“Which is difficult, because you’ve not let her go.Not all the way.Never mind Lady Royal is Her Majesty’s daughter.She’s not here forever.She’ll return to Tennessee.And you’re her protection officer.Lines are being blurred.”
Saturday night at Presswick Manor felt like another man’s life.As the anniversary party closed, with most of the guests gone, the band had played a final tune, “Auld Lang Syne.”It gripped him, and without even thinking, he’d brought Scottie to him for a slow, close dance.
She’d rested her head on his shoulder, saying nothing of his sweat-dampened shirt, but imprinted her form into his, a sensation that had just begun to fade.
If he’d gone this far off the rails in two weeks, what would happen in the next month?He must employ every ounce of reserve to protect her, as duty warranted.Crushes and feelings had no place.
“You have always been able to read right through me, Dad.”
“You’re my son, of course.”
A meow sounded beyond the kitchen door.Dad rose to open it, and Artemis, the world’s largest and most stunning Maine coon, and quite aware of it, sashayed inside as if he were king of Lauchtenland.
“Your breakfast is in the bowl, Your Royal Highness,” Dad said, scratching behind the cat’s ears before sitting down again.
“What do you want me to tell you, son?Resign?How much longer will Lady Royal be with Her Majesty?”
“Until the Rose Ball.And I don’t want to resign.”Michael reached for another biscuit.“I just don’t want to feel what I felt last night.”He sighed.“I needed to tell someone.Artemis was outside, so I suppose it had to be you.”
Dad’s low rumble was one of Michael’s favorite sounds.“What else is on your mind?Did I see a photo of Lady Royal speaking with MP Fickle?”
“You did.He engaged her first, but she didn’t back away.Then she asked me why no one in the Family seemed to understand the anti-monarchists.”
“Which, at their heart, is MP Fickle.”
“Right.So, Dad, do you know?”
“Never had anti-monarchists in Lauchtenland, not loud ones, until Fickle.My advice?Do your job.Protect Lady Royal.Leave off politics.No need for her to stir waters for which she has no oar.”
“Her dad sent a message last night with a picture of his new fiancée,” Michael said.“She seemed upset by it, sorry to miss the moment in his life.My guess is Lady Royal won’t make it to the Rose Ball.”
“Then your heart will be safe.”
“Yep.My heart will be safe.”
But as he looked around the familiar kitchen, the same one where he’d once heard his mother’s laughter, Michael knew it was already too late.
Chapter Eleven
Michael
Monday started on the run.Opening the Thornwick Tennis & Racquet Club Grand Slam Tennis Tournament grass venue was second only to Wimbledon, though most Lauchtens debated that point.
When Anika Dreyer, the world’s number one female player, took the first set six–love, six–love, she surprised the stadium by inviting Scottie onto the court for a little volley.
She gripped Michael’s arm.“I don’t play.Not well anyway.”
“Then give it the college try,” he said.“Isn’t that what you say in America?”
As she made her way to the court, he wanted to run after her, protect her from any jeering or boos.Maybe it was his imagination, but ever since her father’s text, she seemed quiet and not as present.
Yet to the crowd’s delight, Scottie volleyed with Anika, diving for a cross-court lob that almost made it over the net.The stadium erupted with cheers, and Scottie wore the grass stains and dust on her white slacks like a badge of honor.
On Tuesday the queen was not feeling well, so Scottie took tea with the County Northton Bankers Association alone.And again, on Wednesday, to the tech startup AiBound.
Early Thursday morning he trained down to Port Fressa with the queen and Scottie.They had an appointment at Perrigwynn Palace with designer Kimbra Townsen, who’d been selected to design Scottie’s Rose Ball gown.
Once Scottie was safe in the palace, Michael headed down to the Perrigwynn Operations Room to check in with Gunner Ferguson.Afterward, he was off to meet Mum for tea.She caught him in a weak moment Sunday evening on his drive home from Dad’s.
