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Ella took a breath, and suddenly Phillip’s reasoning came crystal clear in her mind. The look on his face when he’d asked her for the letters back. The speech he’d given about that little boy who drowned, and how ever since then Phillip had been driven to make his decisions based on the needs of his people and not based what he wanted for himself.
Choosing to protect the guard’s reputation over her privacy would have made perfect sense, to him. He would do anything for his people.
But it was clear he no longer counted her among them.
“Thank you for telling me this, Drake,” she said, closing the hateful magazine and setting it gently beside her instead of ripping it to confetti the way she wanted to. “Could you go tell Phillip I’d like to see him?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, he’s in meetings all day and has given strict instructions to not be interrupted unless it’s an urgent matter of state.”
She laughed humorlessly. “Of course he has.” She took a deep breath and straightened, pulling off the royal engagement ring. Only one thing for it, then. “Could you bring me a pen and some paper, please? I need to write one last letter.”
16
Phillip was nursing a glass of Scotch when Eric walked in.
The king turned in the stool to give his brother a sour look over the counter of the royal kitchens. He’d cleared everyone out, sent the chefs who worked in this section home early, planning to down as much alcohol as humanly possible before he had to face tomorrow. The last thing he wanted now was some adventurous tale from Eric. Or worse, a lecture.
The sour look slipped off his face. Fact was, he deserved a lecture. When Ella’s letter had arrived, hand-delivered by Drake during his marathon meetings, Phillip hadn’t even opened it. He hadn’t known yet about the exposé happening early, and he’d been upset that she would make loyal Drake go against his orders to interrupt him. To send Ella a message—that a king would not be brought to heel—he’d stuck the letter in his pocket and hadn’t even glanced at it ‘til after dinner. He knew the clogs had been delivered for her final fitting today and he’d figured the letter was just her way of stomping her foot over wanting to wear her own shoes.
By the time he read it and rushed to her rooms, the only things left of her were those damn silver glitter heels sitting in the middle of the bed—and a receipt for her flight to America. He’d missed her by half an hour.
“You have the look of a man who knows he’s screwed the pooch,” said Eric, sliding onto the stool next to him.
“Shut up,” Phillip said half-heartedly, and threw back some more Scotch.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. At least you know when you’ve been a total ass. Some people don’t even have that much.” Eric put his hands atop the bar and vaulted over it, then ran his fingers across the top-shelf booze, debating. “So what are you going to do now? Got a flight booked yet?”
“No. I’m going to do what I should’ve done in the first place: hold interviews for the position of queen.”
Eric stopped, staring at him over his shoulder. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re head-over-heels for this girl, and you’re going to let her
go?”
“She chose to go,” Phillip growled, then sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s probably for the best anyway. I don’t think the life of duties and obligations were for her. I’ll find a queen who can pay better attention to those details.”
But not one he’d want to read newspapers with every morning. Not one he’d take on dawn trail rides and sunset bike tours. Not one he’d want in his bed. He didn’t want anyone else, not ever again. No one but Ella.
He poured more Scotch. “If you really want to help, go ask Mother for the list of eligible women,” he told Eric. “I’m getting started first thing in the morning.”
Eric shook his head, then pulled out his phone. “Okay, brother. If that’s really what you want. But I have to warn you, if you do interviews, you’re probably going to wind up stuck with someone who might tick off all your boxes on paper but be a total wet blanket in real life. Like her sister Anna. You should’ve seen how fast she shut me down during the Summer House Party when I asked her to join me for an innocent margarita.”
“Margaritas are never innocent with you. And I’m not changing my mind on the interviews,” Phillip said stubbornly. Then: “what are you doing?”
“Texting Mother.”
Phillip blinked. “She texts?”
Eric smiled. “Of course she texts. She might be a relic but she’s not ancient.” He dropped the phone back in his pocket. “She said she’ll send it up right now.”
Phillip nodded. Ten minutes later, when there was a knock at the door, he yelled over his shoulder, “Come!”
The door opened—and the Queen Mother herself strode in, heels clicking decisively on the wood floor, eyeing her oldest son.
Phillip blinked and dragged himself to stand. “Mother. Why have you…” and then he spotted the papers in her hand.
Keeping her expression cool, she laid them on the counter in front of him. He leaned closer. The stack of papers was a good inch tall: lists of the eligible girls accompanied by research on each, all scribbled with notes in sprawling handwriting. Very familiar sprawling handwriting.
“Ella had this sent up to me after she left,” his mother said. “It’s all the work she did when she was trying to find you a wife.”
