“Well then,” she begins in a breathy voice, “don’t be gone long.”
After treating her to one last kiss, I stand, grabbing my tie and jacket off the floor. I pull it on, making quick work of redoing my tie, something I can do blindfolded at this point.
As I reach the door, I pause, glancing over my shoulder at her. “I love you.”
She smiles that smile that both broke my heart and put it all back together when I first saw her. “And I love you.”
I hold her gaze for a beat, then walk out of my private quarters and toward the uncertainty of my future.
Chapter Seven
Anderson
The halls of the palace are silent as I follow my father’s principal private secretary, Colonel Frederick Winters, toward wherever I’m to speak with him. I’d expected him to lead me toward the private residence, thinking this a personal matter between father and son.
I should have known better. After all, as people have reminded me most of my life, there are no personal matters anymore. All personal matters are also matters of the state, considering I’ll one day be the sovereign.
We finally come to a stop outside a heavy, wooden door leading to the conference room in the monarch’s executive suite. Colonel Winters knocks once, then opens the door.
“His Royal Highness Prince Gabriel,” he announces, then steps aside to allow me to walk into the room.
I wasn’t sure what would await me, but as I glance around the large conference table to see not only my father, but also my grandmother, the queen mother, as well as the head of the royal household, Dalton Peel, I know this is a bigger deal than I’d anticipated.
“Your Majesty,” I say to my father with a bow, then offer my grandmother the same courtesy, even if it’s not technically required. She was once queen. Even though her husband, my grandfather, passed away years ago and the requirement to bow ended with him, it’s still protocol to show her the respect she deserves after her years of service to the country.
“Take a seat, Gabriel.” My father gestures to the chair at the opposite end of the table from where he, my grandmother, and Dalton sit.
I almost want to remain standing just to maintain some semblance of control in this conversation. I know better than that, though. I’ve been trained better than that. If my father sits, everyone else should, as well. If he stands, everyone must follow. At least in more formal meetings, which I’m quickly realizing this is.
I unbutton my suit jacket as I lower myself to the chair, keeping my back straight. “I apologize for the fact you found out about the engagement this way. If you’ll look at your calendar for tomorrow, you’ll see I’d requested to speak to you. I’d planned to ask for your approval to marry Ms. Tremblay then. I fully intended to follow protocol.”
He studies me, seeming to assess my words for a prolonged moment. His dark hair sports a bit more gray than the last time I saw him, but the combination of his stoic features and tall frame gives him an intimidating presence. There used to be a time I saw the man who gave me life whenever I looked at him.
It didn’t take long for that to change.
The minute he walked down the aisle of the National Cathedral and was anointed with holy water in our most hallowed of ceremonies, his family was no longer his priority. His country was. The monarchy was. Since then, every single one of his decisions has been focused on what’s best for the monarchy.
Nothing else.
Apart from being the heirs, Esme and I no longer mattered to him. We were no longer viewed as human beings in need of a father’s love, but as a necessary commodity to keep the monarchy going. There are times I still feel that way, despite any breakthroughs to mend our relationship my father and I may have had over the years.
Like when he learned I was considering removing myself from the line of succession upon being diagnosed with MS. He convinced me I didn’t have to. That I could use my diagnosis to bring attention to the disease. That I could still be an effective leader.
It was one of those rare moments he acted like my father, not the king.
But I haven’t seen that human side of him since.
And I certainly don’t see it now, especially when he’s in the presence of the head of the royal household who, for all intents and purposes, is one of the people who makes the real decisions. My father may not see it, but I do. He’s just one piece on a giant chess board, and the members of the royal household are the chess masters moving us around as they see fit in search of victory.
“I appreciate your candor, Gabriel,” he begins. “I didn’t realize things between you and this American—”
“Nora,” I correct him. “She has a name. And it’s Nora. I’d appreciate it if you used it.” I look from him to Dalton on his right, then my grandmother to his left. “All of you.”
My father doesn’t respond for several moments. He simply stares at me, as if waiting for Dalton to give him permission to move one square or remain where he is. Finally, he nods. “Nora. I didn’t realize things between you and Nora were serious.”
“How could you when you never seem to show much interest in my life?” I snip back. “Apart from how it relates to the monarchy.”
“Gabriel, darling,” my grandmother interjects in a formal, well-practiced tone evidencing her noble upbringing.
I look in her direction, her demeanor as cold and aloof as I’ve always remembered. Sure, on the outside, she’s beautiful, her short, straight, silver hair, piercing, gray eyes, and tall, slender frame repeatedly earning her a place on a popular magazine’s list of the most beautiful women over fifty. But her inner beauty could use some work.
“What your father’s trying to say is he believed her to be more of a…dalliance,” she finishes with a trite smile.
I arch a brow. “A dalliance?”
“Can you blame him?” She narrows her gaze on me. “Up until a year ago, that seemed to be your M.O., so to speak. We had no reason to believe this woman was anything more than another distraction while you sorted through the stress of your diagnosis. We assumed once you got it all out of your system, you’d return and marry someone more…” She trails off, searching for the correct word.
“More what?” I grind out.
This conversation isn’t helping to keep my stress level to a minimum, as my doctors have advised. Heat courses through my veins. And not out of desire like mere minutes ago when I was alone with Nora. Instead, it’s out of a rage desperate to be unleashed. But I can’t do that. I know the rules. Worse, I know the ramifications of showing too much emotion. In this life, emotions are a weakness to be used against you. I have no doubt they’ll use the way I feel about Nora against me.
They’ll use Nora against me.
“Someone more appropriate,” Dalton Peel interjects without hesitation.
“If you ask me, there’s no one more appropriate to marry than the woman I love.”
“This isn’t about love, Gabriel,” my grandmother states dismissively, waving a bony hand through the air.
“Not about love? How can marriage not be about love?”
“For most people, it is. But I don’t need to remind you that we’re not most people. You’re not most people. You’re the heir apparent. The future king. And you have a duty to produce the next heir to the throne. You can’t do so with some American we know nothing about. Especially with the referendum on the ballot this November. And unlike the previous occasions a constitutional amendment to severely limit the powers of the monarchy has made it onto the ballot, it has quite a lot of support this time. If we make one wrong step, we risk it passing, essentially turning the monarch into more a figurehead than an actual leader. And this…” She leans toward me, eyes like ice. “This is a serious misstep, Gabriel.”