Page 68 of The Prince and the Bodyguard
Uncle Henry’s private study was exactly what you’d expect from a king—all dark wood paneling, leather-bound books, and furniture that had been in the family for generations. What I hadn’t expected was to find my father already seated in one of the wingback chairs facing the massive desk.
“Gregory,” Uncle Henry said without preamble as I entered. “Please, sit down.”
The formal tone made my anxiety spike. He wasn’t Uncle Henry now. He was the king, and this was an audience with the monarch, complete with the subtle power dynamics that reminded everyone present who held the ultimate authority in this room.
“Your Majesty, Father,” I acknowledged with appropriate formality, settling into the remaining chair. “You wished to see me?”
“We need to discuss your future,” my father said. “Specifically, your obligations upon your return to England permanently.”
Permanently. The word hit me like cold water. “I understood that my American study program would continue through the full academic year.”
“Plans change,” Uncle Henry said. “Recent events have made it clear that the family requires a more visible commitment to traditional values and stability.”
Alexander. They were talking about Alexander’s latest scandal—whatever it was this time. I’d been so wrapped up in my own situation that I hadn’t been following the tabloid coverage of my cousin’s continued bad behavior.
“I see.”
“I’m not sure you do,” Uncle Henry continued, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk. “Alexander’s most recent escapade has put the family in an extremely difficult position. Photographs of him leaving a gentleman’s club at three in the morning, clearly intoxicated, accompanied by individuals of questionable reputation. The press is having a field day.”
I waited for him to continue, though I was beginning to suspect where this conversation was heading.
“The monarchy requires positive news,” my father added. “Something to counteract the negative publicity and remind the public that the younger generation of royals is capable of responsibility and proper behavior.”
“Which brings us to your engagement,” Uncle Henry said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather.
My blood turned to ice. “My engagement?”
“To Lady Margaret. The announcement will be made during the first week of January. We’re thinking January third, to be precise. A New Year’s gift to the nation, so to speak.”
I stared at him. Had I heard that correctly? Not a discussion about the possibility of marriage, not a suggestion that I might want to consider my future—a declaration that my engagement had already been decided and would be announced in less than two weeks. “I beg your pardon?”
“The announcement will be handled by the palace press office,” Uncle Henry continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “We’ll arrange for photographs, perhaps something tasteful at Kensington Palace, or possibly here at Sandringham if the weather cooperates. Lady Margaret has already been informed and is, naturally, delighted.”
The room felt like it was spinning. Margaret had already been told? The announcement date had been set? This wasn’t a conversation. This was an ambush, a briefing about decisions that had been made without my input or consent.
“Your Majesty,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I appreciate the family’s concern for positive publicity, but surely such an important decision requires discussion?—”
My father scoffed. “What discussion? You’ve known since childhood that marriage to someone suitable would be expected. Lady Margaret is everything one could want in a future duchess—well educated, well connected, completely prepared for royal life. The match is advantageous for everyone involved.”
“But I?—”
“The timing is perfect,” Uncle Henry said with finality. “You’ll return to London immediately after Christmas to begin the engagement activities. There will be interviews, photo sessions, public appearances as preparations for a royal wedding, which should happen a year from now.”
I sat there listening to them plan my life with the same casual efficiency they might use to arrange a state dinner, and felt something fundamental crack inside me. This was it. This was the moment Charlotte had warned me about, when I had to choose between accepting the predetermined script of my life or fighting for the possibility of authentic happiness.
“I can’t do that,” I said quietly.
Uncle Henry paused in his discussion of publicity schedules to look at me with mild irritation, as if I were a minor inconvenience rather than the person whose entire future was being decided without consultation. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, I can’t do that.” My voice was stronger this time, carrying a conviction that surprised even me. “I can’t marry Lady Margaret. I shan’t.”
The silence that followed was deafening. My father was staring at me with shocked disappointment while Uncle Henry’s expression had shifted from mild irritation to something much more dangerous.
“Gregory,” my father said carefully, “I think perhaps you’re not understanding the situation properly. This isn’t a request?—”
“I understand perfectly,” I interrupted, finding strength I hadn’t known I possessed. “I understand that you’ve arranged my marriage without consulting me, that you’ve informed Lady Margaret before speaking with me, and that you expect me to simply accept all of this because it’s convenient for the family’s public relations needs.”
“That’s exactly what we expect,” Uncle Henry said with arctic precision. “Because that is your duty as a member of this family and as fourth in line to the throne.”
