The Controversial Princess (The Smoke & Mirrors Duology #1)(104)
“Eddie, give it back.”
“You sent him a picture of your boobs?”
“No, I did not,” I gasp, disgusted by his suggestion, swiping my phone from his grip. “We were playing, that’s all.”
“With fire, Adeline.”
I sniff and return to my phone, my smile back, wishing I could blow this image up and paper my suite with it. “There is nothing X-rated about this picture.”
“Tell the King that when it falls into the wrong hands.” As Eddie goes to close the door, Kim rushes down the stairs, armed with her phone.
“Oh, now what?” I grumble.
“You’ve gone off schedule,” Eddie mutters.
“Ma’am, you have a royal engagement with the founders of Trax. As patron of the charity, I strongly advise you not to cancel.”
Bloody hell. I forgot about that. Not surprising when my head is full of an American. “What time?”
“Two-thirty, ma’am. Jenny will be here at midday to help you prepare.”
I’m cutting it fine, but Josh is at Claringdon, and I really, really want to see him. “I’ll be here, Kim.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She nods—still terse with me—and makes her way back into Kellington.
Damon starts the car, and my stomach does that wonderful flippy-floppy thing it does when I know I’m about to see Josh. I know I won’t be able to touch him. I’ll hardly be able to talk to him, either. But I will get to look at him.
I’ll also be offering advice on how to approach this hunting trip and my father. His plan is gallant, but we all know it is far-fetched. Yet there’s hope inside of me that he can work his magic.
I DON’T THINK I HAVE ever been so keen to get inside Claringdon Palace. I’m out of the car as soon as it comes to a halt, and up the steps just as fast. Sid looks in a state of shock when he sees me racing toward him, his mind no doubt searching for the memo that advised him of my visit. “Morning, Sid.” I breeze past him and let one of the footmen relieve me of my coat. “Where is the Queen?”
“In the dining room, ma’am.”
I’m off across the vast entrance hall before Eddie makes it through the door, my senses alert, keeping a lookout for Josh. As I enter the dining room, Mother is getting up from her chair, delicately patting the corners of her mouth with her luxury napkin. “Adeline,” she says softly, unquestionable surprise on her pretty face. “I wasn’t aware of a visit.”
“Does one need to schedule a visit to see her mother?” I ask in a blasé way that is extremely out of character. Yes, one does.
Grasping her hands in front of her, she regards me with a fond smile that is also laced with suspicion. The Queen Consort knows her daughter all too well, and she knows there must be an ulterior motive to me voluntarily visiting Claringdon. It’s imperative I uphold this casual fa?ade. I smile brightly, and Mother’s long, slender neck tilts on her head. “One should have called ahead. I’m afraid I’m due to leave the palace shortly to visit The Royal London Hospital.” She approaches me and gives my cheek a tender rub. “Accompany me to my suite. Mary-Ann needs to tweak my hair, and I need to change into my outfit.”
I return her soft smile and let her link arms with me, leading me on. “Your hair looks rather perfect already, Mother.”
Her spare hand comes up to the elegant chignon and pats gently. “A few more pins won’t hurt.”
My eyes are watchful as we wander through the grand palace, voices coming from all directions, but none of them the smooth American accent I want to hear. When we make it to my parents’ private quarters, I look through the huge double doors that lead to the King’s sleeping area, which is a massive distance from the area where his wife lays her head. There is no bed sharing for the King and Queen Consort. Oh no. Yet another loveless marriage.
Mary-Ann, Mother’s long-serving lady in waiting, is by the floor-length mirror, armed with pins and hairspray. I take a seat on the velvet chaise and gaze around the room, using a rare opportunity while I have been invited in here to remind myself of the splendor. High, ornate ceilings, lavish, oversized drapes framing the huge windows, four crystal chandeliers, all grand, but tiny in the massive space. “What do you think?” Mother interrupts me from my observing, pointing to a clothes stand where a two-piece suit hangs, the soft pink almost wishy-washy, the plain court shoes with a one-inch heel bland, but perfect for the Queen Consort.
“It’s very nice,” I say, feeling a pang of sorrow for my mother. She’s a beautiful woman, and her figure at fifty-seven is to die for, not that anyone would know, since she’s wrapped up tightly in these formal, stuffy skirt suits every day of her royal life. I would love to cast her stylist aside and let Jenny loose on her. The King wouldn’t know whether the flutter of his heart was due to horror or appreciation. Assuming the King’s heart still beats for his queen.
“I think so, too,” Mother says, standing as still as a statue while she’s groomed. She doesn’t think so at all. She tells herself she loves the style forced on her because it is easy. Because it is her duty. When the King met the beautiful Spanish princess in 1977, she probably wasn’t aware just how subdued her life would become. She was young and vivacious. She was a fashion icon, a role that died with my grandfather’s death and when my father became King. She’s like a Barbie doll now. Lifeless. Limited to what her owner demands of her. I’m glad I’ll never be in the same boat.