top of h
er head to the tips of her toes. Her clothes are a combination of good taste and style. She speaks with eloquence, her passion for charity evident in her earnest expression.

  “Your Highness? Lord Albert is on the phone. He wants to know if you’ve spoken with Lady Crenshaw yet?”

  Her words renew the nagging twinges of a headache. “No. Not yet.”

  “Would you like me to make the call?”

  “No.” She recoils at the bite in my words. I immediately regret the harshness of my tone. Although I’m often blunt, my employees deserve respect. My royal status doesn’t excuse me from common courtesy.

  Shasta shuts the door, separating us from the rest of the staff. “May I speak freely, Your Highness?”

  “Yes, of course.” With two fingers, I rub the deep grooves between my eyebrows.

  “Make the call to Lady Crenshaw. The sooner, the better. Then you can move on with your plans.” Everything about her is controlled and understated, including her voice. She smooths a hand over the bun at the nape of her neck. “Delaying the inevitable will only prolong the pain. Rib the band-aid off, sir.”

  “Are you married, Shasta?” Even though she’s been my personal assistant for over four years, I know nothing of her history. The realization reminds me of how self-centered I’ve become.

  “No. Not anymore.” A hint of sadness flickers through her eyes then extinguishes. I want to pry but don’t.

  “Would you marry someone you don’t like?”

  “I’m not the Crown Prince of Androvia,” she replies dryly. “If I was going to inherit a kingdom, I wouldn’t hesitate.” When I don’t smile, she clears her throat. “No, sir, I wouldn’t. You, however, don’t have that luxury. Before you can claim the throne, you have to marry someone of royal blood. It’s always been so.”

  Once I’m king, I’ll abolish the antiquated laws regarding marriage and divorce. My children—the ones I’m destined to sire with Lady Crenshaw—will never have to deal with such foolishness. Except, I can’t fathom the idea of taking that snobbish bitch into my bed—for crown or for country. The thought sickens my stomach.

  I drop my head into my hands and groan. “I can’t do it, Shasta.”

  “You can, and you will.” Her hand squeezes my shoulder, one of the few times she’s ever touched me. “Think of the consequences if you don’t.”

  “How can I forget?” I’m the only heir to the throne. My brother married a commoner, removing himself from the line of succession. If I abdicate, the crown goes to my uncle Rupert, a ruthless bastard. Androvia would be lost to a tyrant. No matter how much I despise Lady Crenshaw, I can’t sacrifice my subjects. I may be selfish, but I’m not a complete wanker.

  “I know Lady Crenshaw isn’t an ideal match for you, but she’s willing. She’s titled. She meets all the requirements.” Her eyes narrow. “Unless you have someone else in mind? If you do, you’d better get her in line, posthaste.”

  “I’m open to suggestions,” I say, lifting my head.

  A knock on the door ends our conversation. She squeezes my shoulder one last time then backs up a few paces to put space between us. Technically, commoners aren’t allowed to touch royalty, but we often forgo the formalities behind closed doors. I stand and straighten the lapels of my blazer.

  “Your Royal Highness, would you like some coffee?” One of the butlers carries a silver tray.

  “No. I’m fine.” I wave him away. Although I love American coffee, caffeine might send my rocketing blood pressure into the stratosphere. “Shasta, would you have the car brought around? I’m going out for a while.”

  2

  Everly

  Through the heavy velvet drapes of my apartment, I stare at the throng of reporters and television cameras on the tree-lined avenue. They’re everywhere—the sidewalks, across the street, spilling into the park. I should be panicked, but I’m not. The weight of resignation dulls the sheen of rain on the asphalt below. This is my punishment for being an idiot, for ignoring the sins of my father, for valuing appearances over my best friend’s happiness. I grip the parted curtains until my fingers ache. The crowd is thirsty for blood—my blood—and it’s no less than I deserve.

  When shrill sirens split the air, the cluster of journalists and reporters parts enough to let the arriving police cars pass. All the heavy-hitters are present; CNN, FOX, MSNBC. I spy familiar faces among them, some I've even considered friends. They stare back at me, waiting, circling like buzzards around a dying rabbit. Meanwhile, I'm locked in my home, a victim of the shitstorm I've created.

  Even though I know I’ve done the right thing, regret burdens my shoulders. I’ll never be able to live this down, this unforgivable thing that I’ve done. Thanks to me, my father will be remembered as the first United States Vice President to be convicted of murder. The stain of his sins will taint the McElroy family name forever. The thought is a steel band around my ribs, growing tighter with each passing breath until spots swim in front of my eyes.

  The intercom buzzes. Ken, the front desk security guard, booms into the speaker. “Ms. McElroy, your mother is here to see you. Should I send her up?”

  My stomach twists. The next-to-last person I want to see is my mother. After what I’ve done, however, I have no right to refuse her. She deserves answers. “Yes, please. Thanks, Ken.”

  “No problem, Ms. McElroy.” Pity textures his deceptive words. We both know it’s a huge a problem.

  I pace the length of the living room, lovingly decorated with French provincial furnishings and antiques gathered in my travels. Yesterday, this apartment was a welcome refuge. Today, the pale blue walls feel like a prison, growing closer with each passing second. The more I pace, the more anxious I become. When my mother rings the doorbell, I’m a frazzled bundle of nerves.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” She brushes past me in a cloud of subtle fragrance; lilies, lavender, and citrus. “Your father is livid, and so am I.” I trot behind her, the way I used to when I was a child, and brace for her wrath. Except, my mother doesn’t do anger. The only sign of her displeasure is the tight, straight line of her mouth. “I hope you have a good explanation for your behavior.”

  “Nice to see you too, Mother.” My gaze follows hers around the room. I know she’s picking out the flaws; too many pillows on the sofa, not enough space between the coffee table and the armchairs, and a million other things that no longer seem relevant.

  “I’m sorry. Where are my manners? Good morning.” Her tone is pleasant but doesn’t fool me. She never drops by unannounced. If she’s here, there’s a reason.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Years of etiquette training outweigh the awkwardness of the situation. “Wine or champagne?”

  "Yes, please. I'll have a glass of Chardonnay if you have it. Otherwise nothing. Lord knows I need something to calm my nerves." The skirt of her silk dress rustles as she sinks onto the edge of the sofa.

  An outsider would never know we were parent and child by the way we present ourselves. The realization surprises and saddens me. What would it be like to have a mother who laughs and teases? Who gives hugs and kisses and comfort? As quickly as the questions arrive, I shove them aside. Speculation on this subject is a waste of time. I can't change my birthright. Guilt slides a cold finger down my spine. Apart from my father's recent descent into hell, I can't complain about my upbringing. How many people would give their right arm to grow up in the halls of the White House? I attended the best schools, hobnobbed with the most influential people in the country, and circled the globe before I was twenty-one. The former President of the United States is my godfather, for crying out loud.

  “I’m surprised you were able to get through the crowd.” While I speak, I find the bottle of wine in the bottom of the liquor cabinet, the one I keep especially for her visits. She watches me wind the corkscrew. My hands shake at the prospect of her disapproval. Judy McElroy knows how to slay a person with one look, and her words can be sharper than any sword.

  “My
security team brought me through the service entrance.” Her shoulders rise and fall with a heavy breath. In a graceful motion, she slants her legs, assuming a demure pose on the edge of the sofa cushions, poised as always in the face of chaos. “Have you spoken with your father yet?”

  “No.” The last time I saw my father, he was making death threats against Rourke, my best friend. Tears burned my eyes at the memory. In a matter of minutes, he’d fallen from my biggest hero to villain. No words sufficed to describe the devastation in my heart. “I have nothing to say to him.”

  “He’s crushed, Everly, and so am I. How could you betray him like that?” Her manicured fingers intertwine on her lap. The combination of her pale red hair and porcelain complexion shows her British nobility ancestors, the same coloring she passed to me. “I wish you had come to me with this before you went to the media.”

  “You always take his side.” I start to pour a glass of wine for myself, reconsider, and go for a short glass of bourbon on the rocks. Mother frowns at my choice; ladies don’t drink bourbon, especially not during the day. Inside, I shrug. I’m already going to hell. I might as well enjoy the ride. One sip of the amber liquid shores up my courage. “Did it ever occur to you that he’s not the saint he portrays?”

  Her deep sigh holds a world of secrets. “I’ve been with your father for twenty-seven years. I know exactly who he is—better than you, I might add.”

  “If that’s true, then you’re as much to blame for this fiasco as he is.” My temper begins to simmer.” I take another sip of bourbon, this one much bigger, and revel in the burn down my throat. The pain reminds me of who I am. “Don’t push this off on me. He is the reason for this—this circus.” I wave a hand toward the street.