Mandatory military service. Every citizen of Wessco—male, female, or prince—is required to give two years.
“He was discharged months ago.” She cuts me off. “And he’s been around the world with eighty whores ever since.”
“Have you tried calling his mobile?”
“Of course I have.” She clucks. “He answers, makes that ridiculous static noise, and tells me he can’t hear me. Then he says he loves me and hangs up.”
My lips pull into a grin. The brat’s entertaining—I’ll give him that.
The Queen’s eyes darken like an approaching storm. “He’s in the States—Las Vegas—with plans to go to Manhattan soon. I want you to go there and bring him home, Nicholas. I don’t care if you have to bash him over the head and shove him into a burlap sack, the boy needs to be brought to heel.”
I’ve visited almost every major city in the world—and out of all of them, I hate New York the most.
“My schedule—”
“Has been rearranged. While there, you’ll attend several functions in my stead. I’m needed here.”
“I assume you’ll be working on the House of Commons? Persuading the arseholes to finally do their job?”
“I’m glad you brought that up.” My grandmother crosses her arms. “Do you know what happens to a monarchy without a stable line of heirs, my boy?”
My eyes narrow. “I studied history at university—of course I do.”
“Enlighten me.”
I lift my shoulders. “Without a clear succession of uncontested heirs, there could be a power grab. Discord. Possibly civil war between different houses that see an opportunity to take over.”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. And my palms start to sweat. It’s that feeling you get when you’re almost to the top of that first hill on a roller coaster. Tick, tick, tick…
“Where are you going with this? We have heirs. If Henry and I are taken out by some catastrophe, there’s always cousin Marcus.”
“Cousin Marcus is an imbecile. He married an imbecile. His children are double-damned imbeciles. They will never rule this country.” She straightens her pearls and lifts her nose. “There are murmurings in Parliament about changing us to a ceremonial sovereignty.”
“There are always murmurings.”
“Not like this,” she says sharply. “This is different. They’re holding up the trade legislation, unemployment is climbing, wages are down.” She taps the screen. “These headlines aren’t helping. People are worried about putting food on their tables, while their prince cavorts from one luxury hotel to another. We need to give the press something positive to report. We need to give the people something to celebrate. And we need to show Parliament we are firmly in control so they’d best play nicely or we’ll run roughshod over them.”
I’m nodding. Agreeing. Like a stupid moth flapping happily toward the flame.
“What about a day of pride? We could open the ballrooms to the public, have a parade?” I suggest. “People love that sort of thing.”
She taps her chin. “I was thinking something…bigger. Something that will catch the world’s attention. The event of the century.” Her eyes glitter with anticipation—like an executioner right before he swings the ax.
And then the ax comes down.
“The wedding of the century.”
MY WHOLE BODY LOCKS UP. And I think my organs begin to shut down. My voice is rough with pointless, illogical hope.
“Is Great-Aunt Miriam marrying again?”
The Queen folds her hands on the desk. A terrible sign. That’s her tell—it says her mind is made up and not even a gale-force wind could sway her off course.
“When you were a boy, I promised your mother that I would give you the space to choose a wife for yourself, as your father chose her. To fall in love. I’ve watched and waited, and now I’ve given up waiting. Your family needs you; your country needs you. Therefore, you will announce the name of your betrothed at a press conference…at the end of the summer.”
Her declaration breaks me out of my shock and I jump to my feet. “That’s five bloody months from now!”
She shrugs. “I wanted to give you thirty days. You can thank your grandfather for talking me out of it.”
She means the portrait on the wall behind her. My grandfather’s been dead for ten years.
“Maybe you should be less concerned with my personal life and more concerned with the press finding out about your habit of talking to paintings.”
“It comforts me!” Now she’s standing too—hands on her desk, leaning toward me. “And it’s just the one painting—don’t be obnoxious, Nicky.”
“Can’t help it.” I look at her pointedly. “I learned from the best.”
She ignores the dig and sits back down. “I’ve drawn up a list of suitable young ladies—some of them you’ve met, some will be new to you. This is our best course of action, unless you can give me a reason to think otherwise.”
And I’ve got nothing. My wit deserts me so fast there’s a dust trail in my brain. Because politically, public relations–wise, she’s right—a royal wedding kills all the birds with one stone. But the birds don’t give a damn about what’s right—they just see a rock coming at their fucking heads.
“I don’t want to get married.”
She shrugs. “I don’t blame you. I didn’t want to wear your great-great grandmother, Queen Belvidere’s tiara on my twenty-first birthday—it was a gaudy, heavy thing. But we all must do our duty. You know this. Now it’s your turn, Prince Nicholas.”