Page 33 of Fit for a King

“Why did you talk back to the king, then?”

“I didn’t talk back to the king.”

“You kind of did.”

“I didn’t—” I hung the king’s jacket back on the rack. “What’s your point, Charlie? Some of us have jobs to do.”

“I’m merely trying to thank you for not being an asshole.”

I waited for the rest of that sentence and, when it didn’t come, said, “Like you?”

Charlie shook his head and pushed off the wall. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”

“Well, it was an assholey thing to do.”

“Yeah, it was. Nothing against you. I was just joking around.”

“It could’ve cost me my job here.”

He held up his hands. “You’re right, it could’ve, so I apologize for doing a shitty thing. Won’t happen again.”

Was he serious? I hadn’t expected an apology. I held his gaze a long moment, wondering if this was somehow another prank. But then he held his hand out and said, “Truce?”

“Yeah, okay. Truce,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Good.”

I reached up and took the king’s jacket back off the rack, keen to get upstairs and put it away before he returned from his meetings, but Charlie still blocked my path.

There was a curious look in his eyes when he said, “Interesting how the king listens to you.”

“He listens to Mr. Baxter about a number of things.”

“Uh huh. And he called you Bennett.”

“He’s the king. He can call me whatever he wants.”

“Right.” Charlie nodded slowly, his dark eyes assessing, but then he took a step back, out of the way.

If there was more he wanted to say about that, I didn’t give him a chance, walking past him at a fast clip toward the back stairs. A couple of maids I wasn’t familiar with yet were standing near them, whispering, but when I approached they both glanced up at me and their mouths snapped shut.

I didn’t know them. They didn’t know me. But for some reason, it felt as though they were just talking about me.

Crazy.

I shook off the feeling, refusing to let Charlie’s words and a few wandering eyes and whispers make me paranoid. I was finally in a good place with the king—as far as I could tell—and I wasn’t about to let some gossip about what happened today deter me.

I had a job to do, and I was finally doing it right.

11

NICHOLAS

THE BALLROOM WAS still lit when I left the portrait gallery. It was past midnight, long after anyone else should have been lingering, but I heard music drifting down the corridor as I headed toward the grand staircase. I paused, listening for the sound of voices, but when I didn’t hear any, I headed in that direction to shut off what I assumed had been accidentally left on.

It was unlike Baxter or any of the staff to not be meticulous, but this weekend was going to be a big one. We were hosting a ball, which meant everyone was in overdrive, bringing out the best of the royal silver, rolling out the red carpet, organizing seating charts, filling every square inch of Montclair Palace with flowers. It was the first official event since my father had died, and the sheer number of foreign royals, prime ministers, and ambassadors coming to see what kind of king I would turn out to be weighed heavily on my mind.

The reason for the ball, though, wasn’t me. It was for another man.