The line went silent for a beat too long, then he ended the call almost abruptly.“Enjoy your evening, Mr.Ambassador.”
Click.
ChapterEight
Arthur
My foot pressed just a little heavier on the accelerator, the engine of my gleaming new Aston Martin Vantage Cabrio purring like a big cat as I wound my way through the Cotswolds.Sleek, silver, roof down—utterly impractical for country lanes, of course, which was precisely why I loved it.My favorite Pet Shop Boys song was playing on the radio and I gleefully sang along.
The late-afternoon light spilled across fields the colour of green velvet, stone cottages flashing past in blurs of honeyed gold.My hair whipped against my forehead, and for once I didn’t care.Today wasn’t about appearances.Today was about fun.
And I still couldn’t believe my luck.
Bryce bloody Lewis—Ambassador Lewis, if we’re being precise—was actually coming riding with me.Me.Not my mother, or some Foreign Office handler shepherding him through protocol.Me.
I’d invited him half on impulse, the words slipping out before I’d thought them through.And yet he’d said yes.So here I was, hurtling toward Strathmore, heart light as a kite string.
Mummy, naturally, was over the moon.“The American Ambassador!To ride at Strathmore!Marvellous optics, darling.”I’d barely hung up the phone before I was sure she’d rung Grandpapa.The King adored nothing more than a scrap of diplomatic theatre.If he could boast to his ministers that his grandson was on friendly terms with the U.S.envoy, he’d puff up like a peacock.
So what?Let them watch.For once, I didn’t care.Bryce had said yes.That was enough.Today wasn’t about duty or optics or bloody chess boards.Today was about something I rarely allowed myself: enjoyment.
I sang louder, deliberately off-key, daring the universe to scold me.The chorus soared and I shouted it to the fields, laughing as a pair of cows startled at the noise.My hair tangled across my face, and I couldn’t have cared less.
Fun.That was the plan.And I intended to wring every drop of it from the day.
The narrow lane curved sharply, then straightened, and there it was—home.
Strathmore rose from the countryside like something out of a fairy tale.Not a castle, strictly speaking, but near enough: a sprawling estate of pale stone, turrets and battlements softened by ivy, windows catching the dying light like pools of molten amber.Beyond the gates stretched manicured lawns, hedgerows clipped to military precision, and in the distance the sweep of paddocks where the horses grazed.
I slowed, easing the Aston to a crawl as I approached the great iron gates.My chest tightened—not with dread this time, but with anticipation.Bryce Lewis would be here soon, and for once, the prospect of company filled me not with fatigue but with a thrill I couldn’t name.I pressed the button for the gates.They swung open with stately grace, and I drove forward.
* * *
I stood in the middle of my old bedroom, peeling off my cashmere jumper with the efficiency of a soldier stripping down a rifle.Beneath it, I’d already tugged on a crisp white shirt, its collar slightly rumpled from my less-than-graceful change.My jodhpurs lay folded neatly on the coverlet, boots waiting beside the bed.The familiar room smelled faintly of lavender sachets and old wool, unchanged from my teenage years—except now, instead of revision notes and riding rosettes, my wardrobe was filled with suits from Clarence Atelier.
I’d just shimmied the shirt down when the door burst open without so much as a knock.
“Darling,” Mummy announced, sweeping in as though she owned the place (which, to be fair, she technically did).“Do you want tea prepared for your guest?I thought the blue china in the drawing room, but perhaps outdoors on the terrace would be—oh, it will be simply lovely to meet him.”
I froze mid-button.Of course she’d barge in.Privacy was a foreign concept to Princess Anne, who considered closed doors not a boundary but an inconvenience.
“Mummy,” I said carefully, tugging my shirt straight.“It’s not that sort of visit.”
She ignored me, already pacing toward the window, muttering about scones.“I rang your grandfather this morning.He’s delighted, absolutely delighted, that the American ambassador is coming to Strathmore.”
My stomach sank.“Oh God.You didn’t.”
“I did,” she said briskly.“And he was most insistent you be discreet, darling.You know how the Foreign Office can be—always breathing down his neck.And Americans can be very…”
“Mummy.”I cut her off before she could finish that sentence.“Bryce is a new friend.And a client of Clarence Atelier.Nothing more.I’ve no intention of parading him around like a prize stallion.”
Her brows shot up, but I pressed on, voice firmer now.“And you, of all people, should know I am allergic to the press.Loathe them, unless they can be made useful to my business.Clarence’s collections won’t promote themselves.But otherwise?No thank you.I’ll keep my face out of the papers, happily.”
The words came out sharper than I meant, but it was true.Thank heaven my cousins—the King’s children—were the heir and the spare.Let them endure the cameras and the suffocating scrutiny of being future monarchs.I pitied them, honestly.A gilded cage is still a cage, no matter how shiny the bars.
I glanced at Mummy, braced for rebuke.But she only studied me, her expression softening in that practical, maddeningly sensible way of hers.She’d been born into this circus and had never pretended to enjoy it.Duty, yes.Love of horses, absolutely.But she had always understood that the crown devoured personal freedom, and that understanding bound us together.
“I know,” she said finally.“You’re right.”
