Chapter 3 #3
“And your first duty in your assignment is to tackle me in my ancestral home?” I try to regain control of the situation.
Annoyance flashes across his face before it’s swiftly contained. “My apologies, sir. I was reacting to a potential threat.”
“The suit of armor was empty. And here I was, under the impression my security detail should be able to distinguish between medieval décor and actual danger. Silly me.”
“The suit of armor was about to fall on you, sir,” he corrects, his accent sharpening slightly. “Which would have been considerably less harmless.”
I’m not used to being contradicted, especially not by staff who’ve just treated me like a sack of royal potatoes.
“I had it under control,” I inform him.
“Did you now?” One eyebrow lifts slightly. “Forgive me for misreading the situation, sir.”
The way he says “sir” should come with subtitles: I am calling you “sir” because protocol demands it, not because I believe you deserve the title.
“Next time, perhaps you might want to consider asking if I need rescuing before launching yourself at me?”
A muscle tics in his jaw. “I’ll make sure to request written permission next time Your Royal Highness is about to be crushed.”
I stare at him, momentarily speechless. Did my new security detail just sass me?
It’s not something I’ve encountered before. Even though I was only twelfth in line to the throne growing up, I’ve always been a prince. Deference is the standard treatment I receive.
Looking at his stony face, it appears this man definitely isn’t intimidated by my title or rank.
And there’s something rather unsettling about that.
Time for a new approach.
Charm.
I’ve always prided myself on being able to charm anyone, from stone-faced diplomats to the Queen’s most severe ladies-in-waiting.
This hulking Irishman clearly needs a dose of the Prince Nicholas charm offensive.
After all, if I can coax a grin from the Swedish ambassador during the great canapé disaster of 2023, surely I can crack this man’s armor.
“Well, Officer O’Connell, since we’ll be spending so much time together, perhaps we should get better acquainted.
” I deliberately relax my stance and lift my chin, arching an eyebrow.
“Tell me, what is your preferred topic of conversation? The weather? Your favorite flavor of protein shake? The optimal velocity for tackling innocent princes?”
Officer O’Connell gives me a cool look. “I prefer to focus on the job, sir.”
“The job of keeping me out of trouble? I hope you’ve been practicing your cardio.” I give him my most winning smile. “It’s practically an Olympic sport at this point.”
His face remains impassive. “My job is to keep you alive, sir, yes.”
“Between you and me, the real danger isn’t assassins. It’s death by small talk at charity luncheons. I once spent three hours discussing whether miniature horses know they’re miniature with the Duchess of Marlborough. I still have nightmares where tiny horses ask me existential questions.”
Still nothing. Not a single flicker.
“You know…” I step closer, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Some people have been known to laugh at my jokes.”
“I’m not most people.” His gray eyes meet mine, utterly unmoved. “And this isn’t a cocktail party.”
“No, the cocktail party is about thirty feet that way,” I say, pointing.
“Where my Uncle Bernard is no doubt regaling Lady Fortescue with the detailed history of every hunting trophy on the wall. By now, he’s probably reached the thrilling saga of the stuffed fox from 1987, the one he claims winked at him before he shot it. ”
There’s not even a twitch of amusement on any part of this man’s face. Which is definitely not something I’m used to encountering.
This is like performing stand-up for a particularly judgmental statue.
Before I can attempt again, a voice slices through the corridor. “Nicholas, darling, you’re holding up the entire evening.”
The Duchess of Hereford, also known as my Aunt Cordelia, appears at the end of the hall, resplendent in pink silk and dripping in diamonds. Her gaze slides coolly over O’Connell before dismissing him entirely. “Everyone is waiting, and you know how Aunt Agatha gets when dinner is delayed.”
Aunt Agatha once threatened to have a footman beheaded for serving lukewarm soup. She was joking.
Probably.
“Coming,” I say to her before I turn back to my new protection officer.
“Well, it was certainly memorable to meet you, Officer O’Connell. I think we’re going to get along splendidly,” I say with a smile.
His expression doesn’t change, but something dangerous flickers in those dark depths. “I’m not here to get along with you, sir. I’m here to keep you alive.”
Well, that’s refreshingly honest. Most people pretend to like me for at least the first week. Though I suppose “keeping me alive” is a form of caring, in its own deeply impersonal, contractually obligated way.
Still, as I follow the duchess to dinner, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if someone wanted to keep me around for reasons other than duty, succession, or a paycheck.
Will I ever actually know the answer to that question?