by Susan Stoker
Four fences, two shrubs, and a ditch later, Deacon is prancing back to the barn with as much of a satisfied air as a horse can have. Even Edgar notices the difference.
“You’ll take him to the next hunt?” the groom asks, and I tell him I’ll think on it. “He’s still flighty, even if he’s more confident as a jumper. I’ll need to ride him out with hounds so he’ll learn not to be distracted.”
“That is a very sound plan,” an unmistakable voice chimes in.
“Mam?” I turn to see my grandmother the queen walking in from the stable yard. She’s trailed by her personal groom, Harold, a kindly old man with more white hairs sprouting from his ears than from his head. He’s leading Kohl, my grandmother’s aging Fell pony.
I walk over and give her a peck on the cheek. “It’s a bit late for you to be out here, isn’t it, Mam? You ride in the morning.”
“Usually,” she said. “But I had to address Parliament early in the day, and it’s supposed to rain tomorrow so I thought it best to get my ride in.” She pauses. “We missed you this morning. You were supposed to be there, you know. Your valet sent word that you were ill. I’m glad to see that you recovered enough to ride.”
My grandmother has a way of making me feel convicted, and it’s not just because she’s queen. Having one’s deceit thrown in one’s face in such an understated way makes it feel magnified. I don’t try to deny, but simply deflect.
“I thought a ride might do me good.”
“Sometimes it’s just what we need, and I won’t ask why you’ve taken to avoiding your official duties. But understand that all of us are obligated now. Years ago, I’d have no more appeared at the opening of a community preschool than I’d have presided over the ribbon cutting of a Tesco’s. But in these times, we must show some connection to the commoners.”
“I know, Mam.”
She smiles and turns to pat Kohl’s ebony flank as Harold walks the unsaddled and groomed pony into his stall.
“The funeral for Miles Purvis is tomorrow,” she says. “He was quite popular, you know. I want you to attend and represent the family.”
Sir Miles Purvis was the UK’s answer to Mr. Rogers, and his death, while not surprising given his age, was deeply mourned by an adoring public. He was a tireless advocate for literacy, one of my grandmother’s pet projects. It earned him her respect and a knighthood.
“Of course I will,” I said.
“Good show.” She turns away, and then turns back, and I know her well enough to know this means she has something else to say, something noteworthy.
“You never told me how you enjoyed the masquerade ball, Tristan. Your brother seemed to think it went quite well.”
“Did he?”
“Yes,” she replies. “It was a bit much for Lady Amelia, however. She was supposed to stay at Balmoral but felt ill and asked to be taken back to her parents’ home at the last moment.” She arches a brow. “Did she seem unwell to you? Did you speak to her?”
And now is the part where I must be careful, for I’ve never been good at lying to my grandmother, and the way she’s looking at me makes me nervous.
“Just briefly,” I said, and tell myself this isn’t a lie. We exchanged few words. “And she didn’t seem unwell. She may have been distracted.” When my grandmother doesn’t reply, I force a smile. “Don’t hold it against her. You know how these affairs can be.”
I fall suddenly quiet, aghast at my own double entendre. But my grandmother doesn’t seem to notice, and why should she?
“Yes,” she agrees. “I do. Even when young, they can feel weighty. But she’ll miss it all once she’s married and pregnant. I suspect it won’t be long before Frederick tries for an heir.” She winks. “It’ll be his pleasure to bump you further down the line.”
I grin at this. “Grandmother, you know I have no designs on the throne.”
“I know,” she says. “What do you have designs on? You can’t tomcat around forever, you know. Your brother is right about that. The public has patience for playboys only to a point. Then they become a liability, especially for families like ours.”
This is the conversation Frederick wanted my grandmother to have with me the day of the family meeting. But to her credit, and because she loves me, my grandmother has waited until we’re alone.
“I’ve been trying to be more discreet,” I say as I attempt not to think on the obvious.
“Good. Reputations have been ruined for lack of that skill. Lives, too.” She arches a brow as she makes the statement, and it feels like a warning of sorts.
I tell myself it’s a warning heeded. But I’m a liar. As I watch my grandmother stroll from the barn, so in command of herself, I wonder if she could relate to the concept of unrestrained passion, or if she’s more like Frederick than I realize. Perhaps I’ve misjudged them both. I’ve been spared the pressure of preparing to be monarch. Certainly, I still have duty to my family, given my station. What’s the old saying? An heir and a spare? Their lives are very different, and my grandmother has just sent a message that I take a care not to have the freedom I enjoy undercut the duty Frederick will assume.
And she’s right, so all that remains now is to put Lady Amelia out of my mind. But the fact that I can’t is exactly what’s driven me to my perilous hack on Deacon. I needed another risk to supplant the one I fantasize continuing. I’m a man obsessed, a man who, having enjoyed a taste of perfection, longs for more. My brother’s betrothed was sweetness incarnate, but lifting her skirts at a masquerade ball was not enough. I want to see what I missed in my hurry. I want to know if that narrow waist I spanned with my hands is indeed as small as it felt, or is it a few inches wider without the stays of her tight bodice. I want to know if she has dimples above her buttocks, and if so, whether she will shudder if I kiss them. I want to see how carefully she trims the hairs around her tight little cunny. I want to know how long the pale skin of her bottom will maintain my red handprint before it starts to fade. I know she rides. Are her thighs strong? Would she wrap them around me? Would she claw at my back as I press her against the wall or onto the mattress of the bed? Would she come more than twice, or try to hold back if I ordered her to wait? What are her breasts like? The creamy swells above the top of her bodice hinted at firm rounds of flesh. But it’s hard to know until they’re free of support. Are they delightfully pears instead? Are the nipples long and pointed, or small tight nubs? How does she taste? Would she gasp at the feeling of my head between her legs? Has Frederick ever shown her this delight? Is she sweet musk or salty tang?
I turn then and slam my hand into the wall. A horse in the nearby stall startles, and I turn to see Edgar and Harold looking at me with curious expressions. I say nothing as I turn and head to my Land Rover. This is ridiculous. I need to get this woman out of my head. I can have my pick of any other. There’s a wealth of women—both married and single—who could offer me any carnal pleasure I wish while maintaining discretion. Older women. Younger women. I could leave the country, go to Switzerland and enjoy a ménage with two buxom ski bunnies. I could go to the French Riviera where a former school chum keeps an apartment with a revolving door of sun-kissed nymphs whose warm skin smells of coconut tanning cream. I could be on a flight tonight, and by this time tomorrow be sitting in a room overlooking the surf with two perfect tits in my hands.
That none of this appeals to me now only increases my frustration. I must try a different tack. I can’t long for a woman I disdain, so I mentally search for flaws that would cool my ardor. The first and most obvious flaw is that she’d agree to marry my insipid brother. Did she love him? She fucked me, but it’s hardly fair to surmise a lack of caring from that. I know plenty of couples who love one another deeply but lack passion, especially among the aristocracy. I want to tell myself that Lady Amelia is like any other scheming social climber. But there were rumors all along that she’d been nudged toward my brother with something of a reluctance. Had that reluctance charmed him, or had he just played the doting boyfrie
nd long enough to snag a politically savvy match? Either way, if she couldn’t see through Frederick, then that made her stupid. Or perhaps she was just willing to see what she wanted to see, simply because Amelia is also a fraud. Perhaps the sweet, wide-eyed woman I was so smitten with is nothing more than a calculating little shrew secretly loving the limelight while pretending not to.
Yes, that’s it. That was the image I must to fix in my mind. The young woman I fucked had wanted it because she’s a conniving little whore who deserves Frederick because she’s just as phony as he is. I allow myself to feel disgusted over the emerging persona I’m creating around her. Everything that attracts me to her—the fresh-faced beauty, the air of vulnerability, the sensuality—I push aside and replace. I grip the wheel, willing loathing to replace passion.
What the hell had I been thinking? Why did I even want her in the first place? I chalk it up to just pure boredom. That’s all it was. Lady Amelia wasn’t a risk worth taking. And I won’t let myself make that mistake again.
Chapter Six
Lady Amelia
We weren’t supposed to be here. It was Frederick’s last-minute decision to attend the funeral. He’d been openly angry when he’d found out that Tristan had been tapped to represent the family.
“Why him?” he’d fumed. “Miles Purvis was an icon to the common class. Being seen at his funeral is a public relations boon, and Grandmother asks him? It’s totally inappropriate given his behavior!”
I don’t say what I’m thinking, but I know exactly why. In an article I’d read on Miles Purvis the day before, among the pictures was one of a three-year-old Tristan beaming up at the television icon, who even then sported a shock of white hair. The photo had become famous, and no doubt having Tristan represent the family will remind the public that their wild prince has a softer side, even if some of us know better.
“If you disagree with her decision, perhaps you should tell her,” I’d suggested.
“It is not your place to advise me,” he’d snapped before storming out. I’d watched in hurt shock as he walked stiffly from the room without so much as a backward glance. But he’d obviously taken my advice, or why else would we be sitting together in the front row of a crowded cathedral listening to a boys’ choir singing “Togetherness,” the anthem popularized by the long-running Miles Purvis Story Hour.
Funerals make me anxious, and this one is the worst because I find myself sandwiched between Frederick and Tristan. I’ve not seen Tristan since the masquerade ball, and my heart is palpitating wildly in my chest. I look down and see the outline of my thigh under the dark blue dress I’m wearing. It’s just inches from his. He’s wearing black trousers. Black and blue. I remember how sore I was the morning after he fucked me in the maze. I remember my perverse regret when the soreness faded. I’d relished it, even as I’d sat at Frederick’s side at a luncheon of stodgy matrons, where I’d internally ricocheted between guilt over what I’d done and regret that this was most likely a one-off before marrying a man I realized would never excite me as his brother had done.
I cut my eyes at Tristan. He’s starting straight ahead as if unaware of my presence. I wait for some acknowledgement—a glance, a casual, subtle nudge of his leg against mine, anything. But he looks down at the program and then back up at the dais.
I spot a photographer from the Daily Voice standing off to the side, and I remind myself that I can’t keep cutting eyes at my husband’s brother. Everything I do is recorded now. Everything. It will not do for me to be snapped sitting next to Frederick whilst casting overlong glances at his brother. I know what the press would read into it, and it’s worse because I know there’d be truth in it.
I check my posture, inclining myself toward the man I am to marry. I place my hand on his in a gesture of affection, a silent overcompensation.
“For heaven’s sake, this isn’t a movie date,” Frederick hisses as he discreetly pulls his hand away. His tone is dripping with disgust. “And don’t slouch.”
It’s a good thing this is a memorial service, since the tears that come to my eyes can be attributed to emotion over the loss of a well-loved public figure. But in truth, my heart is near to bursting with hurt. The man I am to marry treats me as if I’m beneath him. His brother, whom I can’t stop thinking about, has clearly dismissed me.
I barely hear the service over my own inner monologue. I’m being silly, I tell myself. Tristan isn’t ignoring me for spite. He’s just mindful of the press, as I am. I dab my eyes during the seven-minute presentation on Sir Miles Purvis’ illustrious life. The shot of little Tristan, his eyes filled with wonder as he looks up at the old man, is included.
I didn’t realize that Tristan was slated to speak. It’s not in the program, but he rises from the VIP seat next to me and ascends to the podium. He looks smart in his black suit. His carriage is so straight and dignified. He’s so incredibly handsome. These are the thoughts that flow through my mind as I seek to maintain the image of royal composure. What is wrong with me? This is a bloody funeral, for heaven’s sake!
As he speaks, it’s easy to see why—despite his errant behavior—my future brother-in-law polls higher than my dutiful fiancé. His ad-libbed words of praise for Sir Miles Purvis ring genuine because they are. Tristan speaks of the time he met Purvis, and there’s a titter of laughter as he admits that his mother made him go to the loo first because she feared his excitement might result in an embarrassing accident. Beside me, I hear Frederick gasp; no doubt he disapproves of the public being reminded that royals share the same bodily functions as commoners.
He’s not talking down to the audience watching at home on their tellies. He’s talking to them. I listen along with the rest of the nation, lost in his words. Tristan’s tone is easy as he speaks of how Miles Purvis not only educated children about letters and numbers, but also about tolerance. He nods toward Julian Crane, a young man sitting further down in the front row. Julian, who has Down syndrome, was a regular guest on a program that tackled issues relatable to all children, Tristan says, whether it was a child like Julian struggling with a developmental issue, or the Sikh child trying to make friends in a majority white school. He segues into how Purvis always tied his lessons to a story, and urged children to take lessons on how to deal with their problems from books.
“In every book is a story,” Tristan says. “Miles Purvis taught us that sometimes that story is our own, or one we could relate to. He saw literacy as essential for our intellectual, emotional, and mental health. Our family joins a grateful nation in mourning the loss of a national treasure.”
His words have brought the crowd to cheers and sobs, and I know that later today the newscasters will praise the Bad Boy Prince for his compassion. Frederick knows it, too. His eyes are hard as they follow Tristan off stage.
It was a beautiful service, and I’m glad when it’s over. There’s a crowd gathered outside the church, and we are hustled into the vestibule to wait as security prepares our path to the car that will bear us to the palace ahead of a family weekend in Balmoral, a holiday the queen’s secretary insisted was needed to solidify the image of family unity ahead of the wedding. I said nothing when told of the plan, but wonder if the tension between the brothers, followed by Tristan’s recent absences from family appearances, has something to do with it.
I’d been secretly looking forward to the weekend, because it meant I’d get to see Tristan. Now, in the wake of his reserve, I have misgivings, and I turn to him in the vestibule, seeking to ascertain whether his aloofness was contrived for the cameras.
“That was a lovely speech,” I say, looking up at him.
“Thank you,” he answers. He’s studying, or is pretending to study, a shelf of books belonging to Father Conklin, who’s speaking to Frederick across the room.
I try again. “Miles Purvis was a good man.”
For a moment, Tristan says nothing. When he does speak again, he is still looking at the books. “Yes. He was very genuine, and very giving. I admir
ed that about him. So many people these days are disingenuous, and only make selfish decisions. On the upside, selfish people seem to pair up nicely. Birds of a feather and all…”
I’m stunned into silence. I’m no fool. He’s insulting me. But why? I’m so taken aback that I forget where I am. I want to ask him what he means by this, but as soon as I open my mouth to reply, Frederick is at my side.
“The car is ready,” he says. “Smile and wave if you must, but do not stop.” He pauses. “On second thought, don’t smile. Just wave. Look serene.”
“Yes, dear. Just pull whatever face plays best to those you seek to fool,” Tristan says quietly. Frederick doesn’t hear him but I do and whip my head around. And I know the pain on my face is obvious when he looks away. I can’t help it. I continue to glance back as Prince Frederick leads me away. Is it my imagination, or is Tristan smirking at my distress?
He does not ride in the car with us, and I dare not ask Frederick whether his brother will take a separate one. Frederick is in a foul mood. He looks out the window, brooding. I’d hoped he’d be softer once we were alone. Despite my upset, I’d offered a dignified wave to the crowds as we’d left the church. Frederick, usually mindful of the crowds, had just lifted his hand in a perfunctory gesture as he’d headed toward the car.
“Well, that’s over,” he finally says.
I’m piqued anew by his statement. “We didn’t have to go,” I remind him again.
“We did,” he says. “Or else Tristan would have hogged the attention. At least tomorrow you’ll be on the front page as well. Your attendants picked the perfect dress. It will play well.”