Chapter Eighteen
AS IT TURNED out, Presti didn’t hate me even after I withdrew his invitation to George’s wedding. I hated myself enough for both of us though. What a coward I was. After two weeks of almost constant panic about Presti as my date, I’d finally chickened out. And worse, I’d done it by mail. George and Hannah hadn’t said much when I’d told them, but I saw the look they gave me as if I was the greatest ball-less wonder they’d ever known. I’d expected comments or digs over my lack of spine, but their quiet disappointment felt worse.
Presti had written back immediately. A generous letter expunging me of any blame—words of forgiveness and understanding that I didn’t deserve.
If I possessed any decency, I should have ended things right then with Presti. But it seemed not only was I a coward, but selfishness was also another grand trait I could claim. I couldn’t let him go. I couldn’t say goodbye to him—couldn’t even write it. So, we continued our penpalship for months. We wrote weekly, and once or twice, we’d spoken on the phone, usually when one of us—most often me—had too much to drink.
With every word he shared on the page, I came to know him better and miss him more. I’d never told anybody the things I admitted to Presti. Oddly, I knew the danger of doing so but couldn’t stop myself. If our letters became public, I didn’t know if I could bounce back from the shame. His last letter had arrived yesterday, and I’d devoured it as I had all of the others, but writing back would have to wait.
George’s wedding day dawned, the sky a perfect blue as I knew it would be. The universe would never dare rain on George and Hannah’s fairy tale. Presti’s letter caught my eye where it lay on my side table as I ran a comb through my drying hair. My fingers itched to re-read his words, but royal weddings never ran late. Every minute of the day must be timed to perfection. Heads would roll if the wedding did not go off without a hitch.
At precisely eleven a.m., I needed to be standing at George’s side in Westminster Abbey, turned out in my military attire despite never actually serving. Even now, hundreds of people were polishing buttons, sprucing floral decorations, and steaming seams to within an inch of their lives. We must look, act, and be perfect.
I felt sick.
“James!” George shouted as he ran into my room, followed closely by a far less buoyant Harlan. “It’s here. Today’s the day.”
Credit to my brother, despite not being fully mature, he was honestly happy to be marrying Hannah.
“Poor Hannah,” I said with a smile. “Do you think she’s trying to climb out the window right now?”
George snorted. “Not bloody likely. How many girls would turn down being a princess?”
“More than you’d think,” I murmured. George thought being royalty was the best. He loved his life and loved the thought of being king one day. And that was a good thing because what choice did he have? Even less than I did.
“Well, none of them would turn down having me as a husband, royal or not,” George answered.
“You’re a nincompoop.” I laughed. Nothing would dampen George’s spirits today, and I’d do my best not even to try.
“Hard to believe this nincompoop will be king one day,” George smirked, looked down at himself, and ran his palms down his chest. Though he wore his uniform, he hadn’t added the medals yet. “I am one fine-looking nincompoop, though.”
The only answer I had for him was a roll of my eyes. “So, clearly, you’re feeling okay about today, George. How’re you doing, Harlan?”
Harlan, usually pale, was an even whiter shade today. His wide eyes looked startled as if he couldn’t believe today was happening. “Oh, fine,” he answered. “I don’t have that big of a starring role. Hopefully, no one will be paying me any attention at all.”
George snorted. “Of course, they won’t. Not when there’s me to look at.”
“Oh boy,” Harlan sighed. “I hope Hannah has thought this through.”
I hoped she had too. Marrying into royalty could be—was likely to be—a huge burden, more pressure than most newlyweds had to endure. But if anybody could do it, Hannah could.
An hour and a half later, as I watched her walk down the aisle toward my waiting brother, I knew I was right. Hannah looked radiant, her smile beaming out from beneath her veil. She hadn’t put a foot wrong, her poise and grace carrying her through what had to be a nerve-wracking day. Any bride would be anxious, but to be married before a television audience of possibly billions… Now, that was some nerve-inducing stuff.
They managed their vows effortlessly. I wondered if it was because they knew, deep in their souls, that they were marrying the right person. Would that ever be me? Would I ever stand beside my soulmate and promise them forever before god, king, and country? Hell, in my case, the entire world?
Thoughts like that dragged Presti into my consciousness. Over the past six months, I’d gotten good at pushing him from my thoughts. Times when I read his letters or wrote my own to him, he was at the forefront of my thoughts. In those moments, I recalled every second of our time together, every touch. Hell, some days, I even thought I could smell him or feel the softness and warmth of his skin. But with those memories came the pain of our separation, the shame of my rescinded invite. I had treated Presti appallingly, yet he’d managed to forgive me. I wanted him so much that I ruthlessly shoved him in a box and locked away those memories as much as I could because to do otherwise hurt too much.
Despite throwing myself into my royal duties, the pain of being separated from Presti never dulled. The ache of loss in my chest never eased.
As I filed out of Westminster Abbey behind my newlywed brother and sister-in-law, my traitorous brain couldn’t help imagining me and my husband in their position. A vision of us holding hands and looking as happy as George and Hannah as we faced the public for the first time as husband and husband.
And that husband of my imagination looked suspiciously like one Prestidigitation Jones.
Dammit.