Page 5 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Four

PRINCE AUGGIE WITH KATIE AGAIN!

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It’s hard to say which is worse: the sight of the newspaper left on my bed after I do the walk of shame into the palace the next morning or my hangover misery, leaving my stomach sour and my mouth fuzzy.

Or, worst of all, remembering the way Katie looked at me when I left her flat earlier, with something like betrayal.

Or quite possibly heartache. She said she didn’t want to talk to me for a long while.

I said I understood. Plus, there was the way that Thomas Golden looked at me at the end of the night as he left.

I’m the worst person. No more public events. I’m canceling myself for the good of the country.

I’m never leaving the palace again. No more nights out. I flop face down onto my bed after kicking off my shoes, burying my face in my arm. Camden comes over and headbutts my shoulder, purring. All I want to do is sleep for an eternity.

Which is when, of course, there’s a knock at my door. I look down, still in my club wear.

“One moment, please.” With whatever last scraps of willpower I have left, I force myself to sit up, peel off my sparkly shirt, and find a sweatshirt.

I run a hand through my hair, which is still dyed.

Fuck. I pull on Gav’s hat and at last go to the door.

Queen Victoria never had to face the music like this because she had the good sense not to get caught out by the Victorian version of the paparazzi.

“Come in.”

The door opens, and there’s my sister. Anne takes in the sight of me and folds her arms across her chest. The corners of her mouth tug down. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I don’t know whether to apologize or what to apologize for this time—or still—and while I try to gather up my remaining brain cell amid the hangover, she looks ominous.

“Father wants to see you.”

I groan.

“Now?”

She nods. “He’s waiting.” And she turns and leaves without any further words for me.

“Bollocks,” I mutter after I’ve shut the door.

I wonder why she didn’t text, but I’m not sure where I’ve put my phone.

It’s probably out of battery. I hurry my protesting body into the shower in an effort to get the color off my hair in record time before I get dressed and go to see my father in his study.

At least my hair’s back to the usual dark blond.

Mostly. Let’s hope he doesn’t notice with my damp hair.

I knock. He calls for me to enter.

When I do, the all-too-modern smart television’s on, and my father’s absorbed in a program. A man’s finished giving a woman a rose before the image disappears into blackness as he shuts the TV off.

His study is a grand room, because of course it is in a palace. The furniture is traditional, all dark woods and paneling. One day, I’d love to see him try something new, like a Scandi look.

My father, or King James to everyone else, is a secret TV junkie.

He’s addicted to the news, especially those twenty-four-hour channels that overanalyze everything.

He also loves nature documentaries, and what he loves even more than nature programs and factual programs is something taboo that Anne and I don’t talk about. When we talked, that is.

The simple truth is that the King is addicted to reality TV.

Dancing with the Stars. The Great British Bake Off. Survivor.

I suppose we all have our secret shames.

Father turns the TV off to peer at me like some sort of unexpected specimen found in a Petri dish.

“Augustus.”

His cool blue eyes take me in. As always, he’s impeccably groomed, with a trim beard that’s more white than blond, though he still has a full head of hair.

Shifting in his armchair, he sets down the remote control and turns more fully towards me for his scrutiny.

He’s more gaunt these days. After Mum died, his health turned, and it’s like he aged a decade or two overnight and became an old man.

On the low oak coffee table, there’s a buffet of Sunday papers, which doubtless have the analysis of my Saturday night indiscretions, moment by excruciating moment, written by some royal observer. And I gave them more than plenty to observe.

“Hello, Father.” I fight every fidget that comes.

More awkward stretches between us like days. Possibly weeks. My hangover still presses behind my eyes, even though I’ve drunk plenty of water.

“I wondered if you were going to get up today.” His tone is even. I’d rather he yelled at me. “Or if you would come home.”

“It turns out I did both.”

“I see that.”

The urge comes to shift my weight between my feet. To twist the cuffs of my shirt. To chew my lip. My stomach churns from too many shots last night, and my brain’s wrapped in a dreary fog, with my temples throbbing like a metronome of doom.

“I didn’t realize you felt that way about Katherine.”

I swallow hard and turn some brilliant color. Oh no. Of course he read the morning papers. Never mind what hit the news reels. It’s a ritual like watching his programs.

“I—”

Any answer is the wrong answer. To say I do would be a lie. To say I don’t sounds entirely callous after being photographed like that together. I let Katie down and then some. I’ve hurt her, and it feels deservedly awful.

I practically bite my tongue in my struggle for words. Instead, I suck back a deep breath. “It’s, err, complicated.”

He arches a silvering eyebrow, a gesture that Anne inherited from him. “I never thought you the type to respond in memes, son.”

My mouth opens and shuts again. A puff of air escapes.

How the hell does he even know what a meme is?

“Um.”

“You’re usually far more well-spoken, Auggie. But I suppose you might be feeling under the weather. I’m not used to seeing your… exuberance quite like that. Certainly not in the press.”

“I’m sorry.” My fingers find the cuffs of my sleeves to toy with. The room’s too close. Everything spins. “I should have thought of the family and how my behavior would be perceived.”

“Your behavior is appalling, yes. Clearly, thinking was off the table.” He frowns now, brow furrowed, all sharp and pointy. “Did you take a moment to think how dangerous your indiscretion was?”

Oh shit. Dangerous?

There’s been, regrettably, very little thinking. It’s off brand for me. Heat burns my face.

I get the eyebrow again. Totally deserved too.

“Not only are you my heir, Augustus, but you put Katherine in danger as well. Never mind the people who are actually charged with taking care of your well-being and security. Did you have a thought for them?”

I slump. He mustn’t know that Anne and Gav were with us last night. Anne didn’t tell him that much.

“No…”

Shadows fall over his face. He frowns deeply, carving lines around his mouth.

I stare down at the vicinity of my toes. Even they feel ashamed.

“For the record, I’m very glad you’re safe. However, this morning I received the full briefing from your security detail. Which you left behind. This must not ever happen again, do you understand? You’re not some obscure royal fifteenth in line to the throne. What you do matters.”

I sigh.

“I understand that you might feel trapped sometimes.” My father contemplates me.

My head snaps up. Another surprise.

“I was young, once.” He gives me a wry look.

In some ways, that’s worse than the certainty of something cutting and sharp.

Instead, he’s weary. “And my mother was the Queen. It felt impossible to imagine that one day I would be King. Unthinkable. Because that would mean she was dead. And I’m sure you can’t imagine me gone, but one day, I will pass too. The future’s with you.”

As impossible as it is for me to imagine myself as King one day, it’s even stranger to imagine my father as a young man.

I blame the familiar ennui for this conversation. Also, I don’t want to think of my father gone, not so soon after Mum passed, for a whole host of reasons.

I carefully draw in a steadying breath.

My father tilts his head, another appraising glance. “You must think carefully about your… relationship with Katherine. She’s not marriageable material.”

Unable to help it, I bristle. “She’s my friend! She’s—err—marriageable—if she wants.”

The damned eyebrow strikes again.

“Look, I know she’s not top-tier aristocracy, but I care about her. Very much. And—well, like I said, it’s complicated. And—nobody said anything about marriage! You started that.”

“Do you want a reputation as a womanizer?” he asks skeptically.

We both know that’s certainly not what I want. And yet after last night, it tracks. When I close my eyes, I still see the blinding flash of cameras.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.” It’s his turn to sigh.

I dig a toe of my grey bunny slipper into the plush crimson rug, scowling. Slippers that Anne gave me as a joke a couple of Christmas ago. Before our mum died.

“Image is everything, Augustus. The survival of the monarchy depends on it. On public support. The monarchy is bigger than you or me. We mustn’t be seen to be flouting our privileged position. We must be careful?—”

“I know, I know?—”

“Clearly, you’ve forgotten,” he snaps. “Are your nails painted?”

“Of course they are.”

My father sighs once more with disappointment.

“Father, I’ve volunteered in Guatemala. I do more public engagements than anyone in the family. Especially the last two years. Nearly everything I do is for us.” I shake my head, my eyes stinging. “I’ve sacrificed a lot.”

Such as my Olympic dreams. And I don’t dare mention the suppression of both my sexuality and gender identity, very much third-string backbench in ensuring the survival of the monarchy.

Our rule is to not draw attention—especially negative attention or perception of such attention—to oneself.

The monarchy’s survival must always come first.

Nobody wants a misbehaving gay prince either.

“It won’t happen again, I promise.”

When I’m feeling trapped and I’m not sure what to do, I think of my mother. I don’t want to disappoint her either. So I try, for her, to do what’s expected.

“We need to appeal to the public, Auggie.” His lips press into a thin line like cut glass.

I nod.

“We need to be relatable. We need to be seen as not so different and that we can do good in the world.”

Standing with my hands in my pockets, the rug sadly doesn’t swallow me up. Which would be an excellent option for furnishings to offer.

“Yes.” My shoulders slump.

“And you’re capable of good. I know it for a fact.”

Maybe it’s a compliment. Maybe it’s a trick. It’s hard to say. I continue to consider the carpet. No obliging sinkhole has appeared.

“On the other hand, this latest press coverage you are receiving can be to our advantage.”

I dare peek at him. He’s still looking at me. This can’t be leading me anywhere I want to go.

“Advantage?” I ask warily. “What advantage?”

I start chewing on a thumbnail. Every instinct has me wanting to bolt out of here, but that’s impossible. The heir to the throne doesn’t bolt. Probably an earl or a duke could get away with it, the lucky arseholes.

“We need a modern monarchy. We need to address your profile. I’ve been concerned for some time about our future and public perceptions. It’s why I originally wanted to meet. Which is why I’ve recently taken the liberty of?—”

“What have you done?” I demand, not trusting that determined look. I recognize it—and it never leads anywhere good. The crimson walls close in, gilt paintings looming in ornate frames. Queen Victoria smirks as if she knows what’s coming.

“I submitted your application to Renaissance Man in response to their call for notable guests. And wonderful news: they would love to have you on.”

“Wait. What does that even mean?”

His lips twitch. He coughs slightly.

Is my father… nervous? I know his tells for anger, for joy, for disappointment. But nervous? I haven’t seen that before. What the hell makes my father nervous, especially about me?

“It’s a new television show filming from next week?—”

My eyebrows shoot up so fast it’s a miracle that they don’t fly off my face.

Air sucks into my lungs. Oh no.

“A television show?”

Isn’t Renaissance Man the show Katie mentioned last night? And at the gala. With Thomas Golden?

“Yes. Where well-bred young men demonstrate their various skills. In competitions from athletics to the arts to show your talents.” He brightens with a sudden smile, obviously thrilled to bits about the show.

“It sounds quite charming, actually. An excellent opportunity to reform your profile and find an appropriate wife. With, err, exposure through the right channels. I need heirs. Our bloodlines matter. The monarchy needs heirs if it’s to survive.

I’ve taken the liberty of clearing your schedule.

Lauren will see that you have everything you need. ”

My brain ricochets inside my skull as I try to make sense of whatever he’s on about.

Not least of all that my father thinks I have talents—and not only talents, but enough talents to go on a show and prove myself to the whole of the kingdom.

It takes a long moment. Two long moments, in fact.

But then, dread strikes, and oh God, what he’s done finally registers?—

“You’ve signed me up to a reality TV show ?” Alarm ripples through my body. Everything is too hot, too close.

Me, with no social media accounts and trained for a lifetime to value privacy above all, for the family’s sake.

Last night being an exception.

Father beams like the sun at the height of summer.

And suddenly, he’s robust and youthful again.

He smooths his lightweight blue jumper. “I thought that a young man like yourself would be perfect for Renaissance Man . Who better than a young royal, and what better showcase for the public to get to know their Prince and future King in a format that many people watch, especially younger viewers, an important demographic for us?—”

“I’m not doing that!”

“You must if you’re part of this family—it’s your duty.” The King is impassive. His familiar weariness creeps back in.

And at last, dignity or not, heir or not, I bolt for my rooms. If there was ever a sign of the apocalypse, it’s arrived—and its name is reality TV.