Page 4 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)

Two

Benedict

T hough it would undoubtedly come as some surprise to the general, tax-paying population, being the head of a constitutional monarchy isn’t a terribly enjoyable position to hold.

My ancestors had it easy, lording over the country from their throne before dying of syphilis at the ripe old age of thirty-two. Their subjects were too busy staving off famine and plague to care very much how their self-appointed leader spent his time.

The modern era has brought with it conveniences, to be sure—antibiotics for one—but after sitting through an hour-long presentation on exactly why the public finds me so unlikeable, an untimely death by STD is beginning to feel like a more desirable alternative.

“It’s nothing we can’t get past,” concludes Preston Thomas, gazing imploringly at me over the gold frame of his spectacles. “I’m quite optimistic we’re on the right track.”

The well-appointed conference room we’re occupying in the palace’s press wing is furnished with a long, polished wood table and a set of handsome but uncomfortable chairs.

Behind him, a large monitor is still displaying the last slide from his most recent presentation.

Its headline: King Benedict: Declining Favorability Rating , seems to contradict this assurance.

As does the line of publications laid out along the center of the conference table, most of which depict my face in some version of the same unflattering scowl.

“I wish I shared your confidence,” I inform him cooly, not bothering to disguise my impatience. “Unless I’m mistaken, those favorability rates should be improving if we are indeed on the right track.”

At my words, Thomas blanches, dabbing at his receding hairline with a red satin handkerchief.

The man’s position, Director of the Palace Press Corps, would have been better called a professional false optimist. According to him, everything is totally under control, even if all evidence suggests otherwise.

In the eighteen months since I was shoved—unprepared and unwilling—onto the throne, weekly meetings with him have become the single worst item on my agenda.

In seconds, the handkerchief is safely stowed back in his pocket, returning the man to his usual pompous, polished state. “I do agree, the results haven’t been quite what we’d like. These things do take time, though, and due to the comments of His Majesty, King Arthur?—”

My heavy sigh brings his pandering to an abrupt end. “Surely we aren’t blaming this on my dead brother, Thomas.”

The man’s face goes from ruddy to white. “ Of course not , sir. I assure you. However, the late king’s lack of support for your divorce did leave us in rather a tricky position.”

Yes, he certainly did.

My late brother was everything a good king should be. He followed the letter of the law, and condoning divorce in the twenty-first century, even to support family, was unthinkable to him. Nothing and no one were more important than his duty to The Crown.

Perhaps, if Arthur had even an inkling that the burden of the wretched thing would fall directly onto the head of that same disgraceful brother, he would have rethought this approach.

As it is, the man spoke publicly of his disappointment in me, condemned the “hasty dissolution of my family,” and only smiled grimly when asked what this would mean for the line of succession.

Like Icarus, my brother thought himself too great to be burdened by anything as pedestrian as death. Then, not even a week later, he flew his plane into the sea. And here we are.

I really should be more sympathetic to poor old Thomas.

Under Arthur, the better part of his job seems to have been organizing press for garden parties and running focus groups on official photographs of the royal family.

There would have been no need for him to come up with presentations about why the people of Stelland hated my brother.

Without a word, I push back my chair and stand, crossing to the lone window at the end of the room.

Outside in the courtyard, the royal guard is changing their positions, tourists are taking photos outside the high, wrought iron gates, and several maintenance men are repairing some of the masonry on the gatehouse.

Business as usual. I might have looked outside this very window a decade ago and had the very same view.

Behind me, my press secretary clears his throat, his tone clipped as he continues. “My team has organized a number of appearances over the coming month, which we believe will greatly help in changing public perception for the better, sir.”

I don’t bother looking at him. “More ribbon cuttings?” I suggest, my tone making my distaste for that kind of engagement quite plain.

Arthur positively adored a good ribbon cutting.

Now, after partaking in more than my fair share, the man’s fetish for giant scissors is even more bewildering than it was when I was relegated to standing on the sidelines.

“No, sir, I’ll be sure to have an agenda prepared for you.

We’re also putting together the guest list for the palace’s annual garden party.

It wasn’t held last year, obviously, with the country still in mourning.

” He pauses, apparently waiting for me to display some sort of emotion at the mention of my late brother, sister-in-law, and nephews.

When no such reaction occurs, and the silence between us has been stretched to unbearably awkward lengths, he moves on.

“If there is anyone in particular you would like to be in attendance?—”

“There isn’t.”

Thomas hesitates, apparently warring with himself on whatever it is to say next. The man must have more courage than I thought, though, for his next words have my already foul mood darkening ominously. “Several royal advisors suggested we extend an invitation to Miss Alba Porter.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. The woman in question, Miss Porter, is the daughter of a well-known lord, and at the very top of the list .

The need for me to remarry has been discussed with increasing regularity as the country has moved away from its state of mourning and toward the date of my coronation.

With the bitter, political arrangement with my ex-wife being what it was, the prospect of making babies with her wasn’t particularly inviting.

We tried for a while, but our efforts were lackluster at best, eventually fading away when my brother took the throne, and the spotlight moved off our new marriage.

Nobody particularly cared if we failed to provide a second set of heirs. Not until now, when the situation has obviously changed. Drastically. Arthur’s death, and the deaths of his sons, have trimmed the once-flourishing royal family tree down to a single, very short branch .

“Isn’t one divorce enough?” I question Thomas, glowering.

My press secretary blanches. “I assure you, Miss Porter is lovely . We’ve met in several social situations, and she is the very picture of grace. I believe it would be beneficial for the two of you to be seen together.”

A vivid memory of the lady in question throwing a plate at my head comes to mind. “You said the same thing about my ex-wife. Perhaps you don’t recall, you did have quite a bit more hair back then.”

Apparently determined not to let my barb get to him, Thomas puffs out his chest, looking more self-important than ever. “Do you wish me to cross Miss Porter from the guest list, Your Royal Highness?”

The petulant, bitter part of me wishes dearly to tell him I would.

Apparently, my natural resistance to The Crown’s machinations has weakened over the course of my lackluster tenure because I don’t seem to have enough fight left in me to accept this reluctant offer.

A bitter taste fills my mouth as I shake my head.

“No. Invite her. The more the merrier, yes?”

Thomas appears delighted, seizing upon my resignation with great enthusiasm. “Yes, sir. I quite agree.”

I don’t hesitate to take advantage of the opportunity this presents. “Is that all?” I ask, arranging my expression to one that hopefully conveys this was more of a rhetorical question.

As the third king my unfortunate press corps director has had the dubious honor to serve under, the man knows how to take a hint.

Sure enough, Thomas inclines his head respectfully, visibly relieved I’m not going to further question his professional abilities.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I deeply appreciate your attention today.”

His gaze weighs on my back as I leave, stepping into the well-appointed professional wing of the palace.

My mood, which has been at a permanent low for months, is more bitter than usual as I stalk down the familiar, carpeted corridor.

There are more people here than usual, and I’m scarcely aware of my surroundings as I brush past a pack of interns who all but fall over themselves to get out of my way, and a housekeeper who drops into a perfect curtsy at the sight of me.

I ignore all of them.

Ornate oil paintings of long-dead ancestors glower down at me as I journey into more private areas of Ashwell Palace.

Their gilded frames, interspersed with the occasional marble bust or decorative urn, are just the same as they were when I was a boy, and I liked them as little then as I do now.

Somewhere nearby, a grandfather clock chimes, the melodic gong reverberating through my temples.

It’s laughable that even the damn clock sets my teeth on edge these days.

The need to get out seems to be growing more urgent with every step I take. There are a whole host of things I know I need to see to, a pile of paperwork waiting in my study that needs my fussy, self-important signature, and a meeting with the prime minister which I’ll need to prepare for.