*RUTHLESS REIGN is book one of the Royal Reflection series. This story continues in RESILIENT REIGN.
You are about to begin Royal Reflections. If this is your first meeting with the princess, prince, and Oliver, please begin at chapter 1. If you have read “Riled Reign,” the prequel novella, you may jump ahead to chapter 8.
Either way, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this unconventional royal romance…The Crown meets Game of Thrones.
~Aleatha
Lucille
“Your Highness, it’s nearly time,” Lady Mary Buckingham said, opening the door and slipping into my private study aboard the royal jet. London, our next stop, was the third on our current Eurasia tour.
With nothing more than my mistress’s address, my heart rate spiked, my mouth dried, and my hands became clammy. It wasn’t Lady Buckingham who incited the visceral response; it was what her announcement signified. The plane was about to land, and in less than an hour, I’d be paraded around London on the arm of my husband, Roman Godfrey, the Duke of Monovia and crown prince of Molave.
To think that at one time, I’d been honored to be in the royal family’s favor. Naively, I’d believed the fairy tales of princes and princesses. As the daughter of a baroness and an American politician, I wasn’t unaccustomed to the finer things in life. I’d grown up in the lap of luxury in a three-story mansion within a building of mansions on the northern end of Midtown Manhattan, our windows overlooking Central Park. I attended the best private schools in the city and graduated with honors from Columbia University. My plans for my future included the work my mother loved—that of her charities and philanthropic events. I imagined helping others through my own efforts.
While I’d always been open to leaving the East Coast, I never dreamed of moving away from my native country.
Molave was a sovereign city-state on the southern shore of Norway. While my husband’s country was relatively small in landmass, it was incredibly rich in natural resources—iron ore, copper, lead, zinc, titanium, and rhodium to name a few. Over the past few centuries, generations of the Godfreys have ruled Molave and benefited from its assets.
I first met Roman Godfrey at one of my mother’s philanthropic events. High atop the New York City skyline in a swanky rooftop bar, our encounter resembled a choreographed movie. With the lights of the city as the backdrop, our gazes met from across the room. Conversations around us dimmed as the lights faded. Tall and handsome, Roman stole my breath and left me stirred in a way I couldn’t describe. His dark gaze swept over me as if my designer gown was invisible. His deep timbre and unique accent were sparks on flint. His rich cologne clouded my judgment.
In his presence flames ignited within me.
By the time Roman possessively took my cheek in his grasp, bringing my lips to his, there was an outright blaze. As we kissed, there was much I didn’t know about him, including his title, and yet as I tasted the whiskey on his lips, I was intrigued.
When he asked to see me again, I agreed.
Little did I know that the meeting had actually been choreographed—arranged by my father and King Theodore of Molave, Roman’s father. Without my input, a deal had been brokered. The king and a politician predetermined that I had the qualities compatible with the future king’s only unmet need—a wife. I fit the bill: well-bred, well-educated, my own family wealth, and what some considered to be beauty.
Being that Roman Godfrey was nearing his fortieth birthday, he needed to wed.
Molave was also in need of allies within the United States. A congressman and heiress were the answer.
During Roman’s and my whirlwind courtship, I was too infatuated with the man whose eyes I could become lost in to heed the warning bells. Covering the clapper in lamb’s wool, I chose to keep those bells from ringing.
Roman’s intensity for life should have frightened me. Instead, it invigorated me. Soaring through the air in his two-seater sailplane created a rush unlike any other. His frequent disappearances came with explainable excuses. His ability to disappear while in plain sight sent chills through me that I learned to ignore.
When I voiced my concerns, I was reassured that marriage and family would help the prince overcome his anxiety.
Roman’s quickness to anger should have been a waving red flag. Of course, at that time I equated his mood swings with difficult dealings regarding affairs of state.
With King Theodore aging, more and more was being expected of his son.
That exploding rage that reddened his neck and cheeks was never directed at me…until it was.
By then it was too late.
The entire world knew that an American woman from a prominent family was to marry the crown prince of Molave, one of the richest and most eligible bachelors in the world. While I’d read stories where the prince saved the day, I gravitated toward the stories where the woman, be she a princess or a commoner, saved the kingdom. That tale wove my desires to carry on my mother’s work with my new title.
Not one of those fairy tales prepared me for what it would mean to marry a royal.
Marrying royalty was work—literal toil.
Six months before our wedding, I was whisked to Molave to begin the training and education I needed to hold a title. Weeks and months were spent studying Molavian history, politics, and economics. At the end of each day, I’d find myself in the king’s study, reciting what I’d learned to either him or one of his top advisors. While I heard rumors about the king’s demeanor, those months of training showed me a softer side of the monarch. Everyone had the same goal: to make me the best princess, duchess, wife, and ambassador for Roman Godfrey and Molave.
Despite talk of the king’s failing health, five years later he was still in control.
Of course, during my indoctrination, there were also the lessons in etiquette with particular emphasis on royal traditions, as well as hours of work with a Lady Buckingham, my appointed Mistress of the Robes.
When another person was responsible for your every care, whether personally or by matter of oversight, there were no secrets. Despite the fact that Mary Buckingham was ten years my senior, after five years of marriage to the prince, I would consider Lady Buckingham to be my closest confidant.
“Your Highness,” she said again, closing the door behind her. “We must prepare for the landing.”
The hot tea I’d sipped in lieu of breakfast percolated in my stomach as I inhaled and stood. “You have my schedule.” It wasn’t a question. My daily activities came through her.
Lady Buckingham nodded, placing the printed schedule on the table before hurrying into the attached bedchamber and returning with my dressing gown. “I was just informed that there will be people at the airport. They’ve all been screened by His Majesty’s Royal Service. Of course, you’re to smile and accept their gifts.”
Holding the dressing gown over her arm, Mary turned to me, and her gray eyes sparked with concern. “Princess Lucille, did you eat?”
As she spoke, I lifted the soft long shirt over my head and stepped out of the soft pants.
I’d objected to the idea of anyone besides my husband seeing me undressed. As I stood before Lady Buckingham in nothing more than my bra and bloomers, being intimately cared for was only one of the many concessions I’d made. Answering her question, I replied, “No. I’ll eat later.”