24
Vincent Hawthorne
I am a wanker.
After trying to find a way not to give Camilla those two days off—and failing profoundly—I found a different solution. One that makes me look like a simp. But I am past the point of caring…
Her college reunion is, coincidentally, being held in the same city and on the same day as the Cleanse Carnival Night, which is tonight.
It is a unique party where locals dress up in the most outlandish and unreal articles of clothing and parade in overly decorated wooden cars to burn them later.
It started being celebrated by locals in all the islands around five hundred years ago. Once the king’s mistress was caught plotting against the royal couple, the king went out of his way to ask mercy for her.
The subjects of the kingdom were outraged that he was so indifferent, letting his wife be punished for something she never did but so willingly risked it all for a concubine.
So, they went to the streets with lit torches, destroying everything in their wake. The mistress, Nakara, was caught and burned alive that night.
What does this have to do with my family?
The queen was saved by my ancestor’s loyalty. Due to the closeness in the bloodline between the royal family and the Hawthornes, my ancestor, James of Hawthorne, was lured by Nakara into a deal.
James pretended to agree and, instead gathered all the proof he had and showed it to the royal authorities and council first and then to the royal couple.
With this, James secured an image of extreme devotion to the royal family, becoming the most respected nobleman in Monera.
However, five centuries have passed and people still celebrate it. The royal family slowed down on the celebrations, making them smaller and shorter as the years went by.
I was expecting not to have one this year. I guess my cousin has other plans, after all…
King Charles thought it was thoroughly important to organise an official celebration in the palace, in homage to the Hawthornes , the family who saved the queen and her unborn child back in the day.
Bloody rubbish.
The king is stupid if he doesn’t think I know what he's doing. Displays of power are still too important in this society. And this is one of them.
Never in the history of the crown has the Hawthorne family been so close to ruling. I’ve been second in succession ever since my father and Joseph passed away, and this party is supposed to show me how strong the king and his lineage are.
He is doing this only to officially show the world he is expecting, showing me publicly how I am lowered down to third place in the line of succession.
To tell the truth, I couldn’t give two shits about all of this. I would even have sent Edgar there instead if it weren’t for the fact that Camilla is going to be in Livia for two days as well.
When the invitation first arrived, I tucked it between all the paperwork I had to deal with, not wanting to be bothered with it. But now, the paper is burning my fingertips as I look at it.
It’s the perfect opportunity. I even got my personal assistant to book her a hotel room so she didn’t have to worry about anything else. I may also have told him to get to know the entire program of the reunion to try and understand if there was a way I could... accidentally visit .
That’s still not decided, though.
Camilla would probably be fuming if I showed up. It would also be suspicious—in her mind, at least.
At the very least, I’ll visit her when she gets to the hotel room.
First things first, official duties need to be done with.
The car comes to a halt, letting me know we’ve arrived at the palace. One of the employees opens the car door for me, guiding me through the giant staircase up to the main entrance, where another butler awaits.
All these formalities are annoying. The event is in full swing—yes, I’m late—I can already hear it from the outside, yet I have no desire to endure it, especially since I’m the guest of honour.
The things a man does for his woman.
Fuck, I can’t think like that.
Before I can thread into the dangerous currents of my mind, the double doors open, revealing the main hall of the palace.
I take a step forward and wait to be introduced. From here, I can see everyone who has already arrived at the ball. Every single one of them stops at the sound of the trumpets, looking up to see who it is.
The floor where they are is reachable by a Y-shaped staircase. It’s supposed to be down there, where guests are supposed to mingle and drink their flutes of champagne.
It’s not as formal and as big as it would be if it was a proper ball, but the attendants—the higher titles—are dressed to the nines in their designer clothing, over-expensive jewellery, and, oh, something extra today, Venetian masks.
Since it is our version of a carnival, I guess the king saw it fitting.
I see it as ridiculous.
As soon as the trumpets’ sound ends, and everyone’s attention is on me, the butler announces, “Tonight’s guest of honour, His Grace, Sir Vincent Leopold of Hawthorne, the Duke of Hawthorne, has arrived.”
With a deep breath, I straighten the Armani royal blue suit I’m wearing and start the descent to the main hall. Once I reach the lower floor, I am swarmed by a succession of formal greetings with other dukes, marquis and counts, and their respective wives.
They all congratulate me as if I am the one responsible for saving the royal line, even if it happened several centuries ago. Every time I am congratulated, I suppress the urge to scoff at their sycophant behaviour.
Sometimes, I hate my roots. My ancestors are, after all, the reason I am trapped in this joke of a life.
Once people finally start to clear out, I head to the throne where the royal couple is sitting, side by side. Placing my left foot in front of the other, I bow for the first time tonight, addressing them, “Your Royal Highnesses, I am honoured to be here today.”
Two taps of his royal sceptre let me know I can straighten up.
Crazy, right?
By tradition, the sceptre is only used on Coronation Day, but, for whatever reason I don’t even try to guess, King Charles has decided it’s fitting to use it at every and all formal ceremonies and events.
Taking in his aspect, I notice two things first: how pale he is and how much weight he seems to have lost. There’s makeup covering his face, but even that isn’t enough to cover the dark circles underneath his eyes or the wounds that are breaking out across his neck. His bland brown eyes are bloodshot and drooped down.
Even sitting down, his breathing is heavy, as if he’s tired from doing the sole chore of inhaling and exhaling. The last time I saw him, life was still cursing through his veins, but now...it looks like he could pass out at any moment.
He turned severely sick almost one year ago, but they said he was cured. Now, I am starting to wonder about the veracity of that royal statement all of those months ago.
“It’s an honour to receive the second most important and powerful family in the kingdom.” His voice is assertive and impassive, but the pause tells me a jab is about to come. “And also the most loyal, how could I forget.”
His tone is slightly sarcastic, but I answer him with a dazzling smile and a nod. He’d affect me— if only I cared .
Also, he is not saying any lies. I am loyal to the Crown. It’s my mother who ambitions it for me.
“You look stunning, Your Majesty.” I turn my attention to the queen, trying to get away with some flattery, with a wide smile and notice her already decent bump. “And congratulations on the state of Your Grace. Everyone was delighted by the news.”
I certainly am.
The king mutters something intelligible while she blushes furiously from my words. Everyone knows love was never on the cards for them, but they both knew their duties and managed to make it work despite the rumours.
He is fifteen years my senior and was never an ugly man, attracting many women over the years to his bed, but charm was never one of his strongest suits. That has always been my talent.
“I hope you enjoy the party in your honour,” the king grunts. “It’s the first time you’ve attended since your father died, after all.”
Even though I don't like all of this bullshit?
“It’s hard to attend parties and any kind of celebration when it still feels like he should be the one doing it instead,” I answer somewhat truthfully. “Nonetheless, we’re eternally grateful for the recognition and friendship between our families, Your Majesty.”
I bow again, just for good measure. Just as I’m about to try and think of something to excuse myself, the Earl of Wessex shows up, greeting the king, and I take the cue to subtly remove myself from the scene and steer towards the bar.
A drink sounds wonderful right now.
“I was wondering how soon you'd leg it. I must say, you lasted longer than I’d give you credit for.” The voice comes from the male shape that has settled right next to me, but I haven’t bothered to look at it yet.
However, that changes when I hear him speak. To my left, almost as tall as I am, with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, is my university pal, Oscar Astley, firstborn of Baron Hastings.
“Oscar!”
What a pleasant surprise . Finally, someone I can tolerate at this party.
We shake hands and side hug each other quickly—no formalities needed with this one—before sitting down on a couple of stools, right next to each other.
“Look at you all grown up. You even made yourself a new record, Duke .” Oscar smirks.
“I don’t know what you're talking about,” I side-eye him, pretending he isn’t talking about my inability to last long in official events. Then, I motion to the bartender, asking for a drink.
King Charles prefers the term, servants. But in my understanding of the word, those were forbidden when slavery was abolished, four hundred years ago.
“What brings you around?” I deadpan him a look, as a response to his stupid question. His hands raise defensively. “Don’t look at me that way. You never come to these!”
“Well, I can’t run away from my responsibilities forever, can I?” I snark back. “I want a whisky. Neat, please,” I tell the bartender as soon as he’s close by.
“I’ll have the same,” Oscar requests. “Is that what you’ve been doing? I hadn’t noticed,” he jokes.
“Twat.”
“You haven’t improved your offence vocabulary since college, noted.”
“Oscar.,” I laugh, a few happy memories bubbling up to the surface of my memory. “You don't deserve better vocabulary.”
“Oh, the dukey’s standards are too high, now?”
“Well, not enough. I am sitting here with you.”
We both laugh and take a sip of the drinks that are placed in front of us. A small comfortable silence follows it as we both focus on our alcohol-filled glasses. Oscar might be one of the rare good people amid this nest of vipers.
“Ever the jokester.” He tuts with a longing smile on his face. “How have you been?”
“Same old. Slightly bored tonight,” I answer. “And you?”
“The only change since the last time we saw each other has been me stepping up into my dad's place in the family’s company.”
“That was six months ago. I remember seeing your ugly face on the news. How did he take that?”
“Haha,” he mocks. “Not well at first. You know how they are. Stubborn. And he thought he’d be working until death came knocking on his door. He was angry that we’d taken the only thing that kept him sane—his words, not mine. At that point, not one of us was sane, worried sick about him.”
“I know. Alzheimer’s can be brutal.”
“He's doing better now that he’s not as busy, but it only gives him an excuse to try and control everything I do,” he sighs, and I nod in understanding. We may not have financial problems in our society, but we surely have other kinds of headaches. “And you? How have things been ever since your aunt passed away? I'm sorry I wasn’t there. I was in Greece back then.”
Ah, yes. I remember his condolences through text. Even if he was here, he wouldn’t need to go. It was more of a show than a true memorial. The only good thing that came out of it, and her death, was reconnecting with Camilla.
“Fine. I have been much better since I’m not living under the same roof as my mother,” I confess.
“Ah, Vincent Hawthorne is free as a bird now, without the overbearing mummy.”
“I don’t think I will ever be free; you know that better than most,” I sigh. “Now, let’s stop addressing depressing shit. How are we going to endure the next five hours in here?”
“Oh!” His face lights up as if he had won the lottery. What is he plotting this time around? He was the troublemaker in our college years, so whenever his expression lights up, it’s more of a menace than fun. “Things always go better if we have something to look up to.” He smirks. “How about we crash my baby brother's after-party after this?”
“I feel too old for after-parties,” I sigh, my mind drifting to Camilla again .
I am not old for anything, but I haven't been to one of those since my college days, almost a decade ago.
The only thing I am looking forward to tonight is Camilla and a bed in a locked bedroom.
But I checked her program. She has dinner and will be going out tonight with her college mates. It will be a while until I can go knocking on her bedroom door.
“Why is he doing an after-party?” I let my curiosity get the best of me.
“The loser is reuniting with old friends,” he scoffs. “He is at Kingston University’s reunion. He couldn’t stop talking about it and seeing his friends and his ex again. Sounded like a kid who was given a lollipop. So, why not have the big and cooler brother crash his party and steal the attention? Especially with the most famous duke on his tail.”
Kingston’s University is where Camilla studied. What are the odds ...
I can always go with Oscar and see if I see her there…by chance. I am such a loser, but fuck yes . I want to go, now.
“Such an attention seeker. Using me to get ladies,” I joke.
“Like the good old times.” I can’t help but laugh at his blunt honesty and clink my glass with his before drinking the rest of the whisky.
We fall into slow conversation, catching up with all of the years we didn’t see each other. Making the slow hours of the night more bearable, helping time run faster to the destination I am craving.
Camilla’s arms.
Maybe it’s not going to be such a long night, after all.