My stomach was in knots as the battle raged within me.
It was as if for a moment, I’d stepped through the looking glass to a world where I meant something to the man I vowed to love. His cold departure sent me spiraling back to reality. As I stood to make my way to the dining room, Isabella reached for my arm and whispered, “It’s happening again. He’s troubled,” she clarified. “Don’t let him get to you.”
Raising my chin, I inhaled. “I’m sorry, Princess, for being transparent. I know it is frowned—”
“Lucille” —her tone was emphatic— “you are a godsend to Roman, to this family. I only ask that you savor the good while tolerating the bad. From what I’ve been told, Roman’s social anxiety is getting worse. He almost didn’t make it to the party. I’d been warned he’d leave early.”
Social anxiety.
I was aware of his phobia, but in the five years we’d been wed, it seemed to be under control. I knew without a doubt that it was not a subject that he’d discuss. My gaze met my sister-in-law’s. “Is that why he hates me? Is it because I am comfortable…” I didn’t finish the sentence.
“He doesn’t hate you. You’re his wife.”
That was what he usually told me. A smile threatened to curl my lips at the memory of him saying I was his princess. Simple, lovely…and his.
“Your Highnesses, dinner is waiting,” Lady Kornhall said with an admonishing tone.
“I’m getting us in trouble,” I whispered after a nod to the queen’s mistress.
“She’s an old fuddy-duddy,” Isabella replied with a grin.
Our steps stuttered as we entered the dining room and found King Theodore seated at the head of the table. The royal portraits of Theodore and Anne at the time of their marriage showed the king to be an exceptionally handsome man. Roman took after him in that way. The contrast was starker in their personalities. While today the king’s complexion was paler than normal, his smile was still present.
“Your Grace,” Isabella and I said in unison with a curtsy.
“Papa,” Isabella added after the formal greeting. Hugging his neck, she beamed. “I thought you weren’t feeling well.”
“And miss the prince’s birthday,” he replied in his booming tone. “Never.”
“Theo,” Queen Anne said, “remember what the physician said.”
As he waved the queen’s reminder off with a hearty laugh, the entire room fell under his spell. I’d heard stories that when in dealings of state, King Theodore was a master and always in control. My experience was on a more personal level—in a word, he was charming.
“Lucille,” he said, lifting his hand.
Going to him, I took his hand with a slight curtsy.
“Where is my son?”
“He was here.” I looked around to see all eyes on me. “I don’t believe he knew you were to attend. I’m sure if he had, he wouldn’t have left when he was called away.”
Small lines formed near the corners of his brown eyes as he grinned. “Tell him I miss him.”
“I shall.”
As I made my way to my seat, I wondered if I’d just been given a reason to approach my husband before my departure. After all, it was a mandate from the king himself.
Oliver
Lord Martin and I remained tight-lipped as he led me through the maze back to my apartment. With each step echoing through the empty hallways, the temperature within me rose. It was the combination of the anxiety associated with opening NYC Broadway Show Reviews and reading the critic’s evaluation of your performance mixed with the reality that I was impersonating a royal in the presence of royals.
Although I was confident in my interaction with the queen, it was Princess Lucille who had me troubled in more ways than my continued employment.
My inner furnace was ablaze by the time we reached the apartment. In the presence of Lord Martin and Lady Caroline, I stripped off my suitcoat, tugged at my tie, and struggled with the buttons on my shirt.
“Your Highness?” Lord Martin questioned with wide eyes.
Undressing me was his duty.
I couldn’t wait.
If I didn’t get out of these clothes, I would suffocate.
Throwing the suitcoat and tie to the floor, I gave up on the buttons, pulling the front of the shirt apart as small buttons littered the carpeting. I wasn’t done. Lifting the padded shirt over my head, I let out a roar as I threw it to the floor.
“Fuck.”
The chill of the apartment air contrasted the heat within me that had my undershirt drenched with sweat. Ignoring the two sets of eyes upon me, I stalked to the highboy and poured a glass of still water. It wasn’t until I had downed the second glass that I turned to my assistants, ready for their rebuke.
To my surprise, they were both smiling. It wasn’t that they were ever animated, but in this case, they both appeared pleased.
“Which one of you is going to say it?”
“Say what, Your Highness?” Lord Martin asked.
“I fucked up.”
Lady Caroline walked from one article of clothing to the next, tidying up what I’d left in my wake as Lord Martin clasped his hands behind his back and sighed.
“You didn’t” —he paused— “fuck up.”
The way he pronounced the common obscenity made me grin.
Lady Caroline stood with an armful of my clothing and a handful of buttons. “If I may?”
“Yes,” I replied impatiently, “you always may. Just say it.”
“I wasn’t present at the celebration. Word is that no one, including the queen, was the wiser.” She looked down at the clothes and back to me. “This behavior you just displayed was classic crown prince, sir.” She bowed her eyes, veiling her smile. “Minus the extra padding.”
“Classic?” I looked from one to the other. “It was childish and uncalled for.”
Lord Martin nodded. “You’re learning.”
“Ridiculous,” I muttered. Wearing my trousers and a perspiration-soaked plain white t-shirt, I went to one of the plush chairs and sat. “What about Princess Lucille?”
Lord Martin came closer. “I wasn’t in the room. What do you think?”
What do I think?
That was a broad question. In an encounter that lasted no more than a few minutes, I thought Princess Lucille was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever laid eyes on. I felt a yearning emitting from her like sirens through the fog of royal protocol. I’d reacted instinctively instead of as the crown prince.
“I wasn’t prepared,” I admitted. “We haven’t discussed the prince’s relationship with his wife.”
“Strained, Your Highness,” Lady Caroline volunteered.
Strained.
I nodded. “I felt” —I looked up, meeting Lady Caroline’s gaze— “a pull. She is…” I searched for the right words. “I’ve seen her expressions in the hours of videos I’ve watched. She wants Roman to look at her, to really look at her. In that moment, I wanted to give that to her.”
Lady Caroline inhaled and looked to Lord Martin before back to me. “You cannot.”