“I don’t know what you’re going to do but I’m not going to let the men with the butterfly nets and funny jackets haul me away to never be seen again,” I reply. “I’m not going to be warehoused and brought out when you need me to smile at the cameras and be a good little dolly when you want me to.”
“Hmm…” he says. “I like the idea of you being my little dolly that I can do anything with that I want.”
“Don’t start,” I warn. “I’m mad at you.”
He sets Leo down and reaches for me, pulling me up into his arms, and holding me tightly. “For how long do you think you’ll be mad at me?”
“How long do you think I should be mad at you for suggesting sending me to an asylum?” I snap.
“No’ an asylum,” he says. “More like a rehabilitation facility where celebrities go for exhaustion.”
“That really means cocaine and heroin,” I tell him.
“And what do you know about that?” he asks.
“I read the tabloids,” I admit. “Or I did in my old life… I wonder how much cash I could slip Leo to buy me the good ones from the market…”
“You’d do better betting on Maeve,” he says. “Leo seems more straight-laced and mission focused. As he should be.”
“I don’t know if the mission is what he’s so focused on,” I mutter to myself.
“What was that, hen?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “I’ll be less mad at you later… but not tonight. Later. When I’m ready.”
“It’s okay to be wrong,” he says gently.
“Yes, it is,” I say, “but not if I’m actually right. How are you going to feel if you being wrong costs me my life?”
“You’re really that serious about this?” he asks, watching me with a new awareness.
“I’m as serious as a heart attack,” I tell him. “I know what I saw and I’m not lying.”
“All right.”
“Now if you don’t need me for anything else,” I say as I pull from his arms and head back to the couch. “I’ll get back to my book and my…rest.”
I sit back down and pick up my novel, keeping my eyes trained on the same damn words I’ve been staring at all afternoon. What I don’t do is watch my husband walk away.
Chapter 13
At the Castle
The week of a coronation is less like the coronation inPrincess Diaries, my only cultural reference to date, and more like that thing the marines do to become marines where they hike for days over mountains only to finally get a hot meal and a shower and then get thrown into an hours-long ceremony.
I’ve been waxed, buffed, half-starved, and have kept such strange hours trying to pack in all the events around this small island nation. Today, members of Rhys’s family are party hopping across neighborhoods to the different block parties all around celebrating his new reign.
This afternoon, Dahlia and I are receiving the familial award that marks us as members of the King’s immediate family. Most women in European royalfamilies wear something similar. It’s like a tag on a cat’s collar only it identifies us as belonging to Rhys. I’m not sure how I feel about that privately, but publicly, it’s tradition and considered an honor. Which is obvious because Saoirse is livid that she’s not among the women receiving awards from Rhys. Maybe she shouldn’t have tried to sleep with him after sleeping with his brother. Maeve, however, is getting an award for her service to the crown.
Tomorrow, Taylor, Dahlia, and I will all be installed as advisors to the King. This is ruffling more feathers than those who reside within the castle’s walls. Dahlia and Taylor have reputations for being wild in their youth, and when I say wild, I mean more like batshit crazy party animals. Men, women, drugs, and booze. Nothing was off limits to those two but both seem to have cleaned up their acts. The world is watching and its commentators are not necessarily enthused at the idea of two formerly entitled party animals having the King’s ear. Which is kind of fair. The world leaders are also not thrilled about me. What do I know about advising a king on the nation’s policies or anything else? But again, it’s tradition for the King’s family to be part of his inner circle. We’re supposed to have his back when the rest of the world will not.
Prepping for today’s block parties is probably the most informal I’ve dressed in ages, aside from the animal shelter where I was cleaning up poop, and I love it. If I could do this kind of thing all the time, I would.My hair is down and flowing around my shoulders in dark, glossy waves. My makeup is in soft pinks and browns, more natural than showy, although it’s more than I ever would have worn before. I’m in a pair of dark wash skinny jeans that feel like they were made for my shorter legs and round backside. They show just the right amount of ankle and don’t look too long over the navy wedges with cork bottoms on my feet. My sleeveless blouse, in a pretty shade just shy of white, ties at the waist and gathers at the shoulders to nip in at the most becoming places is topped off with a light blue tweed blazer over it. I decided to forgo the royal jewelry other than my engagement and wedding rings and wear my simple gold heart earrings and necklace that were the first things Rhys ever gave me. They make me feel more like me and remind me of the girl who grew up in New England.
I kiss Leo and Sammy goodbye for the day and promise them a romp through the gardens later and walk through the main door of the suite ending up practically on top of the human Leo locked in a passionate embrace with Dahlia. I believe the British would call it a snog.
“Oh,” I gasp. “I’m sorry. I’ll just go back inside. Tell me when you’re ready to go…”
“No, ma’am,” Leo says, his face bright red. “I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.”