Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
FRIEDRICH
It’s not fucking fine.
I had narrowed down to my top twenty potentials and began dating them last week. That went about as well as expected. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t keep my mind from drifting to a certain sweet little nanny.
Despite the multitude of speed dates with the remaining noble women, I still found time to text Aurelia and one evening, I rented out the entire place at a new sushi joint for the two of us.
That and a few other stolen moments with her turned out to be the highlights of the fortnight.
Even though we are still strictly in the no sex category, our bodies are starting to find a rhythm together as we learn what makes the other tick.
And, Christ, she’s such a quick study. The blowjob I got before my date with Princess Birgitta of Sweden will forever be burned in my memory.
Poor Birgitta never stood a chance after that performance.
She could be a contender for the title, but I’ll need to be clearheaded for our next date to be sure.
I’m sitting in front of the fireplace in the library on the Monday after my final date with the top twenty.
Mother would be appalled by my horrible posture as I sprawl across the arms of the high-back chair.
There’s so much else to be done these days, including the run-up to the big charity football match at the end of the month, but instead I’m leafing through my binder of hopefuls.
I scratch more notes on each woman in the margins of Betsy’s future princess dossier.
My first date had been with Charlotte. Blonde.
Petite. Daughter of a recently made British Baron, new to the aristocracy.
And hell did she reek of it. Overly made-up (I like that Aurelia doesn’t wear much makeup), flashy designer bag (Aurelia’s choice in clothes and accessories is practical), and manners that bordered on uncouth (Aurelia spends time training the children in proper manners).
I’m not sure how she made it past the preliminary dismissals.
Lady Verna came to our date in the most atrocious dress I’d ever seen.
It looked like it was made from a country grandmother’s curtains.
My sisters were right, Mother is the epitome of understated fashion, and the next queen should be nothing less.
Aurelia has such a casual sense of style, serving only to make her more beautiful.
The princess from Japan was a decent conversationalist and actually one I look forward to seeing again.
She was whip-smart and surprisingly witty.
Lady Marcia of Spain was interesting and well-read, but I just didn’t feel a spark.
Aurelia is all those things with the addition of a strong pull of electricity; something neither one of us can deny.
Lady Felicity, middle daughter of an English Viscount, accidentally let slip that she doesn’t want children, which would be fine if I were anyone else but the heir to the throne and expected to continue the family line.
Part of me feels gross taking that tidbit into consideration.
Like the majority of my interest in these women is for their breeding potential.
Aurelia and I haven’t actually talked about children, but the way she talks about Darcy and Liam, I can’t imagine her without kids someday.
I found Princess Genivee of Belgium to be hilarious and fun.
I’m thinking of taking her bowling for our next date to uncover more of that playful side.
Miles keeps pushing for a night out with Aurelia and our little friend group.
I’m on the fence whether that will be a quiet night in at Rankten Cottage or another visit to the pool hall.
My date with Hannah was a disaster from the get go.
She was late for the chauffeur and then rude to my favorite waiter at my favorite Italian restaurant.
I’ll have to make it up to Marco big time.
Aurelia always treats people with utmost kindness, regardless of station or position.
All my chauffeurs and house servants love her, even Brenton and Frank.
The Spanish princess, Magdalena, had the misfortune of being my Sunday night date after Aurelia and I had spent the day at Navy Yard, and I got to bury my face between her legs behind the bar in my box after the match was over.
So, yeah, Nanny Sumner has been consuming my whole brain and body even when I’m supposed to be thinking about a future with someone else.
But Christ, she is beautiful in the most unassuming way.
She holds herself like a woman who knows her true self, and yet comes off as humble and grounded.
Our conversation is light and easy, and when she talks about the children she nannies, I swear her eyes are pure joy.
I’m hooked on that joy. I want to chase it every day.
This is the final stage of the courtship scheme. If I fuck this up, the next step is an arranged marriage. I have to make this count or risk a lifetime of marital duties and indifferent coexistence. Giving in to my baser needs isn’t going to help anyone. That’s my brother’s M.O.
“Friedrich, that is not the way a chair is used.”
My mother’s disapproving trill pulls me from my thoughts, and I right myself in the chair like a child caught in a misdeed.
“It’s also impolite to read over someone’s shoulder.” I snap my binder shut, blocking my notes from prying eyes.
“You are my son. It is my right to know what is going on in your mind.” She runs a hand through my hair to the back of my neck and squeezes gently. “You have always held all your cares right here. Even as a little boy. Like your brain is leaking out all its worry.”
I can’t help but close my eyes and fold into my mother when she rubs away my tension.
I’m transported back to being that little boy always hunched over a book or a desk, working hard to prove myself.
Mother has a way of pushing away all anxiety about duty and measuring up.
Her hands are safe, and her mind is always ready to take on some of my burden.
“How do I do this, Mother?”
“Ah, mon soleil. I have no doubt you will succeed. You will put that ever-churning brain to good use and find a fine replacement for me.”
I cough. “Mother, I’m not replacing you.”
“But you are, mon amour.” She squeezes my neck a little harder. “All these years, you have been learning how to adore your wife. How to cherish her. How to protect her. That is what a mother teaches her son. And more so, one day she will sit by your side as your queen.”
I open my folder of women again, flipping mindlessly through each page. “Do you really think any of these women are prepared for what that means?”
Lady Juliette Jameson smiles up at me from the page.
Surprisingly, given our history together, the date with her was one of the better ones.
I can admit that Dietrich’s half-sister is strikingly beautiful.
Blonde hair that’s always perfectly shiny and never a strand out of place.
Her blue eyes peek out from under full lashes in a way that makes her look like one of Lorelei’s childhood dolls.
Sure, she’s dull, not much of a conversationalist and a bit shallow, but she’s a known entity and that makes her safer, right?
Plus, a connection with her would keep me close to Dietrich and Rebecca. And Aurelia.
“No one is prepared, I think,” Mother says, interrupting that train of thought.
“Even I was raised around people in such lofty positions, milling through political and social circles in Monaco from the time I was a child, and was still not entirely ready to be your father’s wife.
And you, who have been groomed since birth to be king, are you prepared for that? ”
I shake my head. “And these women? Women who have been around this life for decades, some in closer circles than others, is it fair to them?”
“Mon soleil, the right woman will move mountains in her heart and mind to be the wife you need. As long as you also fight within yourself to be the husband that she needs. Let me and your sisters, and everyone else, concern ourselves with preparing her for her role as queen.”
I press a kiss to my mother’s hand resting on my shoulder.
“Whoever she is, she will have no better role model than you.” I continue turning the pages of hopefuls and try to imagine what each might need from a husband.
Clearly, simply making a woman a princess won’t be enough to make a marriage a happy one.
“Merci, mon amour.” She moves to sit in the chair next to mine. “Now, tell me about the girls you have left.”
I recount important bits of each date as I show Mother the pictures in my binder. She listens intently while I rapid-fire pros and cons, nodding or laughing or groaning at appropriate times. She asks questions but doesn’t offer any advice.
“Do you have any front-runners?”
I exhale. “I think I need to narrow things down more. Twenty is just too many to get to know properly. But there are a few who I’ve rather enjoyed getting to know.”
“And what about this woman from the ball?”
My heart picks up pace, stomach doing a little somersault at just the thought of her. “Aurelia?”
“Oui. Is that her name? She is lovely, non?”
“Aurelia is…” I let out a breath. “She’s so genuine. It’s like she has no idea how to accept attention. She’s not quite used to our social norms, you know?”
Mother pushes my hair away from my face. “But she is not one of the ladies.”
It’s not a question. Mother knows this list perhaps better than I do. I hang my head, not sure what she’s trying to get at with the line of questioning, but there’s a clenching in my chest that makes it hard to breathe.
“No, she’s not a marriageable prospect.”
Mother hums but doesn’t say more.