The Throne

by Samantha Whiskey

  She released a shaky sigh, her green eyes blinking back a sheen of tears I hated to see. “Are you sure? Because I know how busy you are, and how much you have to get done, and I know it’s not fair what Xander did—”

  “Stop,” I said softly. “Xander did what he needed to, and that’s okay. Sophie, I miss him, too. And I know you two were tight. The two good kids of the Wyndhams. But I will be where you need me to, whenever you need me to. I’m so thankful for everything you do for us.”

  She blinked up at me, and I wondered how often she’d been told that. How often someone stopped to say how well she held everything together. Brie, our youngest sister, was the wild child, the one who got the most attention because she constantly caused some kind of PR nightmare. Sometimes Sophie got lost in the shuffle.

  I kissed her forehead. “I’m serious. Go meet with my secretary.”

  Oliver cleared his throat. “Sir.”

  “Oliver.” We both turned to look at him. Oliver was only a few years older than I was, but with all that had happened in the last few months, he seemed way older.

  “You don’t have a secretary.”

  “I what? Where’s Xanders?”

  “You...well, she quit, remember?”

  Fuck that was right. I’d slept with the woman and then she’d up and quit. Not my finest moment, but not my worst, either.

  “How about I get you a new secretary?” Sophie offered.

  “Do you have time?”

  Her smile was instant. “I will be wherever you need me, whenever you need me. I really don’t mind. We’re all a team here.” She glanced up at Oliver, and I could have sworn I heard her breath catch. “Oliver.”

  He bowed his head. “Your Royal Highness.”

  Her shoulders fell a little, but her posture remained upright. “I’ll get to it.”

  She spun and left, her skirt swishing around her knees.

  “Seriously?” I asked Oliver as we continued our trek toward the conference room.

  “What?” he asked, but his face was tense.

  “She’s been trying to get you to call her Sophie for what? Five years?”

  “Seven,” he answered, his voice going as gruff as the slight scruff he wore on his face.

  “She’d settle for Sophia, you know. You don’t even have to go full nickname.”

  “Noted,” he said before he pushed the conference room door open and entered ahead of me.

  The tone in his voice said the discussion was over, and it was never going to happen.

  “His Royal Highness, Prince Jameson,” a footman called from the door.

  I entered the room to find Damian sitting at the long conference table, another suited man next to him. There were a few other guys lining the walls, a combo of palace staff and security.

  Damian rose from his seat, bowing his head as was custom. “Your Highness.”

  “Jesus, not you, too. It’s Jameson. Jaime if you’d like to get super comfortable,” I said, offering my hand to shake.

  He reached across the table and shook my hand. It was generally against royal protocol to touch a royal, but this was an exception that needed to be made, and I think Xander had made it as well.

  “Okay, Jameson, this is Director Jenkins from the RIB.”

  I offered my hand to the gentleman who had an early Sean Connery vibe going. James Bond, indeed. RIB, or the Royal Intelligence Bureau, was our answer to the FBI, the CIA, and MI6, all in one location. His eyebrows rose at the offer, but he grasped my hand.

  “Your Highness.”

  “Director Jenkins.”

  “Thank you for meeting with us.” He motioned back to a younger man positioned just behind him at the left. The guy looked appropriately nervous, which I always got a kick out of. I was a man, for crying out loud, not Jesus Christ. “Agent Gardner, who has been assigned to palace detail.”

  I nodded at the guy, took my seat, and they directly followed. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “We have reason to believe that the anti-monarchist threat is growing,” Director Jenkins said, handing me a file. “These were not included in your morning brief.”

  Morning briefs. Man, I had to get my shit together. Mental note, find out where that fucking thing got delivered every morning.

  I opened the file and quickly scanned over the contents.

  Threats, and not the magazine cut out kind. The typed, meticulous, detailed kind. Threats against me, the palace, my sisters. I swallowed and reminded myself that this was nothing new. Being born royal meant you were automatically hated by some.

  “Are they credible?” I asked.

  “We’re investigating. Typically we wouldn’t bring these to your attention, but they’ve increased, and the sentiment since your brother’s abdication isn’t...well, I’ll let the Prime Minister address that.”

  Thank you, Xander, for the fucking mess you left me with.

  “What are we doing about the threats?”

  “We’ll be increasing security around the palace and any public events, especially your upcoming wedding and the coronation. As a matter of fact, I’d like you to consider moving the coronation to a less public venue. Perhaps the ballroom of the palace itself?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not a chance. Every Wyndham to wear that crown had it placed on his or her head in the public square. I’m not going to throw away a thousand years of tradition over a threat.” I was going to make mistakes as King. They were inevitable, but I wasn’t going to start by shitting on the very tradition that made Elleston… well, Elleston.

  His lips pursed. “I understand your position, but if you would reconsider…”

  “I won’t, and the discussion is over. It’s your job to make it as safe as possible. The square is close enough to the palace to use the tunnels if trouble happens, and we have the best security detail in the world.”

  I would have fist-bumped Oliver, but that definitely wouldn’t have gotten me any mature points in the Prime Minister’s eyes.

  “I think he’s made his feelings known, Jenkins. Gentlemen, If you’ll excuse us for a few minutes?” Damian asked, but it really wasn’t a question.

  “Your Highness.” Jenkins did the awkward rise and bow, and made his way to the door, taking Agent Whats-his-name with him. Damn, I needed a secretary.

  Once the door was closed, and the rest of the staff cleared out besides Oliver, Damian ran his hand through his perfectly styled hair. The guy was just as uptight as Xander. No wonder they’d gotten along.

  “Lay it on me.”

  “I’m sorry?” Damian said, arching a dark blond eyebrow.

  “You cleared everyone out. What’s going on?”

  “There are...rumblings in Parliament.”

  “About what? Tea? Taxes? Equal Opportunity? No, let me guess. It’s me. They ran off their precious, groomed Alexander, and now they’re stuck with Jameson.”

  A slight smile quirked at his mouth. “Something like that. You’re not the King they expected, and with the upheaval in Elleston with the Anti-Monarchist threat, you’re the poster boy for abolishing the monarchy.”

  “Yeah, well you can tell them that they created their own monster. Xander told them exactly what he needed to stay as King. Exactly what they could do to ensure the line of the monarchy, and they pretty much shit on him. I’m simply the repercussions of their actions.”

  “Are you ready to lead?” he asked, narrowing his blue eyes at me.

  “Like you have any right to judge that. Unlike you, I’m not elected. I’m here because when two people love each other and get these physical urges—”

  “Fuck that.” He snapped. “This is my country.”

  Oliver stepped forward, and I raised my hand, wordlessly ordering him to back off.

  “This is my country. No, I wasn’t raised to rule it, but I know how. Had I been the heir, would I have acted differently in the past? We’ll never know. But if you have concerns being thrown at you by Parliament, either by Commons or
Lords, then you need to remind them that I’m not something they get to debate. I am supreme, and they serve at my pleasure. As do you.”

  A full grin spread across Damian’s face.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Your brother said something very similar to me once. You’re more alike than you realize.”

  “There, you couldn’t be more wrong. Where Xander is reserved, I’m reckless. Where he gets all the information and takes a long walk to debate his choice, I’ve already acted. And when you neolithic asshats wouldn’t change the most outdated law in the modern world, he walked away. I won’t.”

  “How is the bride-hunt going?”

  “Fuck you. When you’re forced to marry a stranger in the next four weeks, we can have this discussion. Until then, you have no idea what your asinine laws have caused.”

  “I do,” he said softly. “They cost us a phenomenal King.”

  Well, fuck if that didn’t sting just a little.

  I pushed back from the table and stood, decorum making Damian do the same.

  “It’s within my right to introduce new legislation for the approval of Parliament.”

  “It is,” he acquiesced.

  “Excellent. You’ll see something from me on your desk in the morning.”

  “Your Highness,” he bowed his head.

  “Jameson. We’ll be working together until I’m dead, or you’re replaced. At least call me by my given name.”

  “Jameson.”

  Oliver opened the door for me, but before I left, I turned to face our Prime Minister.

  “The people chose you to lead. They didn’t choose me, and I know that. I’m not the King they thought they’d have, or the King I thought I’d have. But I can promise you that I’ll be the King they need. You’ll never have reason to doubt that.”

  “Prove it,” he challenged.

  I arched an eyebrow at his audacity and left.

  “We’ve cut the field to sixteen,” Charlotte said from Find-Jameson-A-Bride-Central...aka, the conference room closest to the residence.

  It had been two days since the cocktail hour from hell and twenty-four hours since I had my first meeting with Parliament. What a fantastic first week.

  All but sixteen of the pictures had been removed from the walls. Those who were left had 8X10 glossy headshots followed by a column of facts, history, both academic and social, and a list of pros and cons in Charlotte’s own handwriting.

  The only woman I wanted had spent hours detailing why each of these debutantes should or should not become my future queen.

  I was just as humbled as I was pissed.

  “That’s a good field,” Mom said from her seat next to mine. She was dressed immaculately but had a softer, more casual look than she’d ever had. It was as if she were stepping down in increments, beginning with her wardrobe.

  “Is it?” I asked sarcastically.

  I was answered with a healthy dose of side-eye.

  “All of these candidates are perfectly acceptable,” Georgia said, standing next to Charlotte.

  “I don’t think acceptable is what he’s going for,” Sophie answered from the other side of me. Her glance flickered to Oliver who stood in the corner, looking anywhere but at her. “No one’s goal should be an acceptable match, not when he’s got a shot at something better.”

  Georgia cleared her throat. “Well, yes.”

  “Mom? Any thoughts?”

  She stood in one smooth, graceful motion and walked toward the wall-of-women. God, how misogynist was this? Like picking a filly from the herd?

  Ironic that all of my advisers were women.

  The door flew open, and hurricane Brie walked in, dressed in a Ramones tee, jeans, and last night’s eyeliner. “Sorry I’m late. Did you give out the final rose yet?”

  “Funny. Ha. Ha.”

  She took the seat next to Sophie and leaned her head on Sophie’s shoulder. “So we haven’t married off our brother yet?”

  Sophie leaned back against Brie. The two couldn’t have been more different if they’d been raised on different continent by different families. Only ten months apart, they were Irish Twins, but the year of their birth was where the similarities ended.

  Sophie was a crisp mountain breeze, refreshing and soft. Her green eyes were always kind, and welcoming, and her brown hair was usually in a twist of some sort. She thought the best of everyone and reminded us all not to snap to judgment.

  Brie was a hurricane with category five winds. Her hair was long, black, and usually in whatever style she’d left it in after a trip to the club. She didn’t just brush against the line of propriety like I did, she danced across it in six-inch heels, laughing the whole time. Sure, she was a little wild, but she was fierce in her love of her family and protected Sophie like she was the older sister and not the other way around.

  I leaned back to look at her. “Not yet.”

  As I sat forward, I saw a streak of lavender just behind Sophie’s right ear, and immediately leaned closer.

  “Is your hair purple?”

  Her eyes flew wide and met mine in the timeless sibling indignation of thanks-for-ratting-me-out-in-front-of-mom.

  “I already know,” Mom said, turning back to the board-of-brides.

  “What?” Sophie asked with a shrug. “Willa and I did it before she left. I can have a little rebelliousness in me, too,” she argued.

  I put my hands up like I was under arrest. “Hey, no argument from me.”

  “It’s badass,” Brie said, nudging Sophie with her shoulder.

  I didn’t miss the way Sophie looked up at Oliver or the way he lost his composure to a half smile when their eyes locked for an instant.

  If Sophie were Brie, she would have just fucked him by now.

  But Sophie...was Sophie.

  “Okay, so Mom, what’s your opinion?” I asked before Mom caught on to the way the two of them danced around each other. She’d have Oliver fired on principle.

  I took a sip of the coffee a staff member put in front of me and nodded my thanks to the guy.

  Mom tilted her head toward the middle. “This one needs to go. Colleen Gibson is a bitch.”

  Coffee spewed from my mouth.

  “Jaime!” Charlotte shouted in concern as my sisters broke into an uproar of laughter.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mumbled as the staff rushed to clean up my mess, one of the ladies blotting at my shirt where there was no coffee. “I’m okay,” I told her softly. She blushed and backed away.

  “What? She is,” Mom continued. “The way she dressed down the Duchess of Luden was absolutely horrific. She’d be a shrew.”

  Charlotte looked at me, and I nodded.

  “Then she’s gone,” Charlotte said, taking down the girl’s column.

  “Lose Lady Shannon. The Drapery girl,” Brie added.

  “Drannery,” Mom corrected with a sigh, knowing Brie for the lost cause she was. “And why? She’s a beautiful girl, and she graduated top of her law class.”

  “Whatever, and yeah, after she fucked half of them.”

  “Gabrielle!” Mom snapped.

  Brie shrugged.

  “It’s true.” Sophie’s voice was soft but strong. “And...you might as well take Lady Vanessa Blackcreek off there, too. She’s a fan of the fairer sex.”

  Everyone turned to look at Sophie.

  “What? People talk. Just because I don’t repeat gossip doesn’t mean I don’t hear it.”

  Mom’s eyebrows slowly lowered with a nod. “Okay then, lose both of them.”

  “Charlie? Thoughts?” I asked.

  She narrowed her eyes in my direction. Her hair was in a perfect french twist, and my fingers itched to pull it loose of the pins, to see her come undone. I’d arch her back so her neck was exposed, and then I’d run my tongue along the delicate column until she gasped.

  “Lady Mary...I like her. She’s not high up in the aristocracy, but she’s acceptable to parliament. She’s kind, smart, well-spoken—�
�

  Something inside me snapped.

  I couldn’t stand listening to her suggest someone for me to marry. It was like she was approving me to fuck them when I could never do the same for her. God, it had been bad enough knowing Xander would eventually slide inside that gorgeous, lithe body of hers, but now that I had a chance? Hell if I was giving someone else the green light. She was mine.

  This whole situation was fucking ridiculous.

  “Who don’t you like?” I snapped, raking my hands through my hair.

  She looked at me, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t want to know who I like?”

  “Not unless you want me to stand in front of a board and help you figure out who you should you be fucking.”

  The moment it was out of my mouth I wanted to take it back.

  Every face in the room turned slowly to look at me, all wearing the same open-mouthed look of shock.

  Well, except Charlotte. She wasn’t surprised.

  She was pissed. Furious, if the set of her mouth said anything.

  Good. It was about time I got under her skin. God knew she was under mine like a fucking splinter. A gorgeous, sexy, smart, perfect fucking splinter that I had no desire to remove. Hell no, I was going to tattoo around it like the badge of honor it was.

  “Seriously?” she snapped.

  “As a fucking heart attack.”

  Tension filled the room, the silence thick and heavy as Charlotte and I stared each other down.

  She marched toward me, her skirt swishing just above her knee, and I stood. There was zero chance she was going to dress me down. Not here. Not in this matter.

  “Come. Here. Now.” She snatched my hand and pulled, tugging me behind her as she marched toward the wall.

  The door—inlaid perfectly to appear as though it were a part of the wall—spun open, and a staff member carried out a tray. The girl jumped back as Charlotte marched past her with me in tow. The door shut behind us, and Charlotte flipped the lock, then walked a few feet and locked the door that led to the staff hallway, trapping us in what appeared to be a butler's pantry, counter and all.

  “Seriously? The prep room?” I questioned her, leaning back against the wall and undoing my tie. The fucking thing was strangling me.