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“Yes, Your Majesty,” says Paul as he once again adjusts the markers on the old-fashioned scale. “Her Majesty the Queen and His Royal Highness the Duke of York have also arrived. I believe they’re enjoying the luncheon buffet in the dining room.”
I keep my expression carefully neutral. Helene and Nicholas’s affair isn’t exactly a well-kept secret among the family, and no doubt the staff has known even longer, but I have no idea if Constance is aware that her daughter-in-law is sleeping with the wrong son—and has been for several years now, according to Alexander.
“Very well,” says Constance, her voice impassive. With a sniff, she stands, not sparing me so much as a glance before disappearing through one of the large archways and into the corridor beyond. The dog lingers, staring up at me with liquid brown eyes, and I’m about to reach down and pet it when Constance’s sharp voice cuts through the silence.
“Zaffre, come.”
Reluctantly the dog trots off, and I watch it go, doing my best not to take Constance’s continued rejection personally. But even after all these months, it’s still a losing battle.
“I’m sure Her Majesty is very busy,” says Paul kindly, and I tear my gaze away from the archway and force a small smile.
“Probably has a massive pile of Christmas presents to wrap,” I agree, even though I’m sure Constance has never wrapped a gift in her life. “Where should I…?”
“The dining room is to the left, if you’re hungry,” says Paul. “We’re only awaiting His Majesty now.”
“Right,” I say, my anxiety mounting. But then I realize the implication of what Paul’s said, and hope sizzles through me likeelectricity. “Wait, does that mean Kit’s here already? Lord Clarence, I mean—”
“I vastly prefer the first,” says a low voice behind me, and I spin around so quickly that I nearly trip over my own feet.
There, standing at the bottom of the winding staircase, his smile warm and his dark wavy hair somehow even longer than it was during our last VidChat, is Kit.
I don’t know which of us moves first, but two seconds later, his arms are around me, and my cheek is pressed to his shoulder as I hug him in return. He buries his face in my hair, his rib cage expanding beneath his soft sweater as he inhales, but there’s something about the way he holds me that doesn’t feel exactly right—something slightly desperate, maybe, with a hint of relief and fear.
The protesters at the gate—he must’ve passed them, too. I squeeze him a little tighter, hoping it’s enough to reassure him that everything is fine. And as the seconds pass, the desperation fades, replaced by his usual calm and dependable demeanor.
“Missed you,” I mumble, and when I tilt my head up, he’s there, his nose a fraction of an inch from mine.
“I missed you, too,” he says softly, for my ears only. And even though we’re not alone, he brushes his lips against mine, and the nervous tension in my body melts away. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” I admit, though I don’t mention it’s because I was too nervous to eat breakfast. I kiss him again before reluctantly letting him go. “But I think Constance already claimed the dining room.”
Kit takes my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. “The dining room is big enough for both of you,” he assures me. “If Her Majesty wants to avoid you, then she ought to be the one going out of her way, not you.”
As we pass out of the entrance hall, I offer Paul a smile and a wave. To my surprise, he bows his head in return, and while it’s a small gesture—and definitely something no one else in the family would notice—my cheeks grow warm with both gratitude and embarrassment.
On our meandering way to the dining room, Kit gives me the grand tour of the main floor, and we pause in each new space as I take it all in. Sandringham House isn’t as ostentatious as Windsor Castle or Buckingham Palace, but it doesn’t skimp on the finery, either. Or the fireplaces, or the crown molding, or the heraldry that seems to be everywhere, especially in a room Kit calls the saloon.
“Alexander usually invites the cousins here for Christmas,” says Kit, his voice lower than usual as we explore a sizable white drawing room with a painting of a sky on the ceiling. “This year, however, it’ll just be the immediate family.”
“That’ll be a barrel of laughs,” I mutter. I’ve never met any of the other members of the royal family—the list of names that extends seemingly endlessly in the line of succession after Ben—but it would’ve been nice to have a few decoys to throw in front of Constance if she gets snippy.
“It won’t be so bad,” Kit assures me. “There are plenty of places to disappear if Constance or Aunt Helene step out of line.”
“It’s not just them I’m worried about,” I say darkly, and he smirks.
“Ah, yes. Maisie’s been in a mood lately, hasn’t she?”
“Tell me about it,” I say, relieved I’m not the only person who’s noticed. “The drive up here was miserable. I think she’s fighting with Gia.”
“They have their spats,” he says with a shrug. “Though they tend to make up fairly quickly.”
“I think this one’s worse than usual,” I admit. “Has Rosie said anything?”
“Rosie?” he says, and I give him a pointed look.
“Don’t pretend she doesn’t text you practically every day. I know she likes you.”
Kit looks sheepish, even though her crush is entirely one-sided. “It’s not every day,” he insists. “But it is whenever she can think of a good excuse. No, she hasn’t said anything—and she would, if she knew something was going on.”
