Page 46 of American Royalty

Chapter Nine

“The force of the blow depends on the resistance. It is sometimes better not to struggle against temptation. Either fly or yield at once.”

—Francis H. Bradley

Thatcould’ve gone better.

After Louisa had left—with a tersely uttered “Fix this or I’ll have to inform the queen!”—Jameson had given instructions to his staff about their new guest, then shut himself away in his office. The large room had always been a sanctuary for him, the mahogany-paneled walls, navy blue area rug, and floor-to-ceiling shelving the epitome of a gentleman’s study.

Coming home to a household in turmoil was not how he usually ended his day. He preferred a quiet evening with papers to read and grade followed by a few fingers of scotch.

Tonight, he’d skipped the papers and gone straight for the alcohol.

He leaned back in his desk chair, resting the tumbler of amber liquid on his chest.

Two weeks with Duchess in his house.

She hadn’t been what he’d expected, and he should have known better. After all, he was aware that the glitz, glamour, and fairy tale the public saw rarely collided with the reality. But he hadn’t applied the same consideration to her. He’d expected a full-blown diva, complete with fur coat, full hair and makeup, and an entourage.

Instead, she’d been stunningly casual in jogging bottoms, a T-shirt that showed off her toned midriff, and trainers.

The furthest thing from a diva. One might almost mistake her for a regular person.

Almost.

He took a sip of his drink. Choosing her to perform at the concert had been a mistake. All his fault. Because he hadn’t taken the queen seriously and failed to do his research. But it was done now. The best he could do would be to get back into his routine and keep his distance. It shouldn’t be difficult. Once the celebrations began, they’d all be too busy to have anything but the most cursory interaction. In a month, she’d be on a flight home never to be seen or heard from again.

With that thought, he straightened and set his glass on the desk. There were emails he needed to check for work, grades he’d planned to enter. Maybe the rote academic tasks would be enough to calm him so he could finally put that disastrous encounter behind him.

He opened his laptop and clicked his email icon. Sure enough, several messages were waiting, including two from students asking permission to submit late work and one informing him of an upcoming department meeting. He bypassed those and clicked on the message fromThe British Journal for the History of Philosophyabout the manuscript he’d submitted. They’d accepted it for publication the following year but had a few notes for him to address.

Splendid. He enjoyed his field of study; it required a concentration and attention to precise language and intent that he usuallytook pleasure in providing. Working on this article was just what he needed to end the day on a positive note.

Except... he couldn’t focus. He was unsettled. Agitated. His blood simmered just beneath his skin.

As though they had a mind of his own, his fingers engaged his search browser and typed in “Duchess.”

Because of who and where he was, he was immediately bombarded with results for royalty.

Margaret, Duchess of Strathearn.

Simon, Duke of York.

Charlotte, Duchess of Richmond.

Right. The last time he’d searched her he’d been on his phone. He narrowed down the options by adding “rapper” to the search query, and there she was, her image all over his screen. Most of the photos showed her the way he’d expected: wearing different glamorous outfits, posing on various red carpets; there were even several stills from performances.

In some she was slightly more casual—jeans, over-the-knee rhinestone boots, a fur-lined hood on her jacket, her face hidden behind shades and large hats. Her head was usually bent as if she knew she was being photographed by paparazzi.

But none had her looking the way she had earlier. Very few showed her with another man, romantically, but there was a search result that hinted at having information about her personal affairs.

“Here’s the Tea on Duchess’s Dating Life.”

It’s none of your business, Jameson. You don’t need to know who she’s screwing to have her participate in the celebration.

He clicked on the link and read.

She wasn’t married. There were rumors she was dating a fellow rapper, but she was also linked to a pop singer...