That will never happen to me. I was known before I was born and my name will be blazoned in history long after I抦 dust in the ground. Infamy is temporary, celebrity is fleeting, but royalty卹oyalty is forever.
CHAPTER 1
Nicholas
ONE WOULD THINK, as accustomed as I am to being watched, that I wouldn抰 be effected by the sensation of someone staring at me while I sleep.
One would be wrong.
My eyes spring open, to see Fergus抯 scraggly, crinkled countenance just inches from my face. 揃loody hell!?
It抯 not a pleasant view.
His one good eye glares disapprovingly, while the other梩he wandering one梩hat my brother and I always suspected wasn抰 lazy at all, but a freakish ability to see everything at once, gazes toward the opposite side of the room.
Every stereotype starts somewhere, with some vague but lingering grain of truth. I抳e long suspected the stereotype of the condescending, cantankerous servant began with Fergus.
God knows the wrinkled bastard is old enough.
He straightens up at my bedside, as much as his hunched, ancient spine will let him. 揟ook you long enough to wake up. You think I don抰 have better things to do? Was just about to kick you.?
He抯 exaggerating. About having better things to do梟ot the plan to kick me.
I love my bed. It was an eighteenth birthday gift from the King of Genovia. It抯 a four-column, gleaming piece of art, hand-carved in the sixteenth century from one massive piece of Brazilian mahogany. My mattress is stuffed with the softest Hungarian goose feathers, my Egyptian cotton sheets have a thread count so high it抯 illegal in some parts of the world, and all I want to do is to roll over and bury myself under them like a child determined not to get up for school.
But Fergus抯 raspy warning grates like sandpaper on my eardrums.
揧ou抮e supposed to be in the green drawing room in twenty-five minutes.?
And ducking under the covers is no longer an option. They won抰 save you from machete-wielding psychopaths卭r a packed schedule.
*
Sometimes I think I抦 schizophrenic. Dissociative. Possibly a split personality. It wouldn抰 be unheard of. All sorts of disorders show up in ancient family trees梙emophiliacs, insomniacs, lunatics単ingers. Guess I should feel lucky not to be any of those.
My problem is voices. Not those kinds of voices梞ore like reactions in my head. Answers to questions that don抰 match what actually ends up coming out of my mouth.
I almost never say what I really think. Sometimes I抦 so full of shit my eyes could turn brown. And, it might be for the best.
Because I happen to think most people are fucking idiots.
揂nd we抮e back, chatting with His Royal Highness, Prince Nicholas.?
Speaking of idiots?
The light-haired, thin-boned, bespeckled man sitting across from me conducting this captivating televised interview? His name is Teddy Littlecock. No, really, that抯 his actual name梐nd from what I hear, it抯 not an oxymoron. Can you appreciate what it must抳e been like for him in school with a name like that? It抯 almost enough to make me feel bad for him. But not quite.
Because Littlecock is a journalist梐nd I have a special kind of disgust for them. The media抯 mission has always been to bend the mighty over a barrel and ram their transgressions up their aristocratic arses. Which, in a way, is fine梞ost aristocrats are first-class pricks; everybody knows that. What bothers me is when it抯 not deserved. When it抯 not even true. If there抯 no dirty laundry around, the media will drag a freshly starched shirt through the shit and create their own. Here抯 an oxymoron for you: journalistic integrity.
Old Teddy isn抰 just any reporter梙e抯 Palace Approved. Which means unlike his bribing, blackmailing, lying brethren, Littlecock gets direct access條ike this interview梚n exchange for asking the stupidest bloody questions ever. It抯 mind-numbing.
Choosing between dull and dishonest is like being asked whether you want to be shot or stabbed.
揥hat do you do in your spare time? What are your hobbies??
See what I mean? It抯 like those Playboy centerfold interviews棑I like bubble baths, pillow fights, and long, naked walks on the beach.?No she doesn抰。 But the point of the questions isn抰 to inform, it抯 to reinforce the fantasies of the blokes jerking off to her.
It抯 the same way for me.
I grin, flashing a hint of dimple梬omen fall all over themselves for dimples.
揥ell, most nights I like to read.?
I like to fuck.
Which is probably the answer my fans would rather hear. The Palace, however, would lose their ever-loving minds if I said that.
Anyway, where was I? That抯 right梩he fucking. I like it long, hard, and frequent. With my hands on a firm, round arse梡ulling some lovely little piece back against me, hearing her sweet moans bouncing off the walls as she comes around my cock. These century-old rooms have fantastic acoustics.
While some men choose women because of their talent at keeping their legs open, I prefer the ones who are good at keeping their mouths shut. Discretion and an ironclad NDA keep most of the real stories out of the papers.
揑 enjoy horseback riding, polo, an afternoon of clay pigeon shooting with the Queen.?
I enjoy rock climbing, driving as fast as I can without crashing, flying, good scotch, B-movies, and a scathingly passive-aggressive verbal exchange with the Queen.
It抯 that last one that keeps the Old Bird on her toes梞y wit is her fountain of youth. Plus it抯 good practice for us both. Wessco is an active constitutional monarchy so unlike our ceremonial neighbors, the Queen is an equal ruling branch of government, along with Parliament. That essentially makes the royal family politicians. Top of the food chain, sure, but politicians all the same. And politics is a quick, dirty, brawling business. Every brawler knows that if you抮e going to bring a knife to a fistfight, that knife had better be sharp.
I cross my arms over my chest, displaying the tan, bare forearms beneath the sleeves of my rolled-up pale-blue oxford. I抦 told they have a rabid Twitter following梐long with a few other parts of my body. I then tell the story of my first shoot. It抯 a fandom favorite桰 could recite it in my sleep梐nd it almost feels like I am. Teddy chuckles at the ending梬hen my brat of a little brother loaded the launcher with a cow patty instead of a pigeon.
Then he sobers, adjusting his glasses, signaling that the sad portion of our program will now begin.
揑t will be thirteen years this May since the tragic plane crash that took the lives of the Prince and Princess of Pembrook.?
Called it.
I nod silently.
揇o you think of them often??
The carved teak bracelet weighs heavily on my wrist. 揑 have many happy memories of my parents. But what抯 most important to me is that they live on through the causes they championed, the charities they supported, the endowments that carry their name. That抯 their legacy. By building up the foundations they advocated for, I抣l ensure they抣l always be remembered.?
Words, words, words, talk, talk, talk. I抦 good at that. Saying a lot without really answering a thing.
I think of them every single day.
It抯 not our way to be overly emotional梥tiff upper lip, onward and upward, the King is dead條ong live the King. But while to the world they were a pair of HRHs, to me and Henry they were just plain old Mum and Dad. They were good and fun and real. They hugged us often, and smacked us about when we deserved it梬hich was pretty often too. They were wise and kind and loved us fiercely梐nd that抯 a rarity in my social circle.