Chapter 12 #2
The man nods, the bauble on his hat bobbing along, and indicates the seat next to him. “Come with me, Miss Sumner. I’ll bring you ‘round to the proper gate.”
We pass throngs of supporters still streaming towards the park, and I catch a few stares as my driver beeps his little horn to guide us through the crowds.
I avert my eyes, half shamed, half embarrassed with my VIP treatment.
I’d always looked on in wonder at those who were being chauffeured around the stadium, wondering who they were or what they did to garner such service.
It’s odd being on the other side of it. Thankfully, the crowds thin as we make our way around the stadium to the dockside.
Another black suited attendant is waiting at the gate when the cart pulls to a stop.
“Lady Sumner.” He inclines his head as he holds the gate open for me.
I don’t correct this one. It doesn’t seem to matter anyway. I am subjected to a much more thorough security screening than I’m accustomed to at a football match. I suppose I am about to step into a box with some of the richest and most important people in the country.
“Hello there, darling!” Princess Beatrix calls, waving over her head with wiggling fingers as she steps off the elevator while I’m putting myself back together from my intense search and pat down.
She looks so different from the woman who had escorted me around the ballroom at the palace a couple of nights ago.
Her short blonde hair sticks out at odd angles under a knit baubled beanie of navy blue and white.
She wears a matching oversized sweater with the Portyard badge on the left breast and skinny jeans that make her legs appear a mile long.
I stifle a giggle realizing we wore the same shoes—the uniform of both our generations—tattered black Chuck Taylors.
She’s replaced the standard white laces with rainbow colored ones.
Seeing her so casual calms my nerves. This really is just a football match with some new acquaintances.
“Well, don’t you look just fit for a downpour,” she trills as she takes both my hands in hers. She goes in for a cheek-to-cheek kiss and whispers, “Fritz sent me to collect you. Draws fewer questions.”
The prince’s cousin leads me to the same elevator she had taken down, still holding one of my hands. She is apparently taking her role in this little story very seriously.
She rounds on me as the doors close. Gone is the blithe and smiling princess. The hard expression on her face makes my stomach clench, and I believe this woman could drag information out of even the best-trained spy. My back bends under the weight of her stare. But I don’t look away.
“Miss Aurelia, you have some explaining to do, I think.”
Explaining? We know basically nothing about each other, only meeting two days ago. I had thought the night went well. The princess had seemed to enjoy the cocktail party and was more than happy to drag me along all night.
“I did a little digging on you, Nanny Sumner. Or should I say Graf?”
Hearing my father’s last name has me swallowing around a lump in my throat. “I haven’t been Graf in more than ten years.”
“Be that as it may,” Princess Beatrix says with a sniff. “You are related to the Countess Lady Sarah Graf, are you not?”
I straighten my shoulders, trying to inject a modicum of steel in my spine. “I am. She’s my great aunt. Is that an issue?” I’m a bug under a microscope. It’s only now I realize the elevator has stopped, but the doors remain closed. There’s no escaping this conversation.
“Not an issue, perse, but I must know, what are your intentions here, really? My cousin has suffered enough at the hands of social-climbing women, and I will not see him hurt again.”
“You should know as well as any that even if I had intentions of pursuing His Royal Highness for my own social gain, it would be for nothing.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, settling me with a formidable stare. I fight a shiver. “Would it? Are you not eligible to be a part of this forced marriage farce? Your aunt being noble should put you in some sort of position within the peerage.”
“It would, had my father not legally signed over all his claim when he and my mother moved us back to the United States when I was young.”
“Hmm.”
That’s the only answer Princess Beatrix gives.
I’m still caught in her inspection of me, her trying to suss out exactly the kind of person I am.
I have to respect the love she has for Prince Friedrich, but I’m not sure she believes I’m not a threat.
And I’m starting to sweat a little under her intense study.
“I guess that will have to suffice for now, but I’m keeping an eye on you, Miss Sumner.”
The princess presses a button, and we start ascending once more.
Stepping off the elevator, she takes my hand again, continuing the charade she began at the gate, all trace of the interrogator gone.
She leads me down a pristine corridor so closed off only a low hiss of stadium noise bleeds through.
I recognize one of the prince’s security officers standing outside a door about halfway down.
I do my best to keep the shock from my face as I’m ushered into a skybox directly in the middle of the stands. I have never been inside a VIP section for anything, and this exceeds anything I might have imagined.
Everything is done in white and navy blue.
The floor appears to be dark blue marble, the bar counter shines bright white.
The drop lighting has blue shades. All the furniture alternates between the two colors, including the plush chairs set in small clusters around the room.
It would be easy to forget I’m at a soccer stadium if one wall wasn’t all glass looking out onto the pitch.
In my initial stunned survey of the space, I totally missed the tall, dark-haired man watching me as he leans his back against the bar, elbows resting on the countertop.
On my second pass, though, I catch sight of the amused grin behind his well-groomed beard, and my lungs do that thing where they feel like they might implode.
“Thanks, Trix.” Prince Friedrich raises his glass to his cousin as we approach. He nods to me.
I drop into a curtsy. “Your Highness.” My skin sings as he takes my hand and lifts it to his lips.
“None of that today, Lady Sumner.”
“So that was your doing?”
His smile widens. “Couldn’t resist.”
“Mm-hm.” I purse my lips, which only makes him laugh. The sound sends all kinds of pleasure signals through me.
“I suppose I owe you a drink then?” He turns around and waves to the bartender, who is at our disposal in mere seconds. “Four more, please.” He holds up his glass, indicating his choice in alcohol.
“Fritz, you know I don’t drink that stuff,” Princess Beatrix says from very close behind me.
Her arm is curled around my waist, and she clutches my hip on the other side.
I feel a little odd being held like this by another woman, especially one who just grilled me like some sort of political prisoner.
But then she turns and flashes me such a smoldering smile, all pretenses of mistrust nowhere on her face, and at once I understand why so many women flock to her.
“Fine. Three whiskeys and one vodka soda,” the prince amends before turning back to me. “So, what do you think?”
“This is insane.”
I’m not doing a good job playing it cool, but tickets in the nosebleeds were the best I could afford previously.
The buffet table along the wall opposite of the bar is stacked with the exact opposite of stadium food.
A man in the all-black uniform of a royal protection officer is helping himself to pan-fried gnocchi in a pink sauce, stuffed sole, and prosciutto-wrapped asparagus.
There’s also fresh bread and a colorful salad.
The whiskey being poured for us is definitely not the same swill they over-charge the lower levels for.
Now that I’ve seen how the other half lives, it’s going to be hard to slip back into the cheap sections with the boiled hotdogs and tepid beer in plastic cups.
“Wait till you see our seats.”
The prince hands me a glass of whiskey and takes the remaining two from the bar.
I take a sip of my bourbon, appreciating the smooth, rich flavor as he leads me through the glass door to a private seating area.
Princess Beatrix is keeping up the ruse quite well and walks between me and the prince, making a point to steal a quick touch or flirtatious smile whenever possible.
The box sits at the top of the first tier of seating, right at centerfield, giving us the perfect view of the pitch. Another of the prince’s security team stands above the two rows of padded, high-backed stadium seats, keeping a watch on this side of the stands.
“Must be a dream assignment for him.” I nod in the direction of the man who had drawn a taser on me a few days ago, then met me at a hotel bar later that night.
Prince Friedrich looks where I had indicated. “Brenton? Hardly,” he laughs. “He’s a Shelford supporter.”
Brenton opens his jacket just a peek to show off a yellow jersey underneath.
I give a rather unmannered snort. “It’s a wonder you trust him enough to keep him around.”
“All except for derby days.”
It is so easy to laugh with the prince. His warm laughter is infectious and makes my chest swell every time I hear it.
There’s only room for eight to sit in the prince’s private section, but the only other person here is Prince Friedrich’s best friend. Miles Njeri is easy to spot, being so incredibly tall. When he stands to greet us, I have to look up to meet his eyes, even standing two steps above him.
“Ah, the famous Nanny Sumner.” His deep voice rolls over me like water. “We meet at last.” His grip is firm as he presses a kiss to my knuckles, never taking his eyes from mine. It is quite the power play.
“A pleasure,” I simper. The line between intimidating and attractive is a bit blurred in those deep brown eyes, and I’m still learning how to stand my ground around all these rich and powerful people.
“All right, mate. Put your dick away.” Prince Friedrich claps him on the back, and Miles drops my hand.
“Merely getting to know our new friend,” he says, returning to his seat. Seriously, this man could read a computer manual and make it sound good with that basso profundo timbre. But the edge in his tone is obvious.
“I know exactly what you are doing,” the prince replies as the rest of us file into the front row, Miles and I on either side of the prince and Princess Beatrix on my other side.
Miles grills me on football and the team while we wait for the match to start.
I can’t quite get a read on this guy. He always comes off so joyful and carefree in the tabloid shots of him and the prince together.
He’s painted as the fun one, the party guy.
But all I’m getting is short and maybe a little cold.
I can feel the protective glares coming at me from all sides as the prince’s most trusted friends work out exactly who I am and what is going on with Prince Friedrich and me.
When the first whistle blows, though, all conversation and questioning stops. Miles and I lean forward in our seats at the same time as the echoing thunk of ball on boot draws us in.