Royal Good Time (Rowdy Royals #1)
Chapter 1
One
FRIEDRICH
“Just a few passes around the room and then we’ll go, okay?” I turn to look up at the man next to me. I would generally be considered tall if not standing next to my best friend, who towers over everyone in the room.
He leans to the side to hiss at me, “This is your last night of freedom, we should be living it up, not crammed in some stuffy ballroom with these fucking vipers.”
I give a noncommittal shrug. Miles has been to enough of these events with me over our nearly two decades of friendship to know I’m just as eager to be here as he is.
He grumbles something under his breath and makes a straight line for the bar at the far side of the room, ignoring the servers milling about with trays of champagne.
He’s in a casual suit tonight; he would never show that much sock in a boardroom, not that Miles finds himself in a boardroom often.
But this outfit choice, matching grey jacket and cropped tapered trousers, will flow seamlessly into the plans he has for us after the schmoozing and preening.
The public can’t help themselves, even when I’m not the main focus of the event.
Case in point.
“Your Royal Highness.” A middle-aged blonde woman sweeps into a flourishing curtsy before me. “It is an honor to have you in our home,” she says, her eyes still on the floor.
I know she will remain in that pose, navy skirts hiding her shaking knees, until I offer her my hand.
A more ruthless man would try to see exactly how long she could hold it, but my mother taught me better, and I extend my hand to her.
She takes it with a white gloved hand that does nothing to mask the boniness of her fingers.
I suppose she would have been beautiful ten or twenty pounds ago, but the aristocracy’s obsession with thinness makes her appear ill, all collarbones and sharp angles.
“Lady Wellington.” I brush a kiss over the satin. “A pleasure as always,” I lie through my teeth, but the wife of the parliament majority leader doesn’t notice as she blathers on about the extravagances she had personally helped to detail for the evening.
“Oh, but Your Highness. You don’t have a drink.” She snaps her fingers at a nearby man in tails.
Cunt.
“That won’t be necessary, Your Ladyship.” Miles returns at just that moment with a glass of whiskey for us both.
She flashes a smile, showing too much teeth. “Mister Njeri.” She does not extend a hand to him, but Miles shows no signs of affront and continues sipping his drink.
My friend has quite a knack for picking a whiskey to suit the mood. This one is oaky, obviously old, with a touch of bitterness. Fitting. Thankfully, Miles seems to scare off the countess, and she moves along to continue her own lap about the ballroom.
“She always has to make a point of anyone’s lack of title. Wretched fucking woman,” I mutter. How quickly one forgets; Lady Wellington was untitled herself until her marriage to Earl Wellington, but then again, social climbers always do try to gloss over their common past.
The posturing persists as Miles and I continue to circulate among various lords and ladies, members of parliament, and staff to the reelected prime minister, for whom this whole shindig was arranged.
Lord Harold Bertram fought a tough race with a much younger progressive opponent, but in the end, won a narrow victory, retaining his position for a third term.
He will have a formal meeting with Father next week, but it falls to me as the heir to the throne to make an appearance at the victory party on behalf of the royal family.
The ballroom is already decorated for Christmas, with a patriotic twist in navy, green, and white for our country’s flag. Navy for our ancestors’ prowess on the sea, green for the fertile land we inhabit, and white for the pureness of heart of its people.
Pureness of heart, indeed, I think as a young viscount runs his hands a little too low on the back, no, ass, of his mistress.
Miles is starting to get antsy as the hour draws on. I can see him surreptitiously checking his watch every few minutes. He tugs at the edges of his coat sleeves.
“Might as well get another drink, Miles,” I say after he adjusts his tie for the tenth time. “I still have a speech to make and a few more people I need to seek out.”
Miles huffs a sigh that I know isn’t complete irritation.
His stepfather’s status as CEO for a major telecommunications conglomerate means he’s almost as much at the mercy of family obligations as I am.
But he has big plans for us tonight to commemorate the end of my bachelorhood.
Well, not the exact end, I’m not engaged or anything, but if Father and parliament have their way, then I will be. Soon.
My early twenties were spent at university, dicking around with Miles and enjoying a world where I was just Friedrich, not Your Highness or Prince Friedrich or heir to the throne of Emarvia.
After uni, I went straight into military service.
There was much distress among the family and our advisors as to which branch, but I eventually won out and joined the Royal Air Corps a few months post-graduation.
Bootcamp was exhilarating. I was bottom of the barrel.
Nobody cared who I was; the drill sergeants screamed and cussed at me like any other grunt, instructors didn’t give me any preferential treatment, I slept in the same lumpy bunks, ate at the same shitty mess, and showered in the same cold showers as everyone else.
At bootcamp and during my time in the service, I was simply Stones.
My flight jacket with my call sign still hangs in my closet back at my house.
But now that my military service is done, I am expected to slip back into the role I have been trained for since birth, and with that comes many duties and responsibilities. One stands out in the minds of parliament: marriage.
At my cue, I make my way to the platform at the head of the ballroom where a sextet is finishing up a Bach medley.
A general hush falls, the children on the fringes of the room shushed by their mothers and nannies.
I always love that children are involved in such events; they miss out on the state dinners and formal balls.
But a welcome ceremony for a visiting dignitary or a celebratory function is usually attended by families, and the children’s presence manages to keep the event from becoming too sober or too political. No infighting with the babes present.
I give some generic speech about a well-won fight, the sacrifice and hard work by the staffers involved, and my pleasure to continue working with Lord Bertram to lead our beloved country. The man in question stands below me on the floor. I raise my glass to him, and everyone follows suit.
“Here’s to another five years of peaceful agreement and harmonious cooperation.”
The room fills with polite chuckles and a few guffaws.
The last five years have been anything but peaceful and harmonious.
Lord Bertram is not known for his compromising ability, but he can debate the opposition right out of their wits.
He and Father had their own share of rows, too.
But the people had spoken and, for better or for worse, we are stuck with him for another term.
As I am leaving the platform to polite applause, I catch sight of Lord Dietrich Maier, Bertram’s assistant undersecretary. I’ve been meaning to catch him all night, but hadn’t come across him as I’d circled the room.
“Dietrich, my man!” I beam as we clasp hands to elbows.
“Your Highness.” He inclines his head in deference.
“Don’t pull that ‘Your Highness’ bullshit on me, Maier. You know what your Shels did to me!” Our support of rival football teams is a constant source of friendly, occasionally heated, banter, much to his wife’s bemusement.
He throws his head back in a booming laugh. “Sir, your Navy Blues haven’t been the same since you fired your coach last season.”
I’m about to hit back with a retort about outspending the financial fair play rule when my knees are about knocked out from under me. I stumble a bit, sloshing a few drops of whiskey, and catch onto Dietrich’s shoulder before I lose my balance completely.
“What the...?” I turn to see a puddle of pink tulle and blonde curls on the floor. Two of my security are pushing through the crowded ballroom, but I hold up my hand and wave them off. “Hey there, little lamb.” I drop to one knee beside the small girl on the floor.
Just then, someone else is at her side, scooping up the child and cooing. “There, there, Darcy dearest. No tears now.” She looks up at me. “I’m terribly sorry.”
My heart speeds a little as her insanely green eyes catch mine. They widen as realization dawns on her.
“Oh, Your Highness. Please forgive me.” She bounces the toddler in her arms. “She wanted to see her father before we go home for bed. I should have had a better hold on her.”
I hold out a hand to help her off the floor as I try to place her accent. American for sure, but what part? She is nearly as tall as me—likely in heels—though it’s hard to tell with the hem her dress still brushing the floor. Fuck, she’s pretty.
“Far be it from me to keep a girl from her daddy.” I can’t help but smile at the look of utter mortification, her pale cheeks turning a delicate rosy color.
She parts her perfectly bowed lips as if to say something, and I am transfixed, wondering if that red lipstick would smear if I kissed her.
I tear my eyes away before I stare too long.
“Darcy, is it?” I ask the girl. She nods, curls bouncing. I tap her plump little cheek. “You tell your daddy that I think Morton Schreckengost’s summer transfer acquisitions at Shelford were a clear violation of the spending cap, and even that hasn’t helped them top the table.”