Page 10 of How to Date a Prince

“For the record, I’m very glad you’re safe. However, this morning I received the full briefing from your security detail. Which you left behind. This must not ever happen again, do you understand? You’re not some obscure royal fifteenth in line to the throne. What you do matters.”

I sigh.

“I understand that you might feel trapped sometimes.” My father contemplates me.

My head snaps up. Another surprise.

“I was young, once.” He gives me a wry look. In some ways, that’s worse than the certainty of something cutting and sharp. Instead, he’s weary. “And my mother was the Queen. It felt impossible to imagine that one day I would be King. Unthinkable. Because that would mean she was dead. And I’m sure you can’t imagine me gone, but one day, I will pass too. The future’s with you.”

As impossible as it is for me to imagine myself as King one day, it’s even stranger to imagine my father as a young man.

I blame the familiar ennui for this conversation. Also, I don’t want to think of my father gone, not so soon after Mum passed, for a whole host of reasons.

I carefully draw in a steadying breath.

My father tilts his head, another appraising glance. “You must think carefully about your… relationship with Katherine. She’s not marriageable material.”

Unable to help it, I bristle. “She’s my friend! She’s—err—marriageable—if she wants.”

The damned eyebrow strikes again.

“Look, I know she’s not top-tier aristocracy, but I care about her. Very much. And—well, like I said, it’s complicated. And—nobody said anything about marriage! You started that.”

“Do you want a reputation as a womanizer?” he asks skeptically.

We both know that’s certainly not what I want. And yet after last night, it tracks. When I close my eyes, I still see the blinding flash of cameras.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.” It’s his turn to sigh.

I dig a toe of my grey bunny slipper into the plush crimson rug, scowling. Slippers that Anne gave me as a joke a couple of Christmas ago. Before our mum died.

“Image is everything, Augustus. The survival of the monarchy depends on it. On public support. The monarchy is bigger than you or me. We mustn’t be seen to be flouting our privileged position. We must be careful?—”

“I know, I know?—”

“Clearly, you’ve forgotten,” he snaps. “Are your nails painted?”

“Of course they are.”

My father sighs once more with disappointment.

“Father, I’ve volunteered in Guatemala. I do more public engagements than anyone in the family. Especially the last two years. Nearly everything I do is for us.” I shake my head, my eyes stinging. “I’ve sacrificed a lot.”

Such as my Olympic dreams. And I don’t dare mention the suppression of both my sexuality and gender identity, very much third-string backbench in ensuring the survival of the monarchy. Our rule is to not draw attention—especially negative attention or perception of such attention—to oneself. The monarchy’s survival must always come first.

Nobody wants a misbehaving gay prince either.

“It won’t happen again, I promise.”

When I’m feeling trapped and I’m not sure what to do, I think of my mother. I don’t want to disappoint her either. So I try, for her, to do what’s expected.

“We need to appeal to the public, Auggie.” His lips press into a thin line like cut glass.

I nod.

“We need to be relatable. We need to be seen as not so different and that we can do good in the world.”

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