Page 33 of Thrones We Steal

It’s such a classic Rosalind move, I almost break into a sob, but I catch myself at the last second. She won’t appreciate or sympathize with the lack of composure. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter which of her daughters walks down that aisle and marries the heir to the throne. She’d pinned her hopes on me, and when that hadn’t worked out, Bea made a nice replacement. But now Parliament has made the final move, and she’s more than happy to switch her efforts back to me. It’s like she’s waved a wand and cast some magical spell over the kingdom.

“Not now, Mum. I just need time to think.”

“Time is the one thing you don’t have,” she says.

“I have seventy-two hours,” I remind her. “And I intend to use every one of them.”

* * *

I waste the next eight eating my way through an entire Hawaiian pizza—picking off the pineapple and eating it separately—binge-watching Poldark, and crying every time something terrible happens to Ross or Demelza, which basically means once the opening credits roll, the tears don’t stop.

Rosalind is likely downstairs looking for therapists with last minute openings.

I wake the next morning groggy with sleep, the way you do when you take a two-hour nap in the afternoon, only to rouse and find the day wasted and your mouth tasting like roadkill. My bedroom rings with the aftershocks of a high school slumber party with one stark difference: this mess belongs to a party of one.

It’s time to pull myself together.

I decide to try a Katniss Everdeen.

“My name is Celia Chapman-Payne,” I tell the mirror. “I am twenty-five years old. I am the Duchess of Whitmere and the director of the Wesbourne Historical Society. I live in a beautiful home, and I’m engaged to the man I love. I’ve just been informed that I’ll need to sacrifice all of these things if I have a single decent bone in my body. Otherwise, my country will be destroyed, and I’ll become known as the most selfish human being alive.”

Is this supposed to help?

Maybe I should put myself in Parliament’s shoes. If my goal is the greater good of Wesbourne, what’s one measly young woman in the grand scheme of things? She comes from good bloodlines, is less likely to be an embarrassment than about eighty percent of the population, and she has good teeth. Cut her off from everything she knows and loves, marry her off to the nation’s biggest disgrace—two birds, one stone—and throw a crown on her head.

Problem solved.

I scowl at my reflection. None of this is helping.

How in the bloody hell am I supposed to make this kind of decision? My formal education, while exceptional in itself, did not prepare me for finding out I’m set to become the queen of Wesbourne. I have a new sympathy for Mia in Princess Diaries. If only I had a queen grandmother to shout “Shut up!” to.

This sparks an idea. She might not be a queen or my grandmother, but Dame Adelaide could easily pass for both, and she sure as hell will let me yell at her if I want.

“Sure, come over, love,” she says when I call her. “I’m at Englewood Manor for the weekend.” I can hear the tide crashing in the background, muffling her voice. “Bring your wellies.”

“What?” I say, louder so she can hear me over the waves. “Why do I need my wellies?”

A garbled reply is all I get before she hangs up. I stuff my feet into my Le Chameau rubber boots along the wall in the boot room and pluck my waxed jacket from its hook. I guess I’ll find out what she’s up to when I get there.

Adelaide and her late husband’s country estate is located about an hour southwest of Maison de Lierre. The large manor is situated on a bluff overlooking the sea. It’s nestled at the end of a long gravel road, which winds through the craggy countryside like a child’s scribble.

The housekeeper answers the door at my knock and directs me to the rocky path leading to the beach, where Adelaide is “busy foraging.” I follow the trail down the steep side of the cliff, clutching the rock facing to help me keep my footing on the loose stones.

The wind billowing in from the ocean tries to filch my breath when I reach the bottom, so crisp you could snap it in half, and the tang of saltwater permeates my nose and mouth. I climb over the massive rocks studding the coast and spot Adelaide further down the beach with a tall, blue bucket at her side.

She’s dressed as I am in knee-high wellies, although hers are Hunters, and a wax jacket, navy to my dark olive. She glances up as I approach, her short white hair whipped into her face by the wind. She pushes it back with one hand and uses the other to wave a greeting.

The first time I saw Adelaide, I did a double take because I thought she was Helen Mirren. We were at a charity gala during my final year of university, both madly intent on winning the same eighteenth-century Pierre Redford landscape up for auction. All of his paintings are evocative, but this particular piece is said to be his best. You can almost hear the waves slamming against the rocky coastline as you gaze at it. I would have sold my car to obtain it, and nearly had to by the time Adelaide bowed out, and none too graciously either. She later called a truce, saying she couldn’t hate anyone whose taste was as good as her own. We’ve been friends ever since. It was due to her recommendation that I got the director position at the Historical Society, where she not only serves on the board but also volunteers three days a week.

“You’re just in time,” she calls. She motions for me to join her on the flattish rock she’s perched on before squatting down beside a large crevice.

“What are we doing?” I say. I can’t see what she’s looking at, aside from a shallow pool of water gathered in the rocky fissure. A type of algae is growing along the bottom.

She gestures toward a small overhang which creates a sort of cave-like opening inside the crevice. “Stick your hand in there for me, love. I’ll have the bucket ready.”

I bark out a laugh. “Stick my hand in there? I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a coward.”

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