princess?”
I snort inelegantly. I hold my fingers up to tick off the list of inheritants to Courtland’s throne.
“Uh, no. The royal line proceeds by gender and by the age of the parent… it’s really confusing. There’s the King and Queen, then Prince Mercier, then Prince Archie. The next generation down is Prince Bramford, then Re— er, Prince Alasdair,” I say, correcting myself at the last second. Rex is too familiar, I don’t want Charles catching my bad habits. “Then Princess Camille. Unless Camille has a son, who would then bump Alasdair down.”
“I see,” Charles says, but clearly he doesn’t.
The waiter brings my champagne cocktail, and I sip it gladly. I wrinkle my nose, trying to figure out how to explain.
“So there have to be at least four royal heirs. There can be way more, once a new generation starts having children, but there are always at least four. Prince Bramford’s heirs come first, if they’re male, then Prince Alasdair. Unless Princess Camille has sons first, because she’s the oldest of the three…” I wave my hand. “It’s complicated. Nobody really understands it. But no, I’m definitely not a princess.”
“No, I guess you’re just the ugly stepsister, huh?” Charles jokes.
I sputter, and have to spit a mouthful of my drink onto the ground to avoid spitting it everywhere.
Stepsister. I’m going to be Rex’s stepsister?
Then, oh god, I’ve fucked my future stepbrother?
“Katherine, calm down, it was just a joke,” Charles sighs, pulling out his pocket square. He unfolds it and hands it over with an impatient expression.
I glare at him as I use the linen to pat my mouth, careful not to smudge my Dior lipstick.
“I just hadn’t thought of it that way,” I say with a frown.
Who could have dreamed that I’d one day be related to the only guy I’ve ever slept with… not to mention the biggest asshole I’ve ever met… and the only one I’ve ever felt deeply, madly in love with?
Jesus, I really need to stop thinking about Rex in those terms. Except the asshole part, he’s absolutely earned that.
“Surely your mom told you something about this before tonight?” Charles asks, looking suspicious.
“Not a word,” I say with a shrug. “It a complete surprise to me, on several levels. I was under the impression that she loathed the Prince.”
Charles gives me this sort of disbelieving expression, and I shake my head.
“Not everyone comes from the perfect American dream family like you do, Charles. I told you how fucked up royalty can be; you knew all of this before you ever stepped foot on Courtland soil. Quit looking so shocked.”
“No need to scold me like a child,” Charles snaps.
I knock back the rest of my cocktail and straighten my spine. I have a lot on my mind right now, and no room for Charles’s pouting.
“We have to go back inside,” I tell Charles. “Stiff upper lip and all that.”
“I want to meet the Prince,” Charles says as we step back inside.
“I assure you, you do not.”
Charles scowls at me, but we’re around people now and he can’t argue without drawing attention. Instead he takes the pocket square I thrust at him, sticks it in his pocket, and brushes off his jacket.
Heaven forbid Charles not look perfect all the time , I think, but I won’t let myself roll my eyes.
I’m nearly as bad as him, feeling the weight of the room’s gaze on my bare shoulders. Before I can get too anxious, I’m sucked into the social swirl. I don’t have to work too hard, just giving the same few answers over and over.
Doing quite well, thank you for asking.
Yes, I ran away to the States, ha ha ha. Yes, I did miss Courtland.
Yes, college at Brown University. Yes, I liked it.
I’m back in Courtland for good, yes.
This is Charles Ford, my escort for the evening.
Not engaged, no. Ha ha. I did like American men, yes.
And so on, different versions of that until I find myself getting a bit hoarse. I also keep downing
I snort inelegantly. I hold my fingers up to tick off the list of inheritants to Courtland’s throne.
“Uh, no. The royal line proceeds by gender and by the age of the parent… it’s really confusing. There’s the King and Queen, then Prince Mercier, then Prince Archie. The next generation down is Prince Bramford, then Re— er, Prince Alasdair,” I say, correcting myself at the last second. Rex is too familiar, I don’t want Charles catching my bad habits. “Then Princess Camille. Unless Camille has a son, who would then bump Alasdair down.”
“I see,” Charles says, but clearly he doesn’t.
The waiter brings my champagne cocktail, and I sip it gladly. I wrinkle my nose, trying to figure out how to explain.
“So there have to be at least four royal heirs. There can be way more, once a new generation starts having children, but there are always at least four. Prince Bramford’s heirs come first, if they’re male, then Prince Alasdair. Unless Princess Camille has sons first, because she’s the oldest of the three…” I wave my hand. “It’s complicated. Nobody really understands it. But no, I’m definitely not a princess.”
“No, I guess you’re just the ugly stepsister, huh?” Charles jokes.
I sputter, and have to spit a mouthful of my drink onto the ground to avoid spitting it everywhere.
Stepsister. I’m going to be Rex’s stepsister?
Then, oh god, I’ve fucked my future stepbrother?
“Katherine, calm down, it was just a joke,” Charles sighs, pulling out his pocket square. He unfolds it and hands it over with an impatient expression.
I glare at him as I use the linen to pat my mouth, careful not to smudge my Dior lipstick.
“I just hadn’t thought of it that way,” I say with a frown.
Who could have dreamed that I’d one day be related to the only guy I’ve ever slept with… not to mention the biggest asshole I’ve ever met… and the only one I’ve ever felt deeply, madly in love with?
Jesus, I really need to stop thinking about Rex in those terms. Except the asshole part, he’s absolutely earned that.
“Surely your mom told you something about this before tonight?” Charles asks, looking suspicious.
“Not a word,” I say with a shrug. “It a complete surprise to me, on several levels. I was under the impression that she loathed the Prince.”
Charles gives me this sort of disbelieving expression, and I shake my head.
“Not everyone comes from the perfect American dream family like you do, Charles. I told you how fucked up royalty can be; you knew all of this before you ever stepped foot on Courtland soil. Quit looking so shocked.”
“No need to scold me like a child,” Charles snaps.
I knock back the rest of my cocktail and straighten my spine. I have a lot on my mind right now, and no room for Charles’s pouting.
“We have to go back inside,” I tell Charles. “Stiff upper lip and all that.”
“I want to meet the Prince,” Charles says as we step back inside.
“I assure you, you do not.”
Charles scowls at me, but we’re around people now and he can’t argue without drawing attention. Instead he takes the pocket square I thrust at him, sticks it in his pocket, and brushes off his jacket.
Heaven forbid Charles not look perfect all the time , I think, but I won’t let myself roll my eyes.
I’m nearly as bad as him, feeling the weight of the room’s gaze on my bare shoulders. Before I can get too anxious, I’m sucked into the social swirl. I don’t have to work too hard, just giving the same few answers over and over.
Doing quite well, thank you for asking.
Yes, I ran away to the States, ha ha ha. Yes, I did miss Courtland.
Yes, college at Brown University. Yes, I liked it.
I’m back in Courtland for good, yes.
This is Charles Ford, my escort for the evening.
Not engaged, no. Ha ha. I did like American men, yes.
And so on, different versions of that until I find myself getting a bit hoarse. I also keep downing
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