Page 30 of Throne Off Course

Flirter, C’est un Art

The Queen had left the previous morning for a short diplomatic tour across Europe, a trip described by palace officials as “vital to international relations.” According to Alexander, it was simply a reminder to foreign dignitaries that she still held the reins of power.

For Emilia, it just meant the palace had become remarkably more interesting. The air in the centuries-old halls felt—not free, exactly, but less rigid in the Queen’s absence. The change was subtle yet undeniable—staff moved with lighter steps, laughter occasionally drifted through the corridors, and even Alexander seemed… well, less tightly wound.

She had barely returned from lunch when she spotted Sebastian sprawled across an antique sitting room chair, book in hand, making himself at home with all the ease of someone who not only avoided responsibility but who was waging an existential war against it.

Alexander sat opposite him with his usual measured reserve, exuding the unmistakable air of long-suffering patience. At first, Emilia barely paid them any attention. Sebastian dropping by unannounced wasn’t newsworthy—if anything, it would have been more surprising if he weren’t there, occupying some piece of priceless furniture as if it were his personal lounge.

For all the pomp and influence attached to Lord Sebastian Hawthorne, Viscount of Edgecliffe, heir to one of the mostpowerful families in the country, he was, in reality, an incurable menace.

Officially, he was meant to be assisting his father in political affairs—attending committee meetings, reviewing policy briefs, representing the family interests.

Unofficially? He spent most of his time annoying Alexander. He called it “monitoring palace affairs.”

Alexander called it “loitering.”

It was a carefully maintained balance of strategic usefulness and complete unseriousness. Sebastian did just enough to justify his presence—kept himself in the right rooms at the right times, and maintained connections with the right people. He possessed an uncanny ability to extract valuable information during seemingly trivial conversations. But mostly? He was here to amuse himself. And judging by the glint of mischief in his eyes as he caught sight of Emilia, today was no exception.

When Sebastian spotted her, he closed the leather-bound book he’d been reading with deliberate care and set it aside. He straightened almost imperceptibly, his posture shifting from carelessly relaxed to artfully casual—the subtle transformation of a born performer preparing to take the stage.

“Look who’s returned to grace us with her presence,” Sebastian called out, his voice carrying the perfect blend of mockery and warmth. “Alexander has been positively dull without his favorite historian to challenge him.”

Emilia hung her coat on the rack, amused despite herself. “And what have I missed in my brief absence?”

“I’ve been terribly busy with my own research project.” Sebastian replied mischievously.

Alexander, without looking up from the document in his hands, deadpanned, “You spent twenty minutes trying to prove that women find you more attractive when you speak French.”

Sebastian leaned back, completely unbothered by the exposure. “And I stand by that theory.”

Emilia crossed her arms, unable to suppress her amusement. “And what evidence did you gather?”

Sebastian flashed a slow, self-assured grin, shifting to face her more directly. “Three palace staff members, an intern, and a particularly enchanted florist. The results were conclusive.”

Alexander glanced sideways at him, setting his papers aside. “You flirted with staff and called it research.”

Sebastian shrugged, his shoulders moving in an elegant, practiced motion. “The scientific method has many forms.” He turned back to Emilia, smirking. “Would you like to be my next test subject?”

Emilia arched a brow. “If I say no, will you let me get back to work?”

Sebastian leaned in slightly, voice lowering just enough to be infuriating. “Ah, but what if I said—” he switched smoothly into flawless French, “Je suis irrésistible, non?”

Emilia’s expression didn’t even flicker. “Nice try, but French has the opposite effect on me. Spent my entire childhood listening to my mother switch to her native tongue whenever she wanted to win an argument.” She mimicked her mother’s accent perfectly: “‘Emilia, ce n’est pas acceptable!’ Trust me, French is the language of maternal disappointment in my world.”

Sebastian’s brow lifted in genuine surprise. “Your mother is French?”

“Parisienne, born and raised,” Emilia replied, moving to take aseat at the small writing desk near the window. “Which means I built up an immunity to French charm before I could walk. Comes in handy against men like you.”

Sebastian looked momentarily thrown before recovering with a grin. “A woman immune to my French. How refreshing.”

She paused, curiosity getting the better of her. “Why is your French so good anyway?”

Sebastian hesitated—just for a fraction of a second. “I lived in Paris until I was eleven. My father was handling diplomatic affairs there, and my mother was also from Paris.” His expression darkened briefly. “After she died, I had to move back to Caledonia to live with my father.”

“And once he arrived here he never let anyone forget his Parisian upbringing,” Alexander added. “You should have heard him at school. Alexander shifted his posture, adopting Sebastian’s casual slouch and affected drawl: “‘This school is pathetic. I already learned this in Paris two years ago.’ ‘You call this slop food? In Paris, even the street vendors have higher standards.’ It was a surprisingly good impression.

“I wasn’t that bad,” Sebastian protested.