Chapter Eighteen
Prince Arthur
Debutante ball(shit)s are the most boring, elitist, twattiest events in the entire social calendar. None of my friends are here because they don’t actually come under the category for being a debutant. It really is only royalty and people who have titles.
Which means Phoebe is here.
And God, aren’t I aware of it.
All night I’ve been watching her, spinning around the ballroom in Buckingham Palace.
If she didn’t look just as—if not more—bored as me, it would be a scene taken straight out of an eighteen hundreds silent movie.
She changes suitors when she’s supposed to, smiles at all the right cues and dances just like she was taught to in those ghastly ballroom dance lessons we were forced to take as kids. I know she’s proud of herself.
“Please, don’t make me look a fool, Arthur,” my mother says again. “Go and dance with her.”
“I told you, I’m dizzy.”
“I’m not surprised, you’ve probably got vertigo from sitting down all night.”
She stands beside where I’m sitting at a table, her champagne glass covering her mouth. Talking about Astrid, by the way, not Phoebe.
I wave my hand over to her. “She’s got company, I don’t want to be rude.”
“When have you ever cared about being rude?” She nudges my shoulder. “Go over there and talk.”
I roll my eyes, stand up, go over to her and the other girl she’s talking to—her cousin, I believe?
Not only is it boring as fuck and hot as a furnace in here, my suit weighs a tonne. All these medals attached to it. I don’t even know what half of them mean apart from the jubilee ones. But it’s not just a black tie thing, tonight—it’s full uniform.
Astrid bows so does the girl who I think is her cousin. I also bow because I think I should (might’ve just made myself look like a massive dick but I’m sure The Sun will let me know tomorrow).
“How are you?” She smiles, clutching a flute.
“I’m very good. And you?”
I fight the urge to shove my hands in my pockets.
“I’m well, thank you.” She gestures to the girl standing beside her. “This is my cousin, Sofia. This is her first ball, she’s feeling very out of her depth tonight.”
I nod my head, she bows again. “You’ll be fine,” I tell her with what I hope is a comforting smile. “Just make sure you don’t step on anyone’s toes.”
She laughs. She looks just the same as Astrid. Blonde hair, blue eyes—all around very European.
“Thank you, you look very well.”
“Oh, this old thing?” I gesture to my uniform. “I just chucked on the first thing I found.”
She giggles, Astrid laughs and places her hand on my shoulder. “Would you mind getting me another drink?” She hands her cousin the glass.
When she walks off, Astrid hooks her arm through mine, leaning in close. “Why haven’t you danced with Phoebe yet?”
“Dancing isn’t really my thing.”
“Sure it is,” she slaps my chest. “Dancing is everyone’s thing.”
“Why haven’t I seen you dancing, then?” I look at her, smile.
She sighs. “I was waiting for you.”
“Because a man has to make all the moves?”
Astrid side-eyes me. “Do I look like somebody who would get down on my knee?”
Tilt my head. “Fair enough.”
“Come on, we can dance. I’m sure our parents would love that.”
“I’m sure they would,” I mutter as she drags me into the center of the room.
“Can you waltz?” Astrid grins.
“Unfortunately.”
Some kind of Russian orchestrated waltz plays and we start dancing. There’s not a lot of thought put into it, it’s kind of like muscle memory. Our parents made sure we knew all the dances off by heart before we got old enough to tell them that we didn’t want to do it.
These balls aren’t really what you’d expect.
It’s not all mini wedding dresses and serenades.
It’s more like your average school prom just way more strict with way less drugs.
They have them all over Europe. Only ever one or two a year—not like in the olden days where it marked the start of the social season.
The social season for us never starts and never ends, it’s just the way we live.
I’m not sure what the point is for these things. Sure, charities are involved but it’s just a pointless tradition now.
“It’s like the MET gala for mini royals in here, isn’t it?” Astird says through her clenched smile as I spin her around and I couldn’t have said it better myself, that’s exactly what it is.
“Keep smiling,” I squeeze out through my own, pull her into me and then out, follow her around in a circle with our hands touching.
“My mouth is aching.”
I try my hardest not to break, keeping my smile and wide eyes in place as cameras snap in every corner of the room.
“We switch now,” I tell her, skating off and seamlessly making my way over to Phoebe who actually wasn’t who I was meant to be dancing with but how could I not?
“You look constipated,” she tells me and I break, my smiling cracking into an unsightly grin.
“You look perfect.”
And she does. Always does. When has she ever looked bad? I don’t think she has it in her. I don’t even think it’s the dress, either. Sure, it plays a part. It’s beautiful. Blue, strapless, glittery, crystals descending down it. Best dressed by a mile.
I place my hand on her bare back, she jumps slightly.
My hands are cold, always are and her skin is always warm.
The type of warmth you felt in the summer holidays when you were a kid and your biggest worry was going to bed while it was still light out.
Nothing about Phoebe can be normal or straightforward.
Even her fucking body temperature weaves its way through my mind, reminding me of a time when everything was okay.
Maybe that’s why I’ve always been so drawn to her? Hot and cold. Fire and ice. They never mix but people always couple them together because in some other universe, they probably do work—just not this one.
When the song slows to a gradual stop, Phoebe grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd and out onto the patio.
“God, I needed some fresh air. Thought I was going to pass out.”
I lean against the stone balcony, looking out into the garden. Phoebe stands next to me, facing the doors we just walked out of. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her pull something out of the little clutch bag hanging off her wrist.
“What are you doing?” I snap harsher than intended.
“Huh?” She mutters, balancing a cigarette between her lips.
I grab it out of her mouth, pull her down the steps and onto the grass so we’re out of sight.
“You can’t smoke with all of them looking,” I tell her, handing her cigarette back.
She scoffs, rolls her eyes, cups the cigarette and lights it. “Please,” she blows out some smoke. “It’s hardly a cigarette—it’s menthol so it doesn’t even count.”
I cock my head, smile. “And if I said that to you?”
Her eyes pinch at the sides. “Not funny.”
“I’m just saying,” I hold my hands up.
She shakes her head, glances down at her feet hopping from one side to another.
I watch as she flicks some ash onto the ground, inhales again and sniffs.
I don’t know how I feel about her smoking?
I suppose I should feel something, shouldn’t I?
Tell her to stop or something—and I would if we were in any other situation but it’s not my place to tell her to stop.
That, and I trust her. I’d like to think she wouldn’t do anything stupid.
An odd cigarette really isn’t the end of the world when there’s bigger things at stake between us.
I clear my throat. “About the other day,” I say quietly. “Are you okay?”
Her head snaps up, she frowns. “The stalker thing?”
I nod.
“Oh,” she pulls a face, as if to brush it off. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” she shrugs simply. “I trust that you’ll keep me safe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I saw you in there, talking to Astrid.”
“It’s nothing,” I laugh under my breath. “Just our parents—”
“Stop saying that.”
“What?”
She puts her cigarette out on the wall behind us and drops the butt into a planet pot—not too sure how happy my nan will be about that.
“Have you had sex since you’ve been back?” She asks outright, arms crossed over her chest.
“Excuse me?” I pull back a bit offended.
Phoebe rolls her eyes, gives me a dumb look. “Have you been laid since you came back to London?”
“No?” I laugh. “Why would I?”
She throws her hands about airily. “Because you’re single and you’re friends with the most notorious shaggers in the entire city! Trust me, I’ve seen Albie and Connie’s contacts, they’re practically a little black book.”
I can’t stop laughing as she’s going on.
“Honestly, Arthur, you need to get yourself back out there. Go out and bed some little princess, I’m sure Astrid would appreciate it.
You’ve had your troubles,” she waves her hand up and down at me.
“But haven’t we all? Doesn’t make you any less of a person.
But if you don’t want to sleep with someone you know then book yourself a suite at House and I’m sure the twins would be more than happy to help out a fellow sexually frustrated friend—I mean, that is what friends do isn’t it? ”
“I’m not sexually frustrated.” My mouth hurts with how hard I’m smiling but she’s dead serious, not even a slight twitch at the corners—nothing. “I’m just not interested, Phoebs.”
“That’s weird. You are a man, afterall.”
I cock my head to the side, grin, stare down at my feet.
“Do you want to kiss me?” She asks then, out of nowhere.