by Leslie North
Lately, though, her relationship with Phillip had been…less inspiring and exciting.
She needed to send a message. A loving but firm message—one that said although she would serve his people to the best of her ability, she couldn’t be expected to kowtow to every single ancient tradition and duty he insisted upon. And she’d found the perfect way to send that message.
The tailor stood back to admire his handiwork. “I need to go grab a few more pins,” he mused, “but this looks nearly ready. Were the clogs arriving today? I want to make sure the hem is just right with them on.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but the door opened. “I’ve got something for Ella!” Drake called through the gap. “Is it safe to come in? Everyone dressed and all that?”
“I’m good, come in,” she said. He entered carrying a shoebox from his wife’s store, and she steeled herself, waiting until the tailor left to turn to Drake.
“I’m not wearing the clogs,” she said, chin lifted and shoulders squared as she delivered her message.
He paused. “You’re not? But my wife said you needed them in a hurry. That’s why I’m apparently playing the role of delivery boy today.” He lifted the box.
“No one is going to see my feet anyway. The silver shoes look better with my dress, and they’re special to me. I want them to be a part of my wedding. And I’ve already made plenty of concessions to tradition.”
Drake set the box down on a nearby couch, considering her words. “For what it’s worth, I agree with you,” he said. “Don’t tell my wife but I think the silver heels look better than the clogs too. But is today really the best day to rock the boat?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
He sighed. “With the exposé going public. Beyond the letters, it also has that in-depth profile on you, and a lot of Danovians might not like that you spent most of your life in America. Choosing to wear the traditional shoes might help reinforce your commitment to Danovar in their eyes.”
Her whole body went cold, and then hot. She waited a moment to be sure her voice would be steady before she spoke. “Excuse me?”
Exposé, he’d said. Letters.
Oh, no. Please, no. She had to have misunderstood him.
Oblivious, Drake nodded. “It wasn’t set to go live until after the wedding, I understand, but apparently the reporter was about to be fired and jumped the gun to save his job. He did send us a preview copy, at least.”
She felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She cleared her throat, hoping this was some kind of mistake, a sick joke, a nightmare she’d wake up at from any second. “May I see it, please?” Her voice sounded distant and dreamlike in her own ears.
He nodded again and vanished, returning a second later with a glossy magazine. Heedless of the tailor’s hard work, she tore off her wedding dress so she could sit down. Pins popped out, scraping across her skin and tearing the delicate silk. Drake looked the other way as she sat, in nothing but her slip and underthings, and opened the magazine.
Special Edition, the headline screamed. Her and Phillip’s letters took up half of it, from the front page to the centerfold. Excerpts were scattered throughout in bold letters, with analysis and commentary beneath. The only pictures of the two of them displayed were official ones, but they might as well have caught her naked for all the emotional and sexual details the letters laid bare.
She felt outside herself, like she was in some distant, emotionless bubble, looking on from above. Distantly, she realized she felt like she was about to throw up. She’d given these letters to Phillip weeks ago. So how, exactly, had the reporter gotten them?
She was still dazed, but feared the emotions that would crash over her when the initial shock was through. She could see it now; how her whole world would fold in on her like an origami trick, flattening and squeezing and reshaping until it was unrecognizable.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” Drake was saying from where he stood at the other end of the couch. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me, that you allowed these to be published to protect me.”
“Oh?” she managed faintly.
“I don’t know if Phillip told you the whole story,” he said hesitantly, “but back when I was first employed at the castle, I actually stole a crown jewel. My father was deathly ill, he needed special medication that I couldn’t afford, and I felt like I had no other choice. The king—the crown prince, then—caught me. And instead of turning me in, he procured the medicine for us and worked to change the insurance regulations. He kept me on his security detail, even promoted me after a while once I’d proved myself loyal. He also kept the jewel’s theft as quiet as he could, but I guess this reporter found it out. I’m so sorry that bastard made you two choose between exposing me as the thief and exposing the letters. If you’ll excuse the language.”
Ella took a breath, and suddenly Phillip’s reasoning came crystal clear in her mind. The look on his face when he’d asked her for the letters back. The speech he’d given about that little boy who drowned, and how ever since then Phillip had been driven to make his decisions based on the needs of his people and not based what he wanted for himself.
Choosing to protect the guard’s reputation over her privacy would have made perfect sense, to him. He would do anything for his people.
But it was clear he no longer counted her among them.
“Thank you for telling me this, Drake,” she said, closing the hateful magazine and setting it gently beside her instead of ripping it to confetti the way she wanted to. “Could you go tell Phillip I’d like to see him?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, he’s in meetings all day and has given strict instructions to not be interrupted unless it’s an urgent matter of state.”
She laughed humorlessly. “Of course he has.” She took a deep breath and straightened, pulling off the royal engagement ring. Only one thing for it, then. “Could you bring me a pen and some paper, please? I need to write one last letter.”
16
Phillip was nursing a glass of Scotch when Eric walked in.
The king turned in the stool to give his brother a sour look over the counter of the royal kitchens. He’d cleared everyone out, sent the chefs who worked in this section home early, planning to down as much alcohol as humanly possible before he had to face tomorrow. The last thing he wanted now was some adventurous tale from Eric. Or worse, a lecture.
The sour look slipped off his face. Fact was, he deserved a lecture. When Ella’s letter had arrived, hand-delivered by Drake during his marathon meetings, Phillip hadn’t even opened it. He hadn’t known yet about the exposé happening early, and he’d been upset that she would make loyal Drake go against his orders to interrupt him. To send Ella a message—that a king would not be brought to heel—he’d stuck the letter in his pocket and hadn’t even glanced at it ‘til after dinner. He knew the clogs had been delivered for her final fitting today and he’d figured the letter was just her way of stomping her foot over wanting to wear her own shoes.
By the time he read it and rushed to her rooms, the only things left of her were those damn silver glitter heels sitting in the middle of the bed—and a receipt for her flight to America. He’d missed her by half an hour.
“You have the look of a man who knows he’s screwed the pooch,” said Eric, sliding onto the stool next to him.
“Shut up,” Phillip said half-heartedly, and threw back some more Scotch.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. At least you know when you’ve been a total ass. Some people don’t even have that much.” Eric put his hands atop the bar and vaulted over it, then ran his fingers across the top-shelf booze, debating. “So what are you going to do now? Got a flight booked yet?”
“No. I’m going to do what I should’ve done in the first place: hold interviews for the position of queen.”
Eric stopped, staring at him over his shoulder. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re head-over-heels for this girl, and you’re going to let her
go?”
“She chose to go,” Phillip growled, then sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s probably for the best anyway. I don’t think the life of duties and obligations were for her. I’ll find a queen who can pay better attention to those details.”
But not one he’d want to read newspapers with every morning. Not one he’d take on dawn trail rides and sunset bike tours. Not one he’d want in his bed. He didn’t want anyone else, not ever again. No one but Ella.
He poured more Scotch. “If you really want to help, go ask Mother for the list of eligible women,” he told Eric. “I’m getting started first thing in the morning.”
Eric shook his head, then pulled out his phone. “Okay, brother. If that’s really what you want. But I have to warn you, if you do interviews, you’re probably going to wind up stuck with someone who might tick off all your boxes on paper but be a total wet blanket in real life. Like her sister Anna. You should’ve seen how fast she shut me down during the Summer House Party when I asked her to join me for an innocent margarita.”
“Margaritas are never innocent with you. And I’m not changing my mind on the interviews,” Phillip said stubbornly. Then: “what are you doing?”
“Texting Mother.”
Phillip blinked. “She texts?”
Eric smiled. “Of course she texts. She might be a relic but she’s not ancient.” He dropped the phone back in his pocket. “She said she’ll send it up right now.”
Phillip nodded. Ten minutes later, when there was a knock at the door, he yelled over his shoulder, “Come!”
The door opened—and the Queen Mother herself strode in, heels clicking decisively on the wood floor, eyeing her oldest son.
Phillip blinked and dragged himself to stand. “Mother. Why have you…” and then he spotted the papers in her hand.
Keeping her expression cool, she laid them on the counter in front of him. He leaned closer. The stack of papers was a good inch tall: lists of the eligible girls accompanied by research on each, all scribbled with notes in sprawling handwriting. Very familiar sprawling handwriting.
“Ella had this sent up to me after she left,” his mother said. “It’s all the work she did when she was trying to find you a wife.”
Phillip leafed through the papers. Hobbies are knitting and painting, she’d scribbled across one girl’s picture. Phillip needs someone more adventurous. He picked up another page. Not a good match, this one said, according to her tax returns she never gives to charities. Phillip is never stingy—he needs someone more generous. Yet another proclaimed This one is nice. A little too nice. Phillip needs a queen with a backbone, a spitfire, a woman as strong as he is.
He spread the pages across the counter. Not a single one of the women, not even her own stepsisters, had Ella deemed good enough for Phillip.
“There was a time when I would have agreed with her,” the Queen Mother said as he stared down at the pages. “That none of the women were good enough for you. I wanted you to find the happiness you deserved—and after a while, I thought Ella would be the one to give that to you. But now I’ve changed my mind.”
His hand fisted in his lap. Even though Ella had deserted him, he couldn’t bear to let his mother speak ill of her. “She’s not—”
But her voice cracked across his like a whip. “If you’re the kind of man who treats his wife like an employee, like a servant at that, then you don’t deserve her. You deserve to let the law lapse, and allow Eric to take over as king.”
Eric choked on his cognac. “Surely it needn’t come to that,” he sputtered.
Not knowing how to respond, Phillip looked back down at the rubric he’d been examining a moment ago. Was this really the way Ella had seen him, as someone so good that not even the best ladies the kingdom could offer measured up? And the things she’d said about the kind of woman he needed—someone adventurous, generous, strong…
It was her. She’d been describing herself the whole time, and she hadn’t even seen it. But then, neither had he. He’d had his true love, his impossibly perfect match, an amazing, regal spitfire he wanted to spend both his public and private life with—
And he’d tossed her away over a pair of shoes.
He’d been so concerned with trying to mold her into a queen that he hadn’t realized she’d already been a perfect one. She’d spent her life constantly coming in last place in her family, and he’d treated her exactly the same as her stepmother had instead of cherishing her the way she deserved.
“I,” he announced, “am an ass.”
Eric held up his glass in a toast. “I knew you’d get there.”
The Queen Mother gave him a frosty look, but before she could reprimand him, one of her guards stuck his head in. She paced over to listen to his whispered message, and Phillip took advantage of her preoccupation.
“I need your help,” he said to his brother in a low tone. “I have to go catch a flight. Can you cause a distraction?”
Eric grinned wide, hefting his bottle. “Can I ever,” he replied.
17
Starting a career training horses was harder than becoming Queen.
Ella blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and paused, leaning against her pitchfork. She had ten minutes before her next riding lesson showed up, and that big draft stallion had picked just now to dump a huge load in the middle of the aisle for her to clean up. She knew it was part of the gig, and a month or two ago she would have attacked even the dirty parts of her new job at her friend’s stables with joy, but now all she could think about was whether it was too late to buy a one-way ticket back to Danovar.
She’d been working so hard to change herself into a Queen—and now that she’d succeeded, now that her old dreams no longer held their luster in comparison, she was condemned to a lifetime of them. She’d never get to help anyone on the global stage. Never get to fund Anna’s research, never get to save her home country’s natural resources.
Never get to stand at Phillip’s side again.
She bent back to her task and attacked the manure with new vigor. Best she not think about him. It was too late to buy a ticket back anyway—after she’d left him high and dry this close to his birthday, he’d have no reason to marry her. Plus, after the way he’d betrayed her she knew she would never come first with him, and she’d already lived that life and wanted no more of it.
But oh, Phillip. If only he’d been able to see her, understand that she needed to be important to him too. If only he’d come to her when that reporter confronted him, instead of making the decision for her. She scrubbed a hand across her face to get the hair out of her eyes, and was dismayed when her hand came back wet with tears. She didn’t even know what she was crying for. Phillip? Her lost life as Queen? Her new dreams, vanished to dust?
“Ella, your twelve o’clock is here!” the stable manager called. “Brand-new rider, I believe.” Grateful for the distraction, Ella stowed the pitchfork and went to retrieve the horses for today’s lesson. For the new rider, she chose their rock-solid old mare who never moved faster than a sedate walk and wouldn’t spook if a bomb blew up in her face. She walked out to the ring, mare in one hand and her assigned gelding in the other. The new rider in the middle of the arena turned. It took a moment for her brain to put together the puzzle pieces of him and assign a name.
Long, godlike blond hair. Smoky eyes. Broad, square, strong hands that had done delicious things to her—and then handed her letters over to a reporter to protect someone else.
Phillip.
Shocked by seeing him in the last place she’d expected, she turned, thinking only that she’d need to trade out the mare. Her twelve o’clock was, in fact, not a new rider.
A hand curled around her shoulder. “Please, wait,” he said in that accent she’d been longing for, and it was like taking a long drink in the desert. “Don’t walk away from me again.”
She stopped and turned.
He scanned her face like she, too, was an oasis in the hot sands. “I kno
w what I did was terrible,” he said. He took a deep breath like he had to steel himself for whatever he was about to say. “And I can only plead my own arrogance. I never dreamed I’d be so lucky as to fall for one of the eligible maidens, but even after I did, I don’t think I ever shook the notion that my wife would be a state employee—because that was the way I’d been treating myself, too. Like my only function in life was to fulfill duties and be whatever my people needed me to be. It was only after you left that I realized what you’d been trying to teach me. Serving my country doesn’t always have to be a burden. The way you served your stepfamily—out of love and a genuine desire to help, with such kindness and generosity even when they overlooked you—that was what finally showed me that there is room in my life for both duty and love, and that serving my country can be even more fulfilling when it’s done with joy, and with someone I love at my side. I learned that I am more than a king. I’m a man. One who has made terrible mistakes, and one who is now begging your forgiveness, and promising to put you first for as long as we both shall live. If you’ll still have me.”
He dropped to one knee, fumbling for something in his pocket. Ella covered her mouth with one hand—everything was happening so quickly—but instead of the royal engagement ring she’d left behind, he pulled out…
A silver glitter heel.
“Marry me here in secret,” he said, staring earnestly up at her. “I want you to wear these down the aisle, no matter where that aisle is. If you want, we can even wait until after the deadline passes. Anything to prove that I mean what I say. Anything to be with you.”
Tears were rising in her eyes again, but for a new and much better, more impossible reason now. “What about your duties?” she asked around the hand that was still covering her mouth.
“Fuck duties,” he said, so earnestly that it startled a laugh out of her. The stable hands who were readying the bleachers for the upcoming show paused to give them a dirty look, but she didn’t even glance up. This man. Oh, this man—this king, who was offering to forego everything he’d ever considered his life’s purpose to get her back. If she would have him.