Reluctantly Royal

by Gillian Archer

  Surreptitiously, I slide a finger between the too stiff, too starched collar and my too dry throat. Then take my first deep breath of the night. Yeah, it’s definitely the monkey suit. Or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  So much better than the alternative…

  After years of wearing my dress uniform to formal events, it feels strange as fuck to suddenly be stuck in a goddamn tuxedo. Sure, it’s Tom Ford, but the perfect cut doesn’t make the psychology of the suit—or this night—any easier to accept.

  I flex my shoulders, adjust my jacket, covertly pull at my cuffs a little. And try to look like I’m not strangling on my perfectly knotted black silk bow tie.

  It’s easier said than done, considering everything about this night is strange as fuck. Then again, everything in my life has felt uncomfortable—and so much worse—since that royal helicopter swooped down onto that damn yacht thirteen weeks ago. Uncomfortable and upside down and wrong. So fucking wrong.

  But how can it be anything but wrong when I’m the one standing at this stupid gala, keeping a stiff upper lip while my brother—my twin—is missing?

  Maybe locked in some hellhole somewhere.

  Maybe injured.

  Maybe dead.

  Just the word makes my stomach churn and my hands shake. I shove them into my pockets so none of the vultures currently studying my every movement can see. They’re determined to find some sign of weakness in me tonight, and I’m just as determined not to let them.

  “Your Highness. It’s so lovely to see you here!” a voice trills behind me.

  Jesus. Any higher and she’d be breaking the sound barrier. Why the fuck is it that rich women—especially older, rich women—think talking in that ridiculous trill makes them attractive? All it does is turn people off. Well, that and get every dog in the neighborhood on high alert.

  I make sure none of my annoyance shows as I turn around and come face-to-face with a woman who looks vaguely familiar. A little voice in the back of my head tells me I should know her, but I gave up listening to that voice a long time ago and not even stepping into Garrett’s shoes is going to change that.

  “Hello, ma chérie,” I tell her, taking the hand she extends and bringing it to my lips.

  She giggles like a twelve-year-old. “It’s so good to see you again. William and I were hoping you’d be here.”

  It’s the mention of her husband that triggers my memory. She’s Florence Thackeray, wife of the British ambassador to Wildemar. Her husband is an old school friend and a frequent golfing buddy of my father’s.

  I force a little more sincerity onto my face because of the family connection. But to be honest, any friend of my father’s is automatically suspicious in my mind. “I was hoping to see you here as well. How is”—I rack my brain for several seconds—“Betsy?”

  She draws back in surprise. “Betsy?”

  Fuck. Okay. “I meant to say Betty. How is Betty?”

  Her face pinches in obvious annoyance. For fuck’s sake. How the hell am I supposed to remember the name of every daughter of every fucking ambassador in the fucking country? Just because not-Betsy-or-Betty and I fucked in the garden during a long state dinner one summer night a few years ago doesn’t mean we’ve kept in touch. God save me from meddling mothers.

  Still, I’m supposed to be trying, so…“Your daughter. How is she? The last time we spoke she was on summer break from Cambridge.”

  “Bootsy has finished up her degree and is now working in the embassy. Here. In Wildemar.”

  And that’s my cue to bug the hell out of Dodge. “Well, please, give Bootsy my love. We’ll have to have you all over to the palace soon.”

  I drop another kiss on her hand, then slide into the crowd swirling around us. I make a mental note to ask Roland—the family’s social secretary and general master of all things that make me miserable—what it would take for me to get a pair of earplugs and a lobotomy before that happens.

  Why the fuck am I doing this? I fume as I make my way through the crowd. Why the fuck am I even here? I should be at home researching the information from our daily briefing on Garrett’s disappearance or badgering our security or intelligence forces about what else they can do to find him. I sure as shit shouldn’t be here pretending to give a fuck about all this.

  So why the hell am I?

  Oh, right. I’m supposed to show the people that Wildemar is as strong as ever, even if their crown prince has disappeared in an incident where everything points to foul play.

  The only problem? It’s not true. We’re not strong. But fake it till you make it has always been my motto—or, at least, the fake it part. I’m here to show everyone that things are fine, that Garrett’s kidnapping, while alarming and being treated with the utmost urgency, hasn’t shaken the integrity or the spirit of the royal family. Even though it really, really has.

  It’s harder to fake than it should be, considering I was raised in this world and have known many of the people in this room for most of my life. But familiarity doesn’t mean intimacy—especially when you’re royal—and I’m determined not to break. Not here and definitely not now.

  Even though every day that Garrett’s missing, every day that goes by without a phone call or a ransom demand or a video using him as propaganda for some crazy cause, it becomes more and more likely that my brother—my twin—is already dead.

  The recurring thought chills me to the bone, has more than my hands shaking as I start to slowly wind my way toward the bar on the other side of the room. Distance wise, it’s not that far. But as I can only move about six inches at a time before having to exchange more pleasantries, it takes forever.

  My dry throat gets even drier.

  Still, I smile at the Duchess of Something or Other, doing my best to ignore the way she presses herself against me. The fact that she’s old enough to be my mother doesn’t seem to bother her as she leans forward and whispers something lewd—and utterly unarousing—in my ear.

  And then Arnoux Durand catches my attention. “Your Highness, how are you?” He’s all sad eyes and concerned voice. “We are so, so sorry about Prince Garrett. But we want you to know how thrilled we are to have your leadership in this difficult time and into the future.”

  Like my brother’s already dead. Like the outcome is already guaranteed and now all we have to do is find and bury the body.

  I want to tell the fussy old asshole to back off, but he’s the majority leader of the Upper House. As my father had Roland remind me when he was briefing me—we’ve got a lot of legislation we need to get through the Houses right now and I’m supposed to smooth the way as much as possible. Sympathy will only get us so far, after all…yeah, dear old dad’s a cold one, all right.

  Very deliberately, I take a breath—lately I’ve been forgetting to do that—and count back from five before I answer. “Thank you for your concern, Minister Durand. My father and I appreciate your—”

  “Minister Gerincoult,” he interrupts, sounding a little like his bow tie is strangling him. I feel his pain.

  “I definitely plan on speaking to Gerincoult,” I tell him. “I just haven’t—”

  “No, I’m Gerincoult.” His words are clipped, his tone ice-cold, and I am completely screwed. “Durand is over by the balcony.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” With no other recourse, I go for the pity vote. “With everything going on right now, I’m a little discombobulated. Of course I know who you are. You were always one of Garrett’s favorites.”

  He doesn’t look impressed, but at least he doesn’t look offended anymore. Probably because he thinks I’m a moron…and right now, I’m tempted to agree with him.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  Garrett has to be alive. He has to be—and not because I can’t spend the next fifty years doing this. Everyone, from the people to my father to parliament (except for maybe Lower House Minority Leader Gerincoult), seems to think I should take his place, glad-handing the peerage even as I show Wildemar’s cit
izens just how serious I can be. If these last three months have shown me nothing else, it’s that to all of them, one crown prince is as good as another.

  As if it’s so easy.

  As if I can just slide into Garrett’s place.

  As if anyone could.

  Garrett is the best of Wildemar, certainly the better of the two of us. The idea that I could ever, in any way, replace him is more than just insulting. It’s a goddamn joke. One with a really, really bad punch line.

  And yet here I am, trying—and failing—to do just that.

  The people of Wildemar deserve better. Too bad they haven’t figured that out yet.

  But they will. And then there will be hell to pay. For all of us.

  Sure, I can work a ballroom with the best of them. Shake a few hands. Tell a couple of well-timed stories designed to get a laugh. Dance with all the parliament wives and charm their high heels—and low-rise panties—right off of them. Twenty-eight years of being the spare has taught me a thing or two, after all.

  But that doesn’t mean I can run a country. Hell, most days I can barely remember the head of parliament’s name, let alone his party politics. Or how I want him to vote on pressing issues.

  I’ve spent my whole life burning bridges instead of building them. Expecting me to change that now is crazy.

  Besides, can you really blame me? Who wouldn’t rather spend the evening in bed with a couple of supermodels instead of lying their ass off at some boring charity gala?

  But that’s not how it works when you’re next in line for the throne.

  The crown prince doesn’t get to hang out with supermodels. He doesn’t get to have wild parties in Monte Carlo or Vegas. And he sure as hell doesn’t get to do what he wants.

  Instead he does what the king wants.

  What the people expect.

  And what the title demands.

  Right now, the title is demanding that I work the room, holding court with the privileged masses but never actually mingling with them. Never lowering myself to their level.

  A prince is to appear interested but not too interested, accessible but not too accessible. Concerned but—you guessed it—not too concerned.

  It’s a rule I learned at an early age, but for me, it’s always been harder to follow than it should be. Then again, for me, most rules are.

  I make it a few steps closer to the bar when Roland—who might be ancient but is also quite sneaky and spry—intercepts me. He delicately clears his throat, nervously glances left and right. And though he avoids eye contact, I don’t have to look him in the eyes to know what he wants. Namely, to remind me that I’m not here to get drunk, no matter how good that sounds right now.

  And it sounds really, really good.

  But that’s what the spare would do. He’d charm the bartender into giving him a bottle of the best scotch in the place, grab a couple of beautiful—and unattached—women, and head out to the gardens or up to a hotel suite, depending on how many fucks he had to give. Which, more often than not, was absolutely none.

  I’ve screwed women in every corner of this hotel’s very extensive gardens, in the elaborate restrooms, in any number of suites and, one memorable night, in the coat-check room.

  I nod to Roland to let him know I understand, then take a few more steps toward the drink that’s calling my name. Not getting drunk does not mean not drinking. Or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  Too bad Madame Aguillard has a different plan as she latches onto me.

  She’s an older woman, fifty-five or so, with ruby red talons for nails and a tower of fake blond hair. She’s also got the instincts of a shark and it’s obvious she scents blood in the water tonight…

  This is far from my first run-in with her. Her husband used to be minister of finance, and when I was fifteen, she cornered me in the family wing of the castle and tried to talk me out of my very rebellious ripped jeans. The fact that I almost let her makes this meeting—and every other one we’ve had through the years—exceedingly uncomfortable for me.

  But when she grabs on to my biceps—her long, pointed fingernails digging in a little as she holds tight—I realize this meeting is going to be even more awkward than the others. Because this meeting isn’t about getting me into her bed; it’s about currying favor with the crown prince. More, it’s about trying to attract my interest—not in her but in the woman standing next to her. Her youngest daughter, Marigold. Or Mariana. Or Merriweather…

  Whatever her name is, this whole ambush is all kinds of fucked up. Thirteen years ago, she wanted to fuck me as her dirty little secret. Now she wants me to fuck her daughter in front of the whole world. Within the boundaries of matrimony, of course, but still…totally fucked up.

  Besides, it’s not going to happen. The daughter may be hot, but no one is hot enough to make getting tangled up with this family a good idea.

  Which leaves me at something of a disadvantage, considering the whole room is watching and I have absolutely no idea what to do right now.

  It’s not that I can’t handle situations like this normally (it’s hard to be a prince and not know how to deal with scheming mothers and their scheming daughters), but that’s when I’m the spare. It’s easy to extricate myself from sticky situations when everyone is looking at Garrett. But now that they’re looking at me it becomes exponentially harder…especially since the fate of government alliances often rests with the crown prince.

  Whatever I do, I have to do it quickly. Because the longer we stand here, the more people begin to notice what’s going on. And the more people begin to notice, the more likely my name is to be linked with Mariely…Maria…Mariella—yes, that’s her name, Mariella Aguillard. And that is definitely not something I want to happen. Some fucked-up version of Royal Wedding Watch here in Wildemar would pretty much be the icing on the cake of the shitty last three months.

  Panic whips through me at the thought of having to lay those rumors to rest. Then again, panic has been my default mode since Garrett disappeared. Panicked, pissed off, and abjectly, violently, overwhelmingly terrified.

  It’s not a good look—for me or the country.

  Then again, neither is having the crown prince vanish from a public appearance. Especially when the only traces left of him are a royal limousine shot full of holes—and three dead bodyguards.

  I shove the thought—and the rage it engenders—down deep and concentrate instead on the situation at hand. Goddamn it. I need a drink, not another conversation with a predatory mama and her vapid daughter.

  Still, I work up a smile—praying that it doesn’t look as much like a grimace as I think it does—when Mariella lays a familiar hand on my forearm.

  “Kian, how are you?” she asks, batting her eyes so hard I can feel a breeze from her fake lashes.

  “I’m good.” I subtly twist so that her hand slips off my arm. Then, to cover the movement, I brush our palms together in a brief handshake. “How are you?”

  “Excellent now that I get to see you again.” It’s practically a purr, the sound of a cat who thinks she’s finally cornered her prey. But I’m no mouse and I never will be.

  She’s too self-absorbed to realize that, though. Too caught up in the game of her own making to figure out that I have no interest in playing along.

  She steps closer, brushes her breasts against my arm—all in clear view of her mother and everyone else in the ballroom. “How are you really doing, darling? I know losing Garrett has been so hard for you and I’ve been worried. We all have been.”

  “I didn’t lose him,” I tell her through teeth locked tightly together. “He’s not my keys or my wallet.”

  “Oh, of course not,” she trills, and now her hand is resting against my chest. I want to put her in her place, but I’ve never been one to use my position to savage a woman, even verbally. No matter how much of a predator she might be.

  But dozens of people are straining to hear what we’re speaking about and hundreds more are watching us
like hawks. I need to say something, need to do something, or the rumor mill will explode.

  But before I can come up with anything that isn’t rude or inflammatory, a waitress swoops by with a tray full of champagne glasses.

  “Would you like a drink, Your Highness?” she asks, her voice low and husky. The sound draws my attention despite myself, and I turn to grab a champagne flute—tequila’s more my drink of choice, but right now beggars can’t be choosers—and I find myself staring into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes I’ve ever seen.

  The glance—and the awareness it sparks—only lasts a moment, though, because suddenly she’s jerking forward…and dumping the entire tray of drinks straight down the front of this damn Tom Ford tuxedo.

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