by J. J. McAvoy
Chapter 4
“Do you feel better?” she asked, kissing my shoulder.
“Yes,” I whispered, leaning back onto the pillows as her fingers brushed my chest.
“I am not just talking about physically,” she replied.
I glanced down at her heart-shaped face and into her mismatched-colored eyes—one hazel and the other a pure blue. Lifting her chin and holding it in place, I leaned in. “Why would you be talking about anything else when our relationship is purely physical?”
“Then why do you always come to me when you want to clear your mind?” she asked, closing the distance between us, but I turned my face and let hers go. Her lips brushed the corner of mine.
“You know why I come here,” I muttered, reaching over to the side of the bed for my almost-forgotten glass of wine.
“Yes, I do.” She snickered and sat up out of bed, not bothering with the sheet to cover herself. “Not only am I divorced but I also can’t have children. Therefore, I can never be anything more for you but something physical. So, I’m safe.”
She had no other reason to say that than to try to make me feel bad. But it was the truth. She was once the Countess of Gormsey. However, when the Count of Gormsey divorced her and ran off with another man, it became clear why he’d married her, even though everyone knew she couldn’t have children because of a childhood accident. You would have thought she would have avoided the nobility at all costs after that embarrassment. But no, there was no party or celebration Sabina Franziska was not in attendance in all her glory.
“Your Highness,” she whispered, leaning closer, her breasts brushing up against my arm. “I know something is bothering you. You are only ever that rough for that reason. You can talk to me, too. I consider you a friend.”
“My father says princes have no friends. We have family, and we have people, and we have servants.”
“You quote poetry to other women, and you quote your father to me. You are hurtful, Your Highness.” She pouted, faking her hurt, and kissed my chest before rising from the bed, brushing her auburn hair off her shoulder. “I’m going to shower. You can debate whether you’d like to join me.”
It would not take much debate. I wanted to join her, but it was almost nine in the morning, which would normally be considered late. However, since I was not in the palace, and had been gone since last night, I was already going to be lectured to death by my mother, father, or brother—or all of the above.
Knock. Knock.
“Sir? You’ve been summoned,” the nervous voice called from the other side of the door.
“The devil hears when you call,” I muttered, finishing off my wine before rising out of bed to grab my clothes.
“And just like that, you’re leaving me.” Sabina frowned, coming out of the restroom with a white, satin robe on.
“Did you not hear? I have been summoned.” I frowned.
“And when the palace summons...”
“I go running,” I finished for her, taking my shirt from her hands.
“I will see you at your next crisis then.” She kissed the side of my face.
I was not sure what to say back to that. If my family had their way, I would be married before the year was over. And the last thing I could have was a mistress, especially one like her. So, I said nothing and stepped away from her to the door. Opening it, I found the blond-haired, freckle-faced palace guard who was more like my stalker, standing at the door, waiting for me.
“Your Highness, we must go,” he whispered, doing his best not to look at the woman behind me. Not because he was being discreet but because Wolfgang, even though he was twenty-three, was greener than all the hills in Ersovia. He was young but not that young. He had been at the palace for a few months as my personal secretary. Why he was blushing at a little thing like this was beyond me.
Eliza was the same age as him, and she knew a little too much about the world.
“Then let us go,” I said, walking out of her bedroom and closing the door behind me.
“Your shirt, Your Highness...”
“She never has anyone here when I call. Do not panic. No one is going to see,” I replied, but even still, he checked around me.
Shaking my head, I buttoned up the rest of my shirt as we walked down the stairs and out into the gardens. From her divorce, Sabina was given different properties around the country. One of them was here—a small, almost-forgotten cottage right outside the city. It happened to be right behind a historic art museum, so even if anyone saw me, I could easily just say I was here for the art.
“Even still, Your Highness, you should—”
“Please, do not start lecturing me. I already have one coming, and I am saving my energy for it.”
It took us twenty minutes to arrive back at the palace.
Another twenty for me sneak inside and take a shower—well, not sneak. The maids saw, but still, it was not as blatant as coming in from the front gates. Either way, I was dressed properly now and had arrived at my father’s library, awaiting my punishment.
However, when I opened the door, there was only my brother...and Ambrose, the head secretary of palace affairs.
“Oh, Gale. Good, you are here. Come in,” Arty said to me, Ambrose nodding his head.
Doing as I was told, not sure where this was going, I entered and took a seat in front of the desk as Arty offered.
“As I was saying, Adelaar,” Ambrose went on, making sure to call him by his title as always, “we’ve finished our profile on Ms. Odette Wyntor.”
Now I see. My punishment was already in progress.
Ambrose was fifty-two, stoutly built, white-haired, and with a signature, caterpillar-styled mustache. He also did not have much care for me, though he would not admit it. He had made two files, and he seemed to be disturbed at handing me the thick-bound folder.
“Did you make a profile or write a dissertation?” I asked, astonished at how heavy the folders were. It had only been one full day since we had spoken about this.
“It was not made clear to me what the purpose of the profile was, and therefore, I did not know which information was or was not essential to keep,” he replied with his standard seriousness, even though I was only joking.
He also knew for damn sure what this was for. The crown never asked for detailed profiles of someone unless they were marrying into the family. And the only person who could marry this woman was me.
“Thank you, Mr. Ambrose. That will be all for the time being,” Arty said, already nose-deep into the file.
“Adelaar.” Mr. Ambrose bowed slightly with his hand over his heart to my brother and then to me. “Your Highness,” he said and gave a simple nod before taking a single step back and then turning around and walking out the library door.
I waited for the door to close before I tossed the file onto my father’s desk.
“You are not going to read it?” Arty asked as I leaned back into my seat.
“What is the point? If I do not like anything, does that mean I can be excused from marrying her?”
It did not really matter what her profile said. She was rich, and we needed the money. That was all that was important. I knew he was hoping that by getting me this information, I’d warm to the idea and just blindly agree. So, it was better that I didn’t read it.
“Her full name is Odette Rochelle Wyntor,” he began to read, because the man never knew when to give up. “She was born in Sunrise, Washington. Her father was Marvin Wyntor, founder and creator of Etheus, and her mother, Wilhelmina Wyntor— Oh, forgive me. They are divorced, so her name is Wilhelmina Wyntor-Smith now. She was the first woman of African-American descent to receive both the Miss America and Miss USA—”
“Arty, are you going to read the whole profile?”
“She has a younger sister named Augusta, and look at this. She is actually older than you by a few months. She was born on November twenty-seven,” he replied, coming around the desk to lean right on the edge of my seat.
&
nbsp; “You are really—”
“I know you are not interested in any of that, so I’ll just skip to how stunningly beautiful she is.” He held a picture of her above my face as if she were live bait.
She had big, dark-brown doe eyes, a button nose, and warm almond-brown skin. She had an oval face and long, thick and curly hair, and when she smiled, her cheeks balled...she was beautiful. Very much so.
It was not until I heard him snicker that I brushed his arm—and the photo—away. He was using her beauty to rope me in because, apparently, that was all I cared about.
“I was not expecting her to be ugly after you told me her mother was a beauty queen,” I muttered.
“Not just her mother. Odette won an array of awards as a child, too—very interesting. She was Little Miss Sunrise, as well as Little Miss Washington, Little Miss America, and America's Royal Miss, as well as another nine titles—all before the age of seven.” He held up another photo of what I thought had to be a doll at first.
She smiled with all her might, a crown way too big for a child on her little head, and she wore a giant pink ball gown and even had her own star princess wand. She looked ridiculous and yet unbelievably cute, too.
“She did not win any other crowns after seven? What happened?” Shit. The moment I asked, I regretted it.
“Oh! So, you are interested. Good!” he teased.
“What I meant was—”
“She stopped competing after that and focused on music. She was classically trained and offered a scholarship to Juilliard. However, she turned it down. She asked for them to give the scholarship to someone else because—and quote—‘I am blessed to have the means to afford tuition at Juilliard. I am honored to have been chosen, but please give the scholarship to someone who needs it.’ She also studied international relations and business at Dartmouth.”
“Aren’t school records meant to be closed?” I muttered.
“Over the years, she has been a massive patron of the arts. And she’s a musician now, too. That’s nice. Let’s see what else she enjoys.”
“Again, it really does not matter. All you are doing is giving me a headache,” I interjected, but he went on as if he couldn’t hear me, adjusting himself on the arm of the chair.
“Her favorite season is winter. Her favorite sport is volleyball, which she played at university. Her favorite food is pasta and meatballs. Her drink of choice is red wine, although no specific brand they could find. She hates oysters and is highly allergic to peanuts. We will have to make sure the staff is aware of that at all times.”
Mr. Ambrose and his staff never failed to impress. How they managed to get that was beyond me, but knowing them, it was also just the tip of the iceberg.
“I’m begging you to please stop.” I was at the point that I had closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair, feeling defeated.
“For all intents and purposes, she seems like a perfectly fine young woman,” he said seriously, flipping to the next page and, luckily, no longer reading aloud. So, he could hear me. “I was apprehensive with her being American, and as you said of the higher status, that she would have scandalous incidents or secrets that we would need to have the palace prepare statements for. So far, however, the only dramatic thing about her life is her parents’ love affair. Which she can hardly be blamed for.”
“I have not agreed yet, Arty. You’re getting ahead of yourself.” Why did we need a statement already?
“I—”
“What are we talking about?”
Oh, thank God, I thought as I heard Eliza’s voice. I opened my eyes in hopes of seeing my savior only to see her enter the library dressed in a black gown with a large silver cross necklace around her throat, netting veil over her face, and black lipstick. Her red hair had been dyed pure black.
“Whatever we were talking about is significantly less important than that outfit,” I replied, not sure whether to laugh or make the sign of the cross.
“We were looking at the profile of Gale’s fiancée,” Arty said, completely unfazed by her fashion choice for the day.
“We are not engaged yet!”
He just assumed I would say yes when I agreed to think about it last night.
“Oh, let me see!” Eliza said with far too much excitement, and because of how long her dress was, she looked like she was gliding toward us.
“No way.” She gasped when Arty handed her the file.
“She’s very pretty, right?” Arty said proudly as if he had something to do with it.
“No freaking way!” Eliza started to jump up and down.
“Eliza, it’s not that exciting—”
“Do you not know how big this is?” she yelled at me. “Why didn’t you all tell me that the Odette Wyntor was going to be my sister-in-law?”
I looked at my brother, hoping he understood whatever the hell was happening. But he just stared at her with the same confusion.
“You know her?” he questioned.
“She has a ‘the’ in front of her name?” I asked.
Eliza glanced up from the file to us, and her shoulder slumped. The look of annoyance was clear on her face, or it could be the intent to murder. The veil she had on made it hard to tell. “I swear you guys never listen to me when I talk.”
“I have been feeling that way recently, too. Do you know why, Arty?” I looked at him, but again, he ignored me.
“How do you know her? Have you met her before?” Arty asked her.
“I wish. I’m a huge fan of her music! Remember that concert I wanted to go to last year in New York? It was hers!”
We both stared at her, not remembering at all. She rolled her eyes. “Whenever I play it, you call it depressed-siren music, Gale.”
“That’s her?” Arty and I exclaimed together.
I looked at him, and he looked back at me. We both laughed.
I couldn’t believe it. “The woman who always sounds like she is about to Sylvia Plath herself is Little Miss Sunshine? There has to be a mistake.”
“Little Miss Sunrise,” Arty corrected.
“Whatever.” I reached over, taking the file from Eliza’s hands and looking at the photo.
Odette was all smiles, and her eyes even seemed to hold a twinkle. I lifted the photo to Eliza just in case she was mistaken. “Are you sure this is the same woman?”
“I know what my favorite musicians look like, thank you,” she snapped. “And seeing as you’re marrying her, you should at least have the decency to know her music style. It’s called heartbreak sad soul, not depressed siren.”
“I think my name for it makes better sense, but what do I know?” I grinned, looking to the section about her music.
She had albums out and had been nominated for a Grammy in the past. She didn’t win, but still, when they’d said musician, I hadn’t thought much of it.
“I really can’t believe it.” Eliza, the goth wannabe, giggled. “It feels like fate.”
“Yes, like all the world wants them to be together,” Arty stated, now standing upright.
They really know how to ruin my fun. Closing the file, I sat up and tossed it back onto the desk. “Fate has nothing to do with this, fortune does.”
“Gaining wealth and losing wealth is fate, too.”
“Then maybe it is our fate to lose it,” I whispered, and silence filled the air briefly before he spoke again.
“Eliza, you should go ahead. The Halloween fair will be starting soon,” he said to her, and it was only then that I remembered what today was. At least that explained her outfit.
“I have a minute to see you smack him,” she said, amused.
But Arty had somehow mastered Mother’s “look,” so he did not have to say a word to her. She understood to leave.
“Fine. I’m going.” She frowned, turning her back to him, and then she stuck out her tongue at me before walking out.
He waited for the door to shut before his gaze fell to me.
I stared at him. “That doesn’t work on me,
remember?” Though I felt uncomfortable, knowing he was no longer in the mood to make jokes or play nice.
Eliza said it was “king’s” energy. It left everyone else unsettled. Dad had it, and so did Arthur.
“A day ago, you seemed more amenable to this argument. What changed?” he questioned, taking a seat.
I shrugged. “I was more sentimental on that day.”
“No, you were more like a prince, remembering you have a duty and a purpose higher than yourself. You only seem to forget that after you’ve debased yourself.”
“Is that what the kids are calling sex these days?”
“I let the fact that you were with Sabina until this morning go—”
“Did you? Because it’s not feeling like it.”
“I let it go because she is smart enough to know her place. Giselle, on the other hand, seems always to forget hers,” he said with more venom than was necessary.
“I did not go see Giselle.”
“No, you just spent twelve minutes on a call with her, then sent people out to check on her yesterday. And now you think you’re smart enough to tip around the truth with me!”
“I am not a child nor your child, Arthur. I don’t need you to lecture me!”
“Yes, you fucking well do!” He slammed his hand onto the table. It took a lot for him to curse, and it was usually amusing on the rare occasion he did. Usually. “How many women do you need exactly, by the way? In the morning, you talk to Giselle. In the evening, you are with Sabina. Next week, you will want a whole new set of females. Are you not tired yet, Gale?”
“They make blue pills—”
“I am not in the mood to joke with you!”
“And I not in the mood to fucking argue about my sex life!” I hollered back.
“You watch your tone.”
“Or what?” I rose from my chair because I was done with this morning meeting. “I think we should call it a day—”
“I’m not finished speaking!”
“You are not the king!” I hollered back.
“No, but I am the Adelaar! Which means I can call any lord or lady to service. You spoke to Giselle. Does she want to go back to Brazil? Actually, it doesn’t even matter. I will simply call her husband, and he will surely take her with him!”