Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ARCHER
I check my reflection in the large, full-length mirror.
I’ll have to change out of the blue suit later, into something more ceremonial for the Opening Ceremonies.
But for now, I’m allowed to look a little more like a regular modern male, the embroidery on my shirt the only nod to traditional Northandrian art.
Like I told Ella yesterday, I neither like nor dislike my lifetime job description.
There’s something meaningful and purposeful about literally shaping the direction of an entire country.
It’s definitely a privilege. But there are still parts of the job that I enjoy more than others, and the endless schmoozing before major events is not one of my favorites.
A sharp knock hits my door. Sven checks and lets in one of the newer undersecretaries. I think this one is Anselm’s nephew or something.
“Your Highness.” He stops and bows, perfectly trained. Now I am sure this is one of Anselm’s protégées. That angle is practically patented.
“Yes?”
“We’ve managed to trace what you asked for regarding Miss Langford.”
“I thought everything was settled days ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can’t possibly have some concern about her now.”
“No, sir.”
I try to recall what I’d asked Sven to look into after our garden walk last night. “Is this about the properties, then?”
“Yes, sir. We have found a sum total of three Northandrian properties that have, at various times, belonged to the Langford clan.”
“Are any still in existence?”
“Only a former country house, which was purchased as part of a greater project, now used as an extra ward in a private hospital.”
“I see.” I tuck away the knowledge. It’s not what I was hoping for, but it is still a nice little fact to share with Ella, who seems to lap up anything about her family history.
Given that her trip to Northandria was meant to help her feel more connected to her parents, it would be a nice gesture to give her more than generic tourist pictures to remember the country by.
We’re taking up most of her opportunities to sightsee as it is.
“We did, however, find an heirloom within Langford Castle storage.”
“The plaque for the designer? We were already well-aware of that.”
“No, sir. That is, yes, sir. But there was something else.”
I look at him expectantly, and he hands me a small velvet box.
I flick it open. I smile inside. The entire relationship between me and Ella is technically just a job and a press stunt, but if tonight’s soirée could be considered our first date, this little beauty is going to help me make it a memorable one.
It’s a little strange to feel the need, or even just the desire, to impress a girl—given that my title alone always did it without my having to do anything other than exist. But Ella is different.
I can’t exactly explain why. She just is.
“This is great. Thank you.” I dismiss the undersecretary, who bows very correctly again before leaving. I slide the box into my pocket.
The door doesn’t have the chance to close behind him before being tossed wide open again.
“Archie! How is the man of the hour?” Eds sweeps right in with his usual flamboyance, the toothpaste-commercial smile on his face on full display. Greg follows in after, a soft grin on his face.
I groan at first, but even I can’t completely avoid smiling. “Did you run out of people to annoy already?”
“I think two chambermaids fainted outside when I walked by, but the rest of the Northandrian female population is intact for now.” Eds—or, more correctly, Prince Eduardo Mondecci of Sanbellini—slaps me on the back before dropping himself onto the largest sofa in my sitting room.
He helps himself to the champagne and sprawls out his limbs.
“You look put together enough for a 900-year-old man. Maybe you’re a vampire. ”
“Northandria is 900 years old. Not me.”
Greg, always the quiet one, chuckles softly.
He gives me a nod. There’s an entire section in the Manual for Princes about who is supposed to bow to whom when it comes to foreign dignitaries.
And since I outrank both of them, both Eds and Greg are supposed to show me deference of some sort in public. But none of us truly care in private.
“How are you?” Greg asks with a smile. At least one of my friends cares.
“I am doing well, all things considered.”
“You have a speech tonight?”
“Just at the end, when nobody is listening anymore.”
“You are too optimistic,” Eds says from the couch, his heavier accent a contrast to mine and Greg’s. “Nobody is listening since the beginning.”
“That’s why we’re banning alcohol in the royal box.”
“Really? How sad is that? And you allowed it?”
I shrug. I don’t drink much, so the idea doesn’t bother me. “It was Mother’s idea. Far be it from me to question the Queen.”
“It is your job to question the Queen.”
“Would you question your grandfather?” I shoot back.
Eds winces. “That is different.”
“No, it’s not.” I check myself in the mirror one more time before turning around to face my friends fully. “It’s all about optics. And drunk royals going viral are not a good look for a jubilee year.”
“Is that why you’re getting married—for optics?”
Eds makes it sound like he’s joking, but all of us can sense the real question underneath.
I shrug. “I’m just engaged. I’m not getting married, not yet.”
“I’m pretty sure the whole world thinks you are,” Greg says.
I feel a muscle in my cheek twitch. “Is it really bad?”
“Do you really never read the news?”
“We are advised not to.”
“It is all rubbish,” Eds agrees a little too readily. “They never get my angle right.”
That at least has me tempted to smile. Then something else tugs at my mind. “I hope the press has been generous towards Ella?”
“Ella, is it?” Greg says with a bit of a knowing look. “They love her, if that’s what you’re worried about. But I’m more concerned about you.”
“Me?”
“Last I heard, you weren’t dating an American.”
I shrug. “Is it so surprising?”
“I didn’t know you were dating anyone.”
“Maybe I was.”
“Your sister was literally bemoaning how arranged marriages were out of touch at your cousin’s birthday last month. I think she told everyone in the party that you were about to be sold to the highest bidder. I don’t think what they call an American Southern belle is a likely candidate for that.”
I keep my temper in check. “Ella is very learned, and kind.”
“And that’s all?”
“Does she need to be anything else? Am I not free to choose my own bride?”
“She is not pregnant, is she?” Eds asks loudly. “Because sometimes the women say they are when they—”
“Of course not!” I glare at the man who is supposed to represent Sanbellini to the world one day. Good luck with that. “Just because you like to—womanize, doesn’t mean the rest of us are the sort to pick up girls and—” I shudder. Greg agrees, by the look of it. But Eds just shrugs, unaffected.
“Ella is—she’s special.” I try to think of how to paint this all in a favorable light to two men who know me well enough not to believe the fantasy of a whirlwind, international romance. “We met when I visited the U.S. four years ago. We simply—reconnected recently.”
That information seems to set Greg a bit more at ease. And even Eds looks a little less skeptical than he did a second ago.
“True love, then?” He raises a brow, his elbows braced over his knees. “Never thought the Ice Prince had it in him.”
Frankly, neither did I. But that’s a thought to examine another time.
“I need to pick up my date,” I announce. “Help yourself to the champagne. There won’t be any after the soirèe.”
At least that distracts them enough for me to make my escape.