Page 12 of How to Date a Prince

The next morning after breakfast, I find out the day’s engagements have already been canceled. When I text my father to find out what’s happened with the schedule, I get no response.

As Lauren walks into my room pushing a rolling wardrobe rack laden with pre-approved wardrobe choices, I can’t help but gawp at him. “What’s all this?”

“For the program,” he says gravely. Every last strand of his white hair is styled in place. I hate to think how much product he’s using.

I stare at the clothes rack before us. It’s all very bland. Nothing controversial. No sparkles, silks, and definitely no pink.

Reaching out to touch a sport coat, I yank my hand back when it’s confirmed beige, draped over a pair of pale trousers. “Lauren, with all due respect, I can’t wear this on a reality TV show. It’s too…” I wave a hand at the suits.

“It’s bespoke.”

Great. Custom bland menswear for prime time.

I hold his gaze. Lauren’s as tall as I am. “What happened to my schedule, by the way?”

“Your father requested that your schedule be cleared in order to prepare for a very special engagement coming up in a few days’ time.”

My jaw tenses. I flip quickly through a beige suit, a greige suit, and a charcoal-grey pinstripe suit, the last of which must have been made for a banker, or maybe that’s Lauren’s idea of evening wear for TV.

A footman enters with a cart of shoe boxes. I hold back a sigh.

“Lauren, we’ll need to talk about all of this with my father.”

“He gave me no uncertain instructions to direct your wardrobe choices.”

I rub my temples. “And everything else is canceled?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Let’s revisit this tomorrow.”

He blinks at me in surprise. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes. I have somewhere I need to be. I’ll be back tonight. Don’t worry, I’m not taking a flight out of the country. No need to hide my passport,” I quip.

“Augustus.”

“Lauren.”

Lauren sighs. “Auggie…” he tries again, but I shake my head. At least today, the hangover’s passed, leaving me with a headache of my own—and my father’s—making.

“Please. Tomorrow.”

And I hurry off to throw a few things into a duffel bag and find my riding boots. I hesitate and go into the adjacent office and stuff theRenaissance Maninfo pack into my bag. I successfully ignored the envelope when it arrived last night, too busy feeling dreadful about how I behaved with Katie and Thomas Golden.

I make my way to my SUV and soon weave my way through London traffic. When the city at last gives way to country, I take in my first deep breath in what feels like days. Green countryside opens up before me, and I drive, blasting music all the way to Windsor Castle, with a quick stop in a village to pick up a sandwich.

After checking in with the staff at the castle and assuring them I didn’t need a groom to ready my horse, I make a beeline to the stables and change into my riding gear.

I bring my horse in from a nearby paddock. The ritual of grooming my horse, a grey called Willow, calms me. He nudges my chest in search of treats. In a pocket of my barn jacket, I find a couple of sugar cubes.

“Sorry, no carrots today.” I pat his nose, then finish with the tack. I lead him out into the sunny afternoon, Willow’s tail swishing after us. He’s not my Olympic-trained competition mount, long since sold because he still loved jumping, and there was no point in keeping him for leisure only, even if selling him broke my heart. But Willow’s more than competent for my occasional ride, and others show him on the King’s behalf now that my mother is gone.

Beyond the stables, I adjust the stirrups and mount, feeling a million times more free out here. I give the paddocks a wide berth, along with the arena and areas I used to train in, knowing the jumps are set up for others who still train here. I can’t bear to watch competitions anymore. I avoid everyone and do my best to get lost on the castle estate, as familiar as breathing. When I break to eat my sandwich, I dare pull out theRenaissance Maninfo packs and offer Willow an apple.

“You don’t care about reality TV one bit,” I whisper to him as I lean against a tree. Out here, it’s impossible to imagine any kind of TV or media amid the songbirds flitting about and the sunlight filtering through the woods. At last, I open the thick envelope to look inside, complete with pen to sign off on the contracts.

After staring at the nondescript, thick envelope for an awkwardly long time, until my conscience stirs and the familiar discipline to duty comes, I finally sign the documents and waivers inside, mostly without reading them. Very legal. Very dull. On one hand, if the papers have come to me, they’ve already been reviewed by someone else far more qualified to understand legalese and liability issues. Like, say, a qualified lawyer who can do lawyery things. It’s not as if I have a real choice anyway. I skim the application my father prepared on my behalf, describing me and the challenges, which I barely read.

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