I try to keep it together, but frustration makes me tear my hands through my hair. Because how the hell do you argue with that?
“So that’s it?” I ask, crushed. “There’s no way…at all?”
She’s not angry when she says it, or mean. Just…final.
“No, there isn’t.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. And then I lift my head—facing her, head-on. “Then I guess there’s nothing left to say. Thank you for speaking with me.”
I rise and turn to leave, but when my hand is on the door she calls my name.
“Yes?” I turn back.
“I have watched you these last months. I’ve seen how you are with the staff and the people, with Henry and Nicholas. I’ve seen you.” From this angle, in this light, the Queen’s eyes seem shiny. Almost glistening. “I was wrong the day we met when I said you wouldn’t do. If things were different, you, my dear, would do…beautifully.”
Tears rise in my eyes and emotion lodges in my throat. It’s funny—when people are stingy with their praise, it always seems to mean the most when it’s given.
I dip my head, and bend my knees and slowly lower into a full, perfect curtsy. I’ve been practicing. And for all she is—a queen, a mother, a grandmother—she deserves that honor and respect.
After the door closes behind me, I take a big breath. Because now I know what I have to do.
THE DAYS LEADING UP to the Summer Jubilee are always fraught with frantic activity and planning. There’s a tension in the air, a weight that has to be waded through, because all the things that have to get done cling like leeches.
Dignitaries and heads of state come from all over the world and are hosted at the palace. There are photo sessions with the royal family—immediate and extended—and meetings and interviews with the press. The organized chaos grows as the day of reckoning approaches, like the burps and grumbles of a volcano, building up to its apocalyptic eruption.
I’ve gotten through it the way I do every year—with a smile spackled to my face and unspoken words locked safely in my head. But the last twenty-four hours have been particularly difficult. I say all the right things, do all that’s expected, but it feels like a shroud lies across my shoulders, heavy and suffocating.
It feels like mourning…like the days surrounding my parents’ death. When, in spite of the crushing grief pressing down on every cell in my body, I had to go on, keep walking, head high, one foot in front of the other.
I’m determined to enjoy tonight, though—really enjoy it. Olivia’s never seen a real ball, with more pomp and circumstance and grandeur than I doubt she can imagine. And I want to soak up her reaction—every smile and sparkle of wonder that lights in her eyes. I’ll hoard those moments, keep the memory of tonight close and safe, so I can pull it out and relive it after she’s gone.
I wait in the morning room of Guthrie House for Olivia to come down after she’s done getting primped and painted. Then I’ll escort her over to the main palace, where we’ll receive our final marching orders from the decorum police and the ball will begin.
I hear the swish of fabric at the top of the stairs, turn around—and get knocked on my arse.
Her gown is pale blue, satin and chiffon—low cut, with a taste of cleavage, framed by dips and swells that bare her shoulders but encircle her arms. It’s an old-fashioned style without being costumey. There’s a slash of rhinestone embellishment across the bodice, and the satin hugs her tiny waist, draping down to a skirt that’s hooped but not overly large. On one side, the satin pulls up, held with the same gemstone decoration, revealing pale blue chiffon beneath, dotted with jewels. Olivia’s hair is pinned up in ornate shiny black curls, with diamond combs winking out between them.
Fergus stands beside me, and the old dog practically sighs.
“The lass looks like an angel.”
“No,” I say as Olivia reaches the bottom step. “She looks like a queen.”
She stands in front of me and for a moment we just stare at each other.
“I’ve never seen you in your military uniform,” she says, eyes drifting over me hungrily from head to toe, before settling on my eyes. “It should be illegal.”
“I’m the one who’s supposed to be giving the compliments.” I swallow hard, wanting her so much. In every way. “You look breathtaking, love. I can’t decide if I want you to stay in that dress forever or if I want to rip it off you right now.”
She laughs.
Simple, elegant diamonds dangle from her tasty little earlobes, but her throat is bare—just like I asked the stylist to keep it. I reach into my pocket and pull out a small, square box.
“I have something for you.”
She blushes, before she even sees what’s inside. And then, when I lift the lid, she gasps.
It’s a snowflake, in an intricate, spin-wheel pattern, laden with a hundred small diamonds and sapphires. The diamonds are clear and flawless, like Olivia’s skin, and the sapphires are brilliant and deep, like her eyes.
Her mouth goes slack. “It’s…gorgeous.” She fingers the velvet bed, but doesn’t touch the necklace—almost as if she’s afraid to. “I can’t keep this, Nicholas.”
“Of course you can.” The words come out firm, almost harsh. “I designed it myself, had it made.” I slip it from the box and step behind her, tying the silk choker ribbon around her throat. “There’s only one in the whole world—just like you.”