Page 5 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Although, in our case, it’s probably more like mercury. Elegant, expensive, and slightly toxic after prolonged exposure.

And I haven’t even interacted with my mother yet. She won’t arrive until tomorrow after the hunt, just in time for the ball.

I’m midway across the Great Hall when a clattering sound snaps my attention away from contemplating the toxicity in my gene pool.

Two footmen are attempting to relocate a massive suit of armor—a fifteenth-century monstrosity that family legend claims belonged to an Alexander who fought alongside Henry V, but more likely belonged to an ancestor who simply had deep pockets.

The younger footman, who looks about twelve, has his arms wrapped around the breastplate while the older man wrestles with the lower half.

The entire ensemble wobbles dangerously.

“Careful with that,” I call, already moving toward them.

The younger footman turns toward my voice, his eyes widening when he sees me. His grip falters, and the armor starts to tilt.

I lunge forward instinctively, my hands outstretched.

But I barely make it two strides forward before something large and solid barrels into my side.

The impact drives the air from my lungs in an undignified whoosh.

Strong arms wrap around me, yanking me sideways, my Italian leather shoes skidding across marble as I’m relocated against my will.

The suit of armor topples onto the marble floor with an apocalyptic crash, sounding like some sort of medieval percussion section gone rogue.

But I don’t pay much attention to the destruction as my face is currently mashed rather inelegantly against a chest that appears to have been carved from granite and then upholstered in soft wool.

The suit fabric might be soft, but everything underneath it suggests its owner moonlights as a mountain range.

The arms encircling me are like steel cables, and I’m engulfed in a cloud of scent—pine, like this creature has been wrestling evergreens, mixed with something spiced and dark that makes my pulse skip in a thoroughly inconvenient way.

Then reality snaps back into focus.

“What the bloody hell?”

I push against my assailant, trying to regain my balance and my dignity.

But my attacker—savior?—isn’t giving me up easily.

I struggle against the vice-like grip, and the arms around me loosen gradually, as if whoever is attached to them is calculating risks before each millimeter of release.

I shove at the wall of muscle again, and this time succeed in creating enough space to pull back so I can lock eyes with my overzealous rescuer.

When I do, I find myself looking up—actually up, which rarely happens at my six-foot-two-inch height—into the most serious pair of gray eyes I’ve ever encountered.

The man attached to those eyes is built like a medieval battering ram given human form and a gym membership.

All broad shoulders cutting down to a lean torso, with the kind of proportions that suggest God was showing off when he made this one.

Close-cropped auburn hair catches the light from the chandeliers, revealing hints of copper and gold.

His face contains a strong jawline and a nose that must have been broken at least once, adding a hint of danger to a face that otherwise might be called handsome.

He looks like he eats small automobiles for breakfast. And judging by his expression, they don’t agree with him.

There’s something unsettling about the way my skin prickles as we stare at each other. I’m sure it’s just the indignity of being manhandled like a wayward toddler.

I draw myself up to my full height, which still requires me to look up at him, dammit all, and summon every ounce of royal hauteur bred into my bones.

“If you could unhand me at your leisure, I would greatly appreciate it.”

The man drops his hands as if I’ve suddenly burst into flames, taking a step backward. The warmth of his grip lingers oddly on my arms.

I straighten my jacket with as much dignity as I can muster, trying to hide the fact that my heart is still hammering.

“And now, would you be so kind as to identify yourself? One typically prefers introductions before being physically relocated across ancestral halls.”

His gray eyes don’t leave mine. “I’m Eoin O’Connell, Your Royal Highness.” His voice is deep with a distinct Irish accent. “I’m your new close protection officer.”

My mind scrambles. “Since when?”

“I joined your security team this morning.”

I’ve got a new protection officer? How did I not know this?

My security detail is something I’ve chafed against for the last few years.

Before my rapid accession in the succession line, I received no security protection unless I was attending royal events. But all that changed when I became second in line to the throne.

I currently have a team of six protection officers who provide twenty-four-seven armed security. It’s like I’m living inside a glass case labeled Break Only In Case Of Constitutional Emergency .

Now it appears I can’t try to prevent a hundred pounds of decorative steel from falling without a protection officer intervening.

Around us, footmen are scrambling to collect parts of the suit of armor, casting terrified glances toward the doorway as if expecting the Dowager Duchess to materialize and demand explanations.

But my new protection officer, Eoin O’Connell, and I remain in a standoff in the middle of it all, staring at each other.

Or glaring might be the better word.

Because those gray eyes appear cold and assessing as they rake up and down.

“No one informed me of any security changes,” I say.

Impatience flickers in his eyes. “The reassignment was authorized by RaSP following a recent security assessment. I believe your principal protection officer was notified.”

“Yet I somehow wasn’t,” I say, matching him by scanning him up and down.

His dark suit is expertly tailored to disguise what I suspect is a service weapon beneath his left shoulder, the slight bulk of a shoulder holster barely visible.

But I don’t want to focus on the way his jacket strains slightly across his broad shoulders, and how his collar frames a throat that—Christ, Nicholas, focus.

I drag my eyes back to his face, which is somehow worse because now I’m noticing the cleft in his chin.

“And your first duty in your assignment is to tackle me in my ancestral home?” I try to regain control of the situation.

Annoyance flashes across his face before it’s swiftly contained. “My apologies, sir. I was reacting to a potential threat.”

“The suit of armor was empty. And here I was, under the impression my security detail should be able to distinguish between medieval décor and actual danger. Silly me.”

“The suit of armor was about to fall on you, sir,” he corrects, his accent sharpening slightly. “Which would have been considerably less harmless.”

I’m not used to being contradicted, especially not by staff who’ve just treated me like a sack of royal potatoes.

“I had it under control,” I inform him.

“Did you now?” One eyebrow lifts slightly. “Forgive me for misreading the situation, sir.”

The way he says “sir” should come with subtitles: I am calling you “sir” because protocol demands it, not because I believe you deserve the title.

“Next time, perhaps you might want to consider asking if I need rescuing before launching yourself at me?”

A muscle tics in his jaw. “I’ll make sure to request written permission next time Your Royal Highness is about to be crushed.”

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. Did my new security detail just sass me?

It’s not something I’ve encountered before. Even though I was only twelfth in line to the throne growing up, I’ve always been a prince. Deference is the standard treatment I receive.

Looking at his stony face, it appears this man definitely isn’t intimidated by my title or rank.

And there’s something rather unsettling about that.

Time for a new approach.

Charm.

I’ve always prided myself on being able to charm anyone, from stone-faced diplomats to the Queen’s most severe ladies-in-waiting.

This hulking Irishman clearly needs a dose of the Prince Nicholas charm offensive.

After all, if I can coax a grin from the Swedish ambassador during the great canapé disaster of 2023, surely I can crack this man’s armor.

“Well, Officer O’Connell, since we’ll be spending so much time together, perhaps we should get better acquainted.

” I deliberately relax my stance and lift my chin, arching an eyebrow.

“Tell me, what is your preferred topic of conversation? The weather? Your favorite flavor of protein shake? The optimal velocity for tackling innocent princes?”

Officer O’Connell gives me a cool look. “I prefer to focus on the job, sir.”

“The job of keeping me out of trouble? I hope you’ve been practicing your cardio.” I give him my most winning smile. “It’s practically an Olympic sport at this point.”

His face remains impassive. “My job is to keep you alive, sir, yes.”

“Between you and me, the real danger isn’t assassins. It’s death by small talk at charity luncheons. I once spent three hours discussing whether miniature horses know they’re miniature with the Duchess of Marlborough. I still have nightmares where tiny horses ask me existential questions.”

Still nothing. Not a single flicker.

“You know…” I step closer, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Some people have been known to laugh at my jokes.”

“I’m not most people.” His gray eyes meet mine, utterly unmoved. “And this isn’t a cocktail party.”

“No, the cocktail party is about thirty feet that way,” I say, pointing.

“Where my Uncle Bernard is no doubt regaling Lady Fortescue with the detailed history of every hunting trophy on the wall. By now, he’s probably reached the thrilling saga of the stuffed fox from 1987, the one he claims winked at him before he shot it. ”

There’s not even a twitch of amusement on any part of this man’s face. Which is definitely not something I’m used to encountering.

This is like performing stand-up for a particularly judgmental statue.

Before I can attempt again, a voice slices through the corridor. “Nicholas, darling, you’re holding up the entire evening.”

The Duchess of Hereford, also known as my Aunt Cordelia, appears at the end of the hall, resplendent in pink silk and dripping in diamonds. Her gaze slides coolly over O’Connell before dismissing him entirely. “Everyone is waiting, and you know how Aunt Agatha gets when dinner is delayed.”

Aunt Agatha once threatened to have a footman beheaded for serving lukewarm soup. She was joking.

Probably.

“Coming,” I say to her before I turn back to my new protection officer.

“Well, it was certainly memorable to meet you, Officer O’Connell. I think we’re going to get along splendidly,” I say with a smile.

His expression doesn’t change, but something dangerous flickers in those dark depths. “I’m not here to get along with you, sir. I’m here to keep you alive.”

Well, that’s refreshingly honest. Most people pretend to like me for at least the first week. Though I suppose “keeping me alive” is a form of caring, in its own deeply impersonal, contractually obligated way.

Still, as I follow the duchess to dinner, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if someone wanted to keep me around for reasons other than duty, succession, or a paycheck.

Will I ever actually know the answer to that question?