Royally Yours

by Emma Chase

  Today it’s a navy and white gingham shirtwaist dress and matching cardigan sweater, for my meeting with the Advising Council.

  “Who wants to go into the casino business?” I ask them.

  And, except for Alfie, by the looks on their faces, the answer is none of them. Bloody downers.

  I stand, clapping my hands. “I have it on good authority that illicit gambling halls are all the rage amongst the aristocracy. You must have heard whispers about them.”

  Edward is my good authority—and he heard about it from his friend Donald Macalister. Apparently, the lords and ladies of Wessco get all dressed up in their finest gowns and jewels and masquerade ball masks to hide their identities—and attend parties where they drink Champagne and gamble thousands and thousands of dollars away at the tables.

  Edward snuck out of the palace and attended one of the events himself, just a few evenings ago. He wouldn’t let me come along that time—too dangerous, he’d said.

  Because gambling is illegal.

  But I’m going to change that.

  “The next legislation I want to present to Parliament is to legalize gambling.”

  And there Tweedledum goes with the sign of the cross.

  “Just think of it, my Lords. We could become the next hottest tourist destination.”

  “Like Monaco?” my uncle says.

  “Exactly! And there will be licensing fees, regulatory fees, service jobs, tax revenue . . . the possibilities are endless.”

  Sheffield, Radcliffe and the Tweedles seem to start to warm to the idea. But Lord Norfolk is as cold as ice.

  “Absolutely not. It’s a sin. It’s immoral.”

  “There are many activities that are considered immoral; we don’t outlaw them all,” I counter.

  “You will be contributing to the degradation of our country,” he argues.

  “Rubbish!” I shoot back, rubbing my stomach absentmindedly. “It’s going on anyway—right under our noses. By regulating it, we will prevent exploitation, and the government will get their piece of the pie.”

  He points his finger at me. “I do not support this!”

  Edward stands, his voice hard and heavy as a sledgehammer.

  “The Queen doesn’t need your support, Norfolk. She will have your obedience. If you can’t give it, you’ll step aside and we’ll find a man who can.”

  “We, Prince Edward?” Norfolk taunts. “Do you now speak for the Queen?”

  I don’t hesitate, I don’t balk . . . it’s the easiest thing in the world to say. Because it’s true. “He does speak for me. We are of one mind in all things. His word is as good as mine.”

  Edward’s eyes dart to me—surprised.

  Because this is . . . a big deal. It’s meaningful. Powerful. It matters. Edward knows it, and the council knows it, as well as I do. By giving Edward the power to speak for me, I’m surrendering a piece of myself to him. Sharing my authority as freely as I share my thoughts and my body with him.

  But it’s not difficult, letting go of these reins. Because Edward will never let me fall.

  A few days later, we sit on the sofa in my office—together, but both of us are working. I turn to him, and tell him what’s been on my mind.

  “I want to make a new position on the advising council, for you. I want you to be my First Advisor. How do you feel about that?”

  His eyes narrow, as he considers it. “Why do you want to do it?”

  “Because it’s true. You’re the first person I go to for advice, whose opinion I trust the most . . . if the title fits, you should wear it.”

  A frown pulls at his lips.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “They’re going to say I hold sway over you.”

  “You do.”

  “Yes, but . . . you are the Queen. And I’m perfectly content to be the husband of the Queen. I don’t want to be the reason you are diminished in anyone’s eyes.”

  And this is why I’m the luckiest woman in the world. Why I want him to have the position, the title . . . because I want everyone to give him the respect he deserves, the respect he’s earned . . . by being all he is.

  I take Edward’s hand. “We won’t let that happen. We’ll show them that we share this life, and I am a stronger Queen because of that. Because of you, because of us. And . . . if they still think what they will, I don’t give a damn. As long as it can’t hurt us, Edward, I don’t care.”

  He mulls this over. And then he smirks.

  “Are you sure it’s not just because of my magnificent cock? I am outstanding at sticking it in you.”

  Laughter bubbles up my throat, but I hold it in. And look him right in the face. “Hmm . . . yes, you’re right. It probably is just that, after all.”

  Edward tickles me—mercilessly. And I attack him back; he’s ticklish under his arms. We roll around and our papers fall off the sofa and eventually we fall off the sofa too. And Edward settles me on top of him, so my knees straddle his waist and we end the day making sweet, laughing love right there on my office floor.

  Seven months along in my pregnancy, it’s safe to say that I’ve stopped walking. After all, no rational person can describe what I’m doing as walking.

  It’s a waddle. Just like a penguin. A queen penguin.

  Edward thinks it’s adorable. Crazy man. He asks me to walk around our room at night—the way some men ask their wives to do a “striptease”—just so he can watch me, with warmth in his eyes and that arousing smirk on his lips.

  I’m waddling down the palace hall right now, with my darling husband walking beside me, on our way to Parliament. So I can sign the law that passed last week in both Houses, which legalizes gambling in Wessco.

  Until the Archbishop of Dingleberry intercepts us.

  “Good afternoon, Queen Lenora, Prince Edward.” He bows his head.

  “Archbishop.” Edward nods for us both.

  “Your Majesty, I’ve been wanting to speak with you about Princess Miriam. The Holy Father is very concerned about her behavior. He was hoping you could speak with her, bring her to heel.”

  Miri is in love. Again. With a butcher . . . or is it a baker?

  Whatever went on between her and Winston all those months ago was brief and meaningless—as is her pattern, apparently. This is the fourth . . . no, fifth time she’s been in love—I almost forgot about the young duke from Spain who still sends her flowers every single day.

  My sister is in love with the idea of love. The rush and swirl of it.

  But it’s not real. Her feelings for these men dissipate like mist in the morning.

  It’s not the same emotion that throbs through me when I look at my Edward. If he lost his looks or his charm or his dirty, teasing voice, my devotion for him wouldn’t waver. I’d still want to be near him, with him, caring for him, all the time. And I know deep inside, where knowledge is automatic and instinctual, that he feels the same for me.

  But Miriam’s adventures of the heart are harmless. They hurt no one. And the people adore her antics—they follow her love life like some dramatic real-life afternoon soap opera. All they need is someone to get amnesia and the comparison will be spot-on.

  And maybe, if she keeps at it . . . one day she’ll find a genuine love. I do truly wish that for her.

  “Princess Miriam is a grown woman now,” I tell the Archbishop. “She makes her own choices, and frankly, I have more important matters to address.”

  Edward and I try to walk away, but his voice stops us.

  Again.

  “She is behaving like a wayward, wanton woman. The Pope is considering excommunicating her.”

  That stops me. And slowly, I turn toward him, lowering my voice.

  “I see.” I tap my fingers together. “Princess Miriam is independent and compassionate; those are good qualities for a princess to have. I don’t always agree with her choices or views—but to be frank, I couldn’t bloody stand your views through the years, and yet you’re still here.”

  My words
become clipped and cold and very, very final.

  “So, if the Pope moves to excommunicate my sister or publicly shame her in any way, be sure to tell him I’m perfectly willing to follow old cousin Henry’s example and start our own damn church.”

  The Archbishop gasps, and if the man had pearls he’d be clutching them.

  “And I’ll make Miriam the head of it.”

  Edward’s mouth twists into a grin. “The Wessco Church for Wayward Wanton Women. It’s got a ring to it.”

  “Indeed.” I nod.

  I address the Archbishop. “If the Holy Father wants to lose an entire country of Catholics, that’s his prerogative, but from one head of state to another, I wouldn’t recommend it. Be sure he understands. Now are we quite finished, Archbishop?”

  I love the look of chastisement on a powerful man’s face in the morning.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Very good.”

  My husband offers me his arm, and his approving chuckle, and together we walk . . . and waddle . . . away.

  IT’S AFTER TEN IN THE evening when I return to the palace, after a dinner in honor of the visiting Canadian Prime Minister. I attended alone, as I’ve attended every function for the last month—the final month of Lenny’s pregnancy. She’s felt too ungainly and uneasy to get all decked out in her formal-wear and go out to major events. It’s miserable work without her, but it’s my job as the Prince of Wessco . . . and my job as the husband of Lenora.

  I walk in the door of our bedroom, tugging at my tie—eager to get out of these clothes and have my wife give me a good, long welcome home.

  “Evening, love,” I tell her. “How was your night?”

  “Uneventful.” She sits at her vanity, brushing her hair. “Don’t get undressed. I’d prefer for you to sleep in your own room tonight.”

  I stop unbuttoning my shirt and stare at her. Because never mind the ridiculous statement—her voice, the set of her mouth, the way she won’t even glance at me . . . it’s all wrong.

  “This is my room.”

  “No, it’s not. Your rooms are across the sitting area; you’ve just never used them until now.”

  I walk toward her, looking at her face closer. “Fucking you from two rooms over would be difficult—even for me.”

  She flinches.

  “What’s wrong with you, Lenny?” She was fine—better than fine—when I left. Happy. “What happened?”

  She stands, rubbing the massive swell of her stomach over her powder blue nightgown. “I’m uncomfortable and not sleeping well and I just want to be left alone. Can’t you do that for me?”

  Her eyes are flat. As lifeless as her voice.

  “I can’t, actually.”

  “You mean, you won’t.”

  “Correct, sweetheart—I absolutely won’t. Not until you tell me what the hell is going on in that head of yours to bring this on.”

  I dip my chin, trying to catch her eyes. “What is it?”

  Her eyes slide closed and her breath catches. But then her features harden, go blank . . . and out it comes.

  “Winston came by to warn me . . . to show me some photos that will be published in the papers later this week.”

  “What sort of photos?”

  “Photos of you.”

  She moves to the writing desk, picking up a stack of half a dozen black-and-white pictures. She holds them out, away from her body . . . like they’re toxic.

  I flip through them—one by one. And a cold ball of rage gathers in my stomach, growing thicker, larger, with each image.

  They’re grainy photos of me in a dim corner of a restaurant, holding the hand of a young blond woman. From the long angle, it appears we’re gazing into each other’s eyes. I toss them on the desk, where they scatter and flutter to the floor.

  And I regard my wife. “Would you like an explanation?”

  “I think I deserve one,” she bites out.

  “Her name is Daniella. She’s the fiancée of Colin Penderson, the man I’m working with to locate facilities for the boys’ club I’m creating in Thomas’s honor.” I point at the photograph. “The three of us met for a working dinner. I was shaking her hand—that’s why I’m touching her. And if you look here,” I jab my finger at the corner of one photo, “you’ll see the buttons on Colin’s coat, because he’s not in the frame, but he’s standing right there.”

  Lenny’s expression barely changes at all. “That’s a very . . . thorough story, Edward. A perfectly logical explanation.”

  “And you don’t believe a word of it.”

  She shrugs. “I didn’t say that.”

  “What exactly are you saying, Lenora? Do you think I’m fucking her—is that it?”

  Those sharp silver eyes cut me right down to the bone.

  “It’s not like you would be the first. Every king of Wesco has had mistresses, and every prince his whores. There were even whispers about my father, though I don’t believe they ever reached Mother’s ears.”

  “I don’t give a shit about princes or kings. If there’s something you want to know, stop dancing around it and ask.”

  She raises her chin and straightens her spine. “Were you with her?”

  “Was I with her?” I repeat, scathingly. Mockingly. “What a reserved way of phrasing it. So dignified, so sanitary. Is that where we are again? Back to the polite, proper words for things?”

  I slam my fist on the desk and the lamp falls off, smashing on the floor.

  “I’ll take anything from you, Lenny. I’ll take your frustration, your anger, your suspicion—hell, I’ll even take your bloody hatred—but what I will not accept, ever, is your indifference. So don’t put that goddamn mask on with me.”

  I walk around the desk, looking down on her, face-to-face. “Now let’s try this again. Ask me what you want to know. The words are right there on your lips—you can taste them, can’t you? Fucking ask.”

  And Lenora doesn’t disappoint.

  “Did you lie to me? Are you lying to me now?” She steps closer, her voice rising with each word. “Did you meet her? Did you kiss her? Did she touch you?” She shoves me with her hands. “Did you fuck her?” And beats at my chest with her fists. “Did you? Did you?”

  I grab her wrists, trapping them between us. “No. Never.” The word growls out of me, between gnashing teeth. “You think I’d do that to you? That I’d obliterate my vows, betray our child . . . hurt you that way? Is that who you think I am?”

  Her gaze slides toward the floor, but I grip her chin, forcing her eyes to mine.

  “Look at me. If that’s the kind of man you think I am, then what the fuck have we been doing all these months?”

  And she searches my face, her eyes shimmering like two broken diamonds. Her mouth opens and closes, then eventually, the soft, strangled words come out.

  “I don’t think you’re that kind of man.”

  I let her go, stepping back.

  She looks down at the photos and one by one, tears fall down her cheeks. “But she’s very beautiful. And I’m—”

  “You are beautiful.” I take her face in both my hands, gently now, cupping her cheeks and swiping her tears away with my thumbs. “Christ, you are all I see. Don’t you know that? Even when you’re not with me . . . you’re all I can see.”

  Her face crumbles, collapses into a sob. And I pull her into my arms, pressing her against my chest.

  “I do, I do know that,” she cries. “I’m sorry.”

  “Shhh . . .” I pet her hair, rocking her.

  Her hands twist in my shirt. “I’m sorry, Edward. I just . . . I don’t know what’s happening. I’m so tired and there’s just so much . . .

  “I know, I know.”

  So much responsibility, so much to do, so much weight, so much worry. Never ending and always.

  “And I feel like I’m losing my mind. I—”

  I tilt her head and cover her mouth with mine. Her lips are pillow soft and puffy from crying.

  “It’s all rig
ht. It’s all right, now.” I soothe her.

  And I kiss her again and again until she settles. My lips trail over her face, swallowing her tears and drinking her pain. I stroke her tongue with mine, cup her breasts, kneading the sensitive mounds, stroking her nipples, coaxing moans from deep inside her.

  I take her to the bed and strip her slowly. I drag my mouth, my hands, over every inch of her tender flesh, until she writhes, and nothing exists in the world except what I’m doing to her. Between kisses and moans, I promise and whisper that she is my beautiful girl, my lovely lass, my sweet, my only . . . my everything.

  Because she is.

  We lie on our sides, chest to back, and I make love to her with gentle, smooth thrusts from behind. Lenora reaches back for me, her hand on my hip, my thigh—pushing me forward, urging me deeper, to give her more.

  And I do. Christ, I do.

  I slide my arms beneath her and across her breasts, holding her shoulders, rocking up into her, until the pleasure ripples through us and we come at the same time—her, with a perfect, keening cry and me, with a hoarse, ragged groan.

  I watch Lenora as she sleeps, with my hand on her stomach, feeling the moving life inside her—the life we made together. Her sweet lips part and her breath shudders in a hiccup, reminding me of the pain that pulled her under earlier. I throw the covers back, slip on my trousers and a half-buttoned shirt and tuck Lenny in snugly. Then I walk through the halls, down to the guard’s quarters.

  When I step inside, the men scurry up from the couches and chairs to stand and bow. My eyes go only to one man.

  “I need a word,” I tell Winston softly.

  He follows me out across the hall to an empty room.

  “Shut the door,” I tell him, and he does. Then I stand in front of him, fists clenched at my sides, feet spread.

  “For now, in this moment, I am not a prince and you are not a guard. We are just men—speaking as men—is that understood?”