“To Clarence Atelier,” Chris declared, raising his flute high as if to toast the whole of Bond Street.“And to Thorne & Whitmore, may their customers buy our clothes until their credit cards melt.”
I laughed, the tension of the morning evaporating.“That was a coup if ever I saw one.”
“Darling, it was more than a coup.It was a full-scale coronation.”He winked at me, mischief sparkling in his eyes.“Did you see poor Ms.Hammond?The woman nearly fainted when you strolled in like James Bond at a garden party.Her laptop went crashing to the floor.I swear I heard the hard drive give up its last breath.”
I nearly choked on my champagne.“Stop it!I saw her flail.I thought she’d taken out an ankle.”
“She probably would’ve, had you been wearing a coronet.”He arched one perfectly shaped brow.“We’d have been ringing for smelling salts.”
I laughed again, clutching my glass as bubbles threatened to spill over.“You are incorrigible.”
“And you adore me for it,” he said, leaning back on the sofa, his champagne flute dangling casually between elegant fingers.
We sat there in comfortable silence for a moment, basking in the glow of victory.The Americans had been dazzled—Chris’s formalwear, my theatrics, our practised routine.They’d placed a significant order on the spot, though with the caveat that Clarence Atelier mounted a “serious marketing push” to accompany the launch.Typical Americans—always wanting a spectacle.
The intercom buzzed.
Laurence’s crisp voice: “Her Royal Highness, Princess Anne, is on line one for you, sir.”
I closed my eyes, exhaling through my nose.“Of course she is.”
Chris glanced at me, his face softening.He knew.He always knew.Without a word, he rose, set his flute down, and brushed a quick clap against my shoulder.“Good luck.I’ll be in the studio.”And then he slipped out, leaving me alone with the inevitable.
I lowered my glass, reached for the phone, and pressed the blinking button.“Hello, Mummy.”
“Oh, Arthur,” came my mother’s voice, faintly crackling over the line.She sounded breathless, followed by a cough.“You must do something for me.”
I straightened.“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing serious,” she said quickly, though another cough punctuated her reassurance.“A blasted cold.It was all those hands I shook in Cornwall at the hospital opening.You’d think by now I’d know better than to touch anyone in February.”
I smiled faintly despite myself.Typical Mummy.Duty first, germs be damned.
“But I can’t possibly attend the reception tonight at Regent’s Park,” she continued.“The King insists one of us be there—your grandfather’s in one of his moods—and with the new American ambassador being received, it simply has to be family.”
My stomach tightened.“Mummy—”
“Please, darling.I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.Bryce Lewis is his name, newly arrived from Australia, I think.The previous ambassador, poor man, dropped dead, and now it’s all rather delicate.Your grandfather doesn’t want anyone thinking Britain can’t roll out the carpet properly.”
“I’m not a working royal,” I reminded her, my voice sharper than I intended.“You’ve gone to great pains to make sure of that.”
“I know,” she said softly, another cough muffling her words.“And I try to keep you out of it.But sometimes…sometimes we can’t.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing the champagne buzz not to sour into irritation.These functions—the stiff handshakes, the small talk, the endless parade of diplomats who saw me as nothing but a title—were exactly the parts of royalty I loathed.I much preferred sketchbooks, fabric swatches, and Chris’s irreverent jokes to the world of polished courtiers.
Yet Mummy was ill.And beneath the frustration, there was still that pull—the duty drilled into me since childhood.
“All right,” I said at last, resigned to a night of tedious bureaucrats.“I’ll go.”
ChapterThree
Bryce
Winfield House looked like a goddamn movie set.
All Georgian grandeur and manicured lawns, dripping with history and that “old money” smugness you could smell a mile off.It was supposed to be my home now—my official residence as U.S.Ambassador to the Court of St James’s—but at that moment, standing in front of an ornate gilt mirror taller than me, I felt like an interloper in somebody else’s costume drama.
“Hold still, Mr.Ambassador,” chirped the grooming assistant, adjusting the collar of my dress shirt with fingers that moved like they were assembling a watch.On my right, another assistant fussed with my hair, coaxing and smoothing the stubborn wave into submission with a product that smelled of cedar and something expensive.I hated this—the fussing, the poking and prodding, and the sensation of being transformed into something I wasn’t.Polished and perfect.But it was part of the job.And tonight, of all nights, I couldn’t afford to look like I’d just rolled out of bed.
