Page 31 of Thrones We Steal

But let’s be honest: so am I.

The PM shakes his head. “I’m afraid Lady Beatrice is too young. The law dictates a ruler must be twenty-one before being crowned. So even if you were to abdicate your potential right to the throne, Lady Beatrice couldn’t take your place for several years.”

Of course. I knew that. My fight or flight response is firing on all cylinders and skewing my ability to remember the name of my country, let alone the intricate nuances of her ascension laws.

Another thought grips me. “You said I would have to give up my dukedom. That includes our home, doesn’t it?”

The PM has turned a bright, mottled red. Apparently, upending people’s lives isn’t something he does with any regularity. “Since Maison de Lierre is the seat of the Duke or Duchess of Whitmere, I’m afraid that yes, the entirety of it would go to—” Here he consults a paper in front of him. “—your cousin, Benjamin Chapman-Payne, the new Duke of Whitmere. Should you choose to accept this responsibility,” he tacks onto the end.

How comforting. I have a choice. Which door do you choose, Celia? Hell or Hades?

“But that’s our home!” I blurt it out.

My bracelet is a fragile link to sanity in my fingers. Rosalind tenses beside me. Raising your voice at the prime minister, in front of the king, is not an acceptable thing for a lady to do. But I’ll wager no lady has ever been put into my position before.

“I know how shocking all of this must be.” He fixes his attention on my mother, who sits as though a broomstick is superglued to her spine. “A set of rooms in the palace would be readied for each member of your family, ma’am. You would all assimilate into the royal family.”

She nods but doesn’t say a word. Her fairy godmother has just granted her deepest wish. What is there to say except “thank you?”

The PM’s face can’t possibly get any redder. It is now the color of a ripe beet. He resumes his attack on my world. “Which brings us to another matter. Your Grace, you would, of course, be asked to resign from your position at the Historical Society, effective immediately.”

The last support beneath me gives way, and I fall. “Excuse me? You do realize I’m the director of the Society?”

“I do, Your Grace. But if you choose to go through with this, your duties as a working royal will keep you much too busy to hold a job outside of the palace. Not to mention, under the circumstances, it seems best to cut your ties with the diary and the Historical Society indefinitely.”

It’s too much. My fiancé, my home, my career. My entire life and identity. They want everything.

Every single bloody thing.

“Parliament is aware of the enormity of this request. It will require sacrifice and a dedication to your country. We don’t expect you to jump into this quickly. We ask that you give it serious thought before making a decision.”

“How long do we have?” Henry is cool and collected.

I am a deranged patient at a mental hospital.

“Parliament is willing to give you three days to come to a decision, Your Royal Highness.”

“And if we say yes?” Henry again.

“The wedding will be in one month from now.”

I sputter a cough into my hand. “Just to clarify, we have three days to decide our future, and then we’d be married in a month and crowned in three?”

“That is correct, Your Grace.”

“How generous.”

The prime minister tightens his lips. “I’m not asking you to choose who you want to marry or what you want to do for the rest of your life. I’m not asking what you want at all.” His eyes soften infinitesimally. “I’m asking you to decide how much you’re willing to sacrifice for your country.”

“What if we decide we’re not willing to do this?” Henry’s voice startles me out of my downward spiral. Is saying “no” actually an option?

“Parliament is putting measures in place to attempt to maintain peace, but the likelihood of them being successful is thin. As a backup, we are preparing for an outbreak of war.”

My heart lurches downward. It hits my toes with a thunk.

I have two choices: either follow through with this ridiculous plan, or drive Wesbourne to a civil war, and ultimately, ruin.

I’ve been grappling for a solution, anything, to prove there are other options. But it’s clear now.

---