The Prince and the Bodyguard (The Prince Pact #4)

Chapter 1

GREG

The irony wasn’t lost on me that I was about to embark on a year-long journey to discover my authentic self whilst sitting in one of the most inauthentic rooms in all of England.

Uncle Henry’s private dining room at Buckingham Palace was a monument to centuries of pomp and circumstance, complete with oil paintings of long-dead monarchs who probably would have had me executed for the thoughts currently occupying my mind.

“Gregory,” Uncle Henry said, not bothering to look up from his perfectly soft-boiled egg, “I trust you understand the gravity of this… experiment.”

I nearly choked on my toast. Experiment. As if my desire for a normal university experience was some sort of scientific endeavor rather than a desperate attempt to figure out who I actually was beneath all the titles and expectations.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” I replied, falling back on the formal address that always created a comfortable distance between us. I liked my uncle, but the awareness of who he was and what he represented was never far from my mind. “I’m deeply grateful for the opportunity.”

He finally looked at me then, his pale-blue eyes—so like my father’s, whereas I had inherited my mum’s green eyes—studying my face with the intensity of someone trying to solve a particularly vexing puzzle.

“One year, Gregory. One year to get this nonsense out of your system. Then you return, take up your proper duties, and we’ll discuss your future, which will include suitable marriage arrangements. ”

Ah yes, marriage. To a lovely young woman from an appropriate family who would provide heirs and look stunning in the occasional tiara. The thought made my stomach clench in a way that had nothing to do with the kippers on my plate, which, for the record, I detested.

“Naturally, Your Majesty.”

“And Gregory?” He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin that probably cost more than most people’s monthly salary. “Do not embarrass the Crown. I realize American universities can be rather permissive, but you are still a member of this family.”

The irony deepened. If Uncle Henry only knew that my greatest concern wasn’t about embarrassing the Crown through typical university debauchery, but rather through the earth-shattering realization that I found men infinitely more appealing than women.

The headlines wouldn’t be about wild parties or academic failure.

They’d be about the future Duke of York preferring the company of gentlemen in a most scandalous way.

“I shall maintain the highest standards, Your Majesty.”

He nodded curtly and returned to his breakfast, effectively dismissing me. I finished my tea with more haste than was strictly proper and excused myself to prepare for my afternoon video briefing.

The walk back to my apartment should have been refreshing, even with my protection detail staying close as always.

It should’ve been a chance to clear my head after Uncle Henry’s pointed reminders about duty and marriage.

Instead, his words echoed in my mind like a death knell. Suitable marriage arrangements.

I paused outside my door, key in hand, and tried to imagine it.

Some lovely young woman who was pretty, preferably titled, and certainly accomplished in all the ways that mattered.

We’d have a tasteful engagement photo in the royal gardens.

A grand wedding at Westminster Abbey. Two point five children who would dutifully carry on the family tradition of looking perfect and feeling empty.

My stomach lurched, and I had to lean against the doorframe for a moment. The thought of kissing a woman at the altar, of sharing a bed with someone I could never truly desire, of living an entire lifetime as a lie made me physically ill.

One year, I reminded myself, finally managing to get my key in the lock. One year to figure this out, and then…

Then what? Return to London and meekly accept whatever bride Uncle Henry deemed suitable? Confess my true nature and watch the monarchy crumble under the scandal? Flee to some remote corner of the world and live as a hermit?

None of those options seemed particularly appealing.

What would Mum have said? Born Lady Katherine Hastings, she’d always been a bit of a rebel herself, though I hadn’t realized it at the time.

After all, I’d only been fourteen when she’d died—too young to see her as anything but my mum.

Now, I looked at her differently. She might’ve been nobility and a princess, but she’d been a bit wild, never wholly conforming to the confines of the royal family.

She’d died after a fall off her horse. He’d been spooked by a rabbit and had bucked wildly and unexpectedly, throwing her off.

She’d hit her head on a tree trunk and had been dead on impact.

My father had never remarried, though I wasn’t sure why.

I never got the impression he’d been desperately in love with my mum.

As soon as I walked into my apartment, my phone buzzed with the incoming call from the group chat labeled Prince Pact Updates, the name Floris had insisted upon when the four of us had first begun planning our respective escapes to American universities.

“Eddie!” Floris’s voice filled my sitting room as his grinning face appeared on screen, quickly joined by Tore’s more serious expression and Nils’s cool Scandinavian charm. “How did breakfast with your uncle go?”

I grinned at his use of my chosen alias, Eddie York. The first was a wink to my second name, Edward, and the surname was based on me becoming the Duke of York sooner or later. Preferably much, much later.

“About as well as expected,” I said, settling into my favorite armchair—a somewhat shabby thing that my grandmother had loved but that the palace decorators had taken out as soon as she had passed.

I’d snatched it up instantly. Some days, I pretended I could still smell her flowery scent.

Queen Anne had been a force of nature as a monarch, ruling our empire for thirty years, but to me, she’d been a loving grandmother, never too busy to talk to me.

I still missed her, even two years after her passing.

I sighed. “He wanted to not-so-subtly remind me that I’ve been given one year to ‘get the American nonsense out of my system’ before returning to discuss suitable marriage arrangements.”

“Oof.” Tore winced. “Marriage arrangements. That sounds like the proverbial guillotine.”

He wasn’t wrong, though he no longer had to fear that particular form of torture, and neither had Floris and Nils.

All three of them had found their happily ever after, and all three with a man, much to my shock.

Floris not so much, since he’d publicly come out as gay before, but Tore and Nils had been completely unexpected.

“Tell me about it. But I shall focus on my year of freedom and not worry about what comes after.”

I couldn’t, because if I did, I very well might go mad.

“Smart choice,” Floris said. “No sense in fighting what you can’t change.”

Nils nodded. “Agreed. Let’s celebrate the fact that King Henry finally agreed to let you go because honestly, I was starting to lose hope he ever would.”

“I owe a mountain of gratitude to your cousin, Tore,” I said. “If he hadn’t reached out to the king with his rational, well-argued plea to allow me this year, I don’t know I would’ve ever gotten permission.”

“He’s a good guy,” Tore said about his cousin, who’d only recently became the king of Norway. “I’m glad he was able to get through to your uncle.”

I would never stop being thankful for the friendship with these three.

We’d met as toddler-princes—though Nils was a few years older than us and had been a proper boy by then—and had become best friends over the years.

These men were the only people who truly understood the peculiar burden of being born into a life that felt like an elaborate performance.

“The highly rated program in International Relations at Cascade Bay University helped for certain,” I said. “Plus the security detail.”

Tore’s expression turned curious. “Yes, I wanted to ask you about that. How’s that going to work?”

I swallowed. “He’s American, a Secret Service agent loaned out to a private firm for this occasion. King Henry wanted a Brit initially, but he agreed to an American after I objected that two Brits sharing a room might draw more attention than wanted.”

Tore sat up a little straighter. “Sharing a room?”

“Not a room, exactly. It’s a…” My cheeks heated, and I once again cursed the pale skin my ancestors had gifted me with. “A mini-apartment, they call it. It’s a living room with a bedroom plus bathroom.”

“Have you met him yet?” Tore asked.

My stomach dropped at the thought. “I have a security briefing via Zoom in twenty minutes to discuss the logistics of the arrangement. And to meet him.”

“A bodyguard who’s also your roommate?” Floris raised an eyebrow. “How delightfully intimate. Please tell me he’s at least attractive. If you’re going to have someone shadowing your every move, he’d better be pleasant to look at.”

“Floris,” I started, then stopped. How could I explain that I was terrified the bodyguard was attractive? That the thought of sharing living space with someone who could potentially trigger my increasingly inconvenient awareness of my own sexuality was keeping me awake at night?

Floris held up his hands. “I know,” he said, every trace of mockery gone. “Trust me, Greg, I know.”

Maybe he did. It was a small comfort, but a comfort, nonetheless.

“Promise me you’ll try to make friends this year,” Nils said seriously. “You’ve been hiding behind proper etiquette and royal protocol for so long, I’m not sure anyone other than us knows who you truly are underneath it all.”

The comment hit closer to home than I cared to admit. “I shall attempt to be more… authentic.”

“Good,” Floris declared. “And remember, Americans are very direct. No need for your usual seventeen-layer British subtlety. If you like someone, you straight-up tell them.”