A March Bride (A Year of Weddings 1 #4)(7)

She said that with such calm and clarity. “Perhaps it’s you who has changed her mind.” Nathaniel stood behind his chair, hands propped on the curved wings. “Do you regret saying yes to me?”

“Do you regret proposing to me? You’ve been so . . . weird lately.”

“I know, love, I know.” He exhaled, returning to his seat.

“And what was that smile you gave Lady Genevieve this afternoon? I thought you wanted to keep her at arm’s length after how she tried to manipulate you into marrying her.”

“You’ve heard the saying, ‘Keep your friends close but your enemies closer’?”

“You think you need her on your side?”

“I think I need her not to fight against me. Can we not talk about Ginny?” He pressed his hand over his heart. “There’s something I’ve been avoiding discussing with you.”

“Like what?” The rosy hue faded from her cheeks.

“Susanna.” He stood again, too restless to remain seated. “There was a writ passed in Parliament last week, sponsored by the Liberal-Labor Party coalition, who you know recently took control in Parliament. As it were, they are also a small but loud voice against the monarchy.”

“What kind of writ?”

“An addendum to the Marriage Act. Brighton parliamentary procedure allows for a writ to be attached to any law or act by a majority vote in the House of Senate and Commons within a year of the law’s ratification.”

Nathaniel paced over to the window and stood in the room’s shadows, peering into the rich, dark, velveteen night. Parrsons was situated on top of the cliffs surrounding the northeastern bay, and on a clear night the lights shining down from the heavens seemed to be within a man’s reach.

“Nathaniel?” Susanna’s warm hands smoothed over his shoulders.

He turned around and drew her to him, embracing her, kissing her cheek, working down her long, slender neck to her shoulder, holding on to her for dear life. “I love you so much.”

When he found her lips, she rose up on her toes, looping her arms about his neck, returning his affection, matching his ardor.

“Talk to me, Goose,” she said, her lips still brushing against his.

“Goose?”

Top Gun.

“Tom Cruise. Anthony Green.”

“Very good, Your Majesty.”

“If I’m Goose, does that make me your wingman?” He lifted his head, grinning, squinting down at her. “I believe you’re to be my wingman.”

She grabbed a fistful of his starched shirt. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“You have to give up your American citizenship.”

“What?” She released him, stepping back. “That’s the writ? Susanna Truitt has to give up her American citizenship? Or does this apply to all people wanting to become citizens of Brighton? Brighton no longer welcomes dual citizenship?”

“You’ve been a good student of Brighton law and history.” He watched her, trying to read her changing expression.

“Of course—I want to be a good Brightonian. A good wife to the king. But, Nathaniel, I also want to remain an American.” She fidgeted, gathering her hair in her hands, piling it on her head, then letting it fall loose again. “I mean, it’s all I have left of who I am. I thought it was one of the things you love about me.”

“Indeed, I do love who you are in every way, and if it were up to me, your American citizenship would not be an issue. But I’m not an autocrat. I’ve a parliament to deal with and they’ve come up with their own constraints. The writ applies only to the Royal Marriage Act. Not to all Brightonians. The proponents argue that the spouse of the monarch cannot have divided loyalties. All laws, all treaties, all acts of war are in the reigning monarch’s name. In this case, mine. If for some wild reason Brighton should find herself on the opposite side of a conflict with America—”

“They think I’d be a traitor to Brighton?”

“Yes.”

“But I wouldn’t. And taking my citizenship doesn’t guarantee my loyalty . . . if I were so inclined to be a traitor.”

“Agreed. But we can’t know what the future will bring. Surely you see their point, Suz. They want to protect Brighton and her people. They want to protect the royal house.”

“Protect them from me?” She laughed, mocking. “Little ole Susanna Jean from St. Simons Island? The American government doesn’t even know who I am besides a social security number and a tax bracket.”

“Maybe before, but they certainly know who you are now.”

“So what? I have no real authority.”

“But you have access to people with the real authority. You have access to me. You are an influencer in the world now, Susanna, whether you’ve grasped that or not.”

“Influencer? I’m fodder for fashion magazines, tabloids, and hate blogs.” She backed up, a dark shadow flickering across her face. “But to me, I’m just your wife-to-be. A landscape architect, Rib Shack waitress from Georgia.”

“Surely you understand your station is far more than ‘just a,’ Susanna. You’re marrying a king. Don’t play naive. You understood what it meant when you agreed to marry me. You’re on the world’s stage now. Every major American television station has crews and broadcasters setting up shop outside of Watchman Abbey, ready and waiting to report on our wedding. We’ve had hundreds of requests from magazines, newspapers, and broadcast stations in the States and the world for interviews with you. Just you. Not me a’tall. What you say and do will influence nations.”