Page 84 of Hawthorne

“You look stunning, Your Majesty.” I turn my attention to the queen, trying to get away with some flattery, with a wide smile and notice her already decent bump. “And congratulations on the state of Your Grace. Everyone was delighted by the news.”

I certainly am.

The king mutters something intelligible while she blushes furiously from my words. Everyone knows love was never on the cards for them, but they both knew their duties and managed to make it work despite the rumours.

He is fifteen years my senior and was never an ugly man, attracting many women over the years to his bed, but charm was never one of his strongest suits. That has always been my talent.

“I hope you enjoy the party in your honour,” the king grunts. “It’s the first time you’ve attended since your father died, after all.”

Even though I don't like all of this bullshit?

“It’s hard to attend parties and any kind of celebration when it still feels likeheshould be the one doing it instead,” I answer somewhat truthfully. “Nonetheless, we’re eternally grateful for the recognition and friendship between our families, Your Majesty.”

I bow again, just for good measure. Just as I’m about to try and think of something to excuse myself, the Earl of Wessex shows up, greeting the king, and I take the cue to subtly remove myself from the scene and steer towards the bar.

A drink sounds wonderful right now.

“I was wondering how soon you'd leg it. I must say, you lasted longer than I’d give you credit for.” The voice comes from the male shape that has settled right next to me, but I haven’t bothered to look at it yet.

However, that changes when I hear him speak. To my left, almost as tall as I am, with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, is my university pal, Oscar Astley, firstborn of Baron Hastings.

“Oscar!”

What a pleasant surprise. Finally, someone I can tolerate at this party.

We shake hands and side hug each other quickly—no formalities needed with this one—before sitting down on a couple of stools, right next to each other.

“Look at you all grown up. You even made yourself a new record,Duke.” Oscar smirks.

“I don’t know what you're talking about,” I side-eye him, pretending he isn’t talking about my inability to last long in official events. Then, I motion to the bartender, asking for a drink.

King Charles prefers the term, servants. But in my understanding of the word, those were forbidden when slavery was abolished, four hundred years ago.

“What brings you around?” I deadpan him a look, as a response to his stupid question. His hands raise defensively. “Don’t look at me that way. You never come to these!”

“Well, I can’t run away from my responsibilities forever, can I?” I snark back. “I want a whisky. Neat, please,” I tell the bartender as soon as he’s close by.

“I’ll have the same,” Oscar requests. “Is that what you’ve been doing? I hadn’t noticed,” he jokes.

“Twat.”

“You haven’t improved your offence vocabulary since college, noted.”

“Oscar.,” I laugh, a few happy memories bubbling up to the surface of my memory. “You don't deserve better vocabulary.”

“Oh, the dukey’s standards are too high, now?”

“Well, not enough. I am sitting here with you.”

We both laugh and take a sip of the drinks that are placed in front of us. A small comfortable silence follows it as we both focus on our alcohol-filled glasses. Oscar might be one of the rare good people amid this nest of vipers.

“Ever the jokester.” He tuts with a longing smile on his face. “How have you been?”

“Same old. Slightly bored tonight,” I answer. “And you?”

“The only change since the last time we saw each other has been me stepping up into my dad's place in the family’s company.”

“That was six months ago. I remember seeing your ugly face on the news. How did he take that?”

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