“The queen hasn’t named an heir since her sister died.” I pause, remembering that the queen’s sister was Benedict’s late mother, but he doesn’t look particularly grieved. He raises his chin, almost bored.
“What of it?”
“I’m wondering why all the pomp and ceremony. Aren’t you automatically her heir?”
“Not until she makes it official.”
“But why?”
“It’s tradition.” Benedict’s voice is heavy with unspoken commentary: stupid foreign commoner, asking silly questions. It makes me want to strangle him with his own silk tie. “I wouldn’t expect an American to understand.”
“Oh, tone down the condescension. My traditions are different, not stupid.”
Benedict blinks. “Fair enough.”
I blink at the change in his tone. I didn’t expect him to listen and change his behavior.
“It’s tradition dating back hundreds of years. Before your country even existed,” he adds with a touch of arrogance. “It’s written into our laws. The ruling monarch must make an official announcement of their heir apparent. This allows lords and other branches of government to accept or issue a formal challenge.”
“A challenge? Like a duel?”
“Yes.” Benedict’s dry tone balances my excitement. “Exactly like that. The challenged gets to choose the weapon of choice. We’ve had jousts, sword fighting, even a schnitzel eating contest.”
“So cool.”
“Indeed. I’m glad my country’s customs amuse you,” he says, proving sarcasm isn’t a weapon reserved only for me.
“So why hasn’t she officially named you as heir? Why now?”
“The queen is pregnant. If all goes well, god willing, it behooves her to name an heir as regent in case something happens to her while her children are young.”
I want to stop asking questions, but I can’t. “But why now? Why not before?”
“When my mother died, I was twelve. She couldn’t name me heir then.”
I persist. “But why not when you came of age?”
He shakes his head slightly, looking… not annoyed, but tired. “We had hoped the queen would conceive. Failing that, she would have named an heir on her fiftieth birthday.” His answers leave much to be desired.
“All right then, next question. Why aren’t you already married?”
“It’s a good thing he isn’t.” Daniel sails back into the room and inserts himself between us. “Otherwise this little ruse would never work.”
“You’re so sure it will?” the duke asks without taking his eyes off me.
“Give me twenty-four hours,” Daniel says.
“You have twelve.” With one last derisive glance at me, the duke turns on his heel and strides out of the kitchen.
“Jerkhole,” I breathe. “Did he just come over to insult me?”
“Probably to check on progress.” Daniel clears the coffee cups and puts them into the dishwasher. “You fascinate him.”
“What?” I sputter.
Daniel wipes his hand on a cloth and carefully replaces it before turning to me. “Are you ready for the next stage of this theatrical performance?”
My hand flies to my neck. “What, now?”
“Hair and wardrobe are here. Just let them in.”
Between Daniel and the duke’s visit, I feel like Dorothy being spun around in a tornado. “Vetting is over?”
“Your part. I have people working to corroborate everything you told me. But you heard the duke. I have twelve hours. It’s time to get my fairy godmother on.”
“All right. I’m ready.” I gulp and add more firmly, “Turn this pumpkin into a princess. Or rather, carrot into a duchess.”
“Very well, my Lady Carrot.” He grins and offers me his arm. “Let’s bibbity bobbity boo.”
Frankie
“The Queen is ‘Your Majesty’,” Daniel says. “Crown princes are ‘Your Highness’.”
“But there are no crown princesses,” I say, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. It’s harder than it would normally be, because I’m wearing four-inch heels and have a giant book balanced on my head.
“Not yet. Once His Grace is crowned, he will be in line for the throne.” Daniel pauses. “You’re quite good at this.”
I execute a smooth turn and strut back the way I came, the book still perfectly balanced. “Grandmère made us run drills like this. Posture, balance, poise. My cousins were always better than I.” I forget myself and shrug, and the book thunks to the floor.
Daniel clears his throat.
“Sorry.” I grab the huge tome. “I’ll keep practicing.”
“I’d recommend it. You can memorize the lists of peers, their histories and titles while you do. I suggest copying details out of Kingman’s Peerage, and making flashcards.”
“What’s Kingman’s Peerage?”
“It’s a book.”
“Can I have a copy?”
Daniel looks pointedly at the giant book I’m already holding. The cover says ‘Kingman’s Book of Peers’ in such grandiose script, I can barely read it. I open it with a sigh, but Daniel grabs my arm before I can see a word.
“Not now, darling. Time for your makeover. Then we practice curtseys.”
Over the next two hours, I’m plucked, shaved, waxed, and buffed.
“Is all this really necessary?” I whine to Daniel as he oversees the stylist trimming my hair.
“You’re entering a new world. You will be judged at first appearance. It’ll be bad enough when you open your mouth and everyone learns you’re American—”
“Hey!”
“But as long as you look like you come from old money, you’ll be fine.” His eyes narrow. “I do have a question. While we’re on the subject of money, why don’t you like spoiled rich boys?”
I open my mouth but my brain hasn’t caught up with the subject change. “What? I mean, pardon me?”
Daniel waves a hand. “You mentioned spoiled rich boys, and your tone was firmly derisive. I only want to understand. Spoiled rich boys are my favorite.” He gives a little smile.
I knew it. I knew someone who paired a mustard suit with white boots and a cravat wasn’t totally straight. I tell Daniel this and he laughs. “I’m bi, actually. But you haven’t answered my question.”
Darn it. “Um, I grew up in a small town, right? But it was close to this world famous resort. It's the big employer in the area. If you don’t want to farm carrots, you work there.” Like my parents did, all their lives. Like I would have if I hadn’t gotten out. “It's super fancy, thousands of dollars a night. A lot of rich people come there and… well, their kids weren't so nice to those of us who lived in town.”
“Ah,” Daniel says knowingly. Maybe he’s been around the upper crust enough to see kids in Versace’s resort wear behaving like bullies. “And your parents worked there, correct?”
“Yes,” I say, and leave it at that. Thankfully, he doesn’t pry.