Page 31 of American Royalty

Jameson ran a hand down his face. He’d gone from having to speak about and participate in one event to being involved in a weeklong celebration! His responsibilities—and stress!—had increased exponentially in the past few minutes.

Suck it up. You don’t have a choice.

“Tickets go on sale two weeks later. We’ve scheduled interviewsand you’re going to be front and center for most of them. You won’t have to do the smaller outlets, but the major ones, the international ones, are mandatory.”

Jameson shoved a hand through his hair. “I do still have a job.”

“By the time we’re in the thick of this, your term should be over, but I’ll do my best to work around it. For now. The queen wanted me to remind you that outside of your lecture schedule, this should be your main priority.”

The door opened, surprising them both. His Royal Highness Julian, the Prince of Wales, the oldest of the queen’s children and the next in line for the throne, strode into the room as if to his coronation.

Jameson had often thought it must be difficult to grow up appreciating the awesome responsibility that lay ahead of him. Julian’s life had never been his own. From day one, he’d known that someday he would be king, and the expectations had to have been overwhelming. Julian had responded by making everyone around him suffer as much as he had.

“I heard my nephew the scholar was here for a meeting about the upcoming tribute,” Julian said, his pompous attitude grating. “How’s that global warming coming along? Solved it yet?”

He slapped Jameson’s shoulder and made a beeline for the tea service set up on a cart. It was still morning, but Julian’s flushed face and bloodshot eyes confirmed the dress shirt and slacks he was wearing were remnants from his night out, rather than his attire for the new day.

Jameson refused to rise to the bait. His uncle had always acted like that bully relative you’d rather hide away from than have to deal with at family gatherings. Except many of their gatherings took place in front of the press, so avoiding him hadn’t been an option.

Considering Julian would one day be king, maybe breaking up the monarchy was the proper call. Institutions held because the people in charge respected them. Julian hadn’t shown anyone that he gave a flying toss about his country’s customs.

“Don’t be such a wanker,” Princess Catherine said, entering behind her brother and sinking onto a chair. Unlike Julian’s attire, Catherine’s gray slacks and pink blouse were immaculate. Too bad she hadn’t been born first. She was the perfect mixture of her mother’s steeliness and her father’s intelligence and compassion. She would’ve made a stellar monarch.

“And don’t you be such a kiss up, Cat,” Bettina, the youngest of the siblings, said, as she entered wearing a prim yellow dress and pearls, an outfit that was modeled after Queen Marina herself. Though similar to Catherine in presentation, Bettina was closer to Julian in attitude. “We’re in our fifties. Aren’t you tired of being perfect?”

Brackets appearing around Catherine’s mouth were the only outward sign that Bettina’s attack had struck its target.

“If perfect means not making a public spectacle of myself, then no,” Catherine said, referring to the recent pictures of Bettina sunbathing topless in the South of France, licking whipped cream off the fingers of her former bodyguard.

“Although”—Julian eyed Louisa—“I do enjoy having the lovely Louisa to gaze upon. You look absolutely wonderful today. Doesn’t she?”

“Ravishing,” Bettina said. “I’m sure Fiona would agree. Should we call your wife in and ask her?”

Louisa cleared her throat. “The queen has informed all of you that she didn’t need or want you to be involved in the tribute, outside of a few public appearances.”

“He was our father!” Julian said.

“You just can’t stand the idea of a celebration going on without your arse being kissed,” Catherine said.

“It should be kissed. Well and often. I’m the next in line. I should be the face of this. Not him!” Julian turned bleary eyes on Jameson. “What’s in this for you?”

“That’s not your concern,” Louisa said. “The queen wants it and that’s all that matters.”

Julian’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve spent a lot of time and energy pretending you were different from your father. But look who’s seeking the limelight now. Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Jameson’s blood roared in his ears and anger clouded his vision at the mention of his father. The gall. Julian was proof the apple could fall in another fucking orchard. In that moment, Jameson regretted any connection to the other man, including the paternal family tradition requiring the oldest sons share the first initial J. He didn’t know how a man as good and decent as John could have sired Julian.

Julian pouted. “Maybe the people deserve to know their future king is being treated this way.”

“Heavy is the head,” Catherine said, pouring herself a cup of tea.

“I’m serious. This is the type of story the press would run with.”

Although the tabloids were a major problem for his family, that didn’t stop certain members from using them to their advantage. Some had a favorite rag they’d inform when they needed to shore up their own image or sabotage one of the others. Jameson hadn’t actually believed crack investigative reporting had led to the story on Julian hunting big game in South Africa, especially since the bombshell knocked from the front pages the months-long almost daily coverage of Bettina’s French escapade.

Dealing with the queen must’ve given Louisa some starch, because she looked at the future king and said, “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Julian’s blue eyes hardened. “Excuse me?”