Page 4 of Once Upon a Royal Summer
Whether she truly loved him or not, breaking up was devastating, and Lacey was now one hundred percent sure that’s what was happening.
Mark grew very still. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. I’m sorry, Mark.” Lacey nudged her chair back, and the maître d’ raced over to snatch her napkin out of her lap and help her to her feet. Super. Just what she needed—a witness to this painful moment.
She stood awkwardly at the table, waiting for Mark to acknowledge they were officially over. Lacey’s gaze snagged on her reflection in the window beside them. The huge crown on her head glittered like mad beneath the restaurant’s elegant mood lighting.
“We could’ve been good together.” He reached for his drink with exaggerated calm, as if she’d just told him she wanted to switch cell phone carriers instead of end their relationship. How on earth had it taken her nearly a year to realize how little they had in common? “Call me after you’ve given this more thought, sweetheart. We can still make this work. No one’s going to come charging in on a white horse to sweep you off your feet. That crown on your head isn’t real.” He narrowed his gaze at her tiara. “And neither is Prince Charming.”
Crown Prince Henry Frederick Augustus Ranier Chevalier stood at the window overlooking the horse stables in the royal palace of Bella-Moritz and peeled back the heavy brocade drapes as subtly as he could manage. He might be next in line to the throne of the most glamorous principality on the French Riviera, but Prince Henry wasn’t above skulking around and spying on his six-year-old daughter. And really, what choice did he have?
If he strode outside and joined Rose for her riding lesson, the chances of his precocious little girl actually getting into the saddle would drop to zero percent. Henry was a softie, and his daughter knew it. The riding instructor, not so much, but even in Henry’s absence, it was still a fifty-fifty proposition. At best.
Like most royal children, Rose had grown up around horses. She’d started taking riding lessons at the tender age of five, and she’d approached the task in the same way she approached everything else in her life: with fearless determination. But just months into her lessons, the pony she’d been riding had gotten spooked by a rabbit darting into the paddock. He’d reared back, and Rose had tumbled to the ground, breaking her arm. It had healed long ago, but her spirit remained broken.
Rose’s fear of horses wouldn’t have been much of an issue if she’d been just a regular little girl. But as Henry’s mother, Queen Elloise, never failed to remind him, Rose wasn’t just a regular little girl. She was a princess—and more importantly, a queen in the making. Queens didn’t give up when things got tough. They persevered. They led by example. They got back onto the horse.
Henry was a future monarch as well, obviously, so getting an almost seven-year-old child onto a pony really shouldn’t have been so difficult for him, seeing as he was expected to run the country someday. But alas, the greater population of Bella-Moritz proved less formidable, on occasion, as compared to one pint-sized princess.
“You realize the Royal Flower Festival is just two weeks away, don’t you?” The clipped voice of Queen Elloise behind him nearly made Henry jump out of his royal skin.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and slowly turned around. The palace contained five hundred twenty-five rooms, and somehow, his mother always knew where to find him. “Yes, Mother, I’m aware.”
The queen was dressed in one of her monotone cashmere wool pantsuits with a matching silk blouse. Winter white—which, on an ordinary person, would be the most impractical color choice imaginable. Not so for Henry’s mother, who’d been the antithesis of ordinary for as long as he could remember. “Caitriona turns seven years old next week,” the queen said, tucking a short, loose curl of her shoulder-length chestnut waves behind one ear and using Rose’s full, more formal name. “She’s expected to ride in the royal procession, just as every heir to the throne has done for the past fifty years. It’s her royal debut. All members of this family have ridden in the parade starting at seven years of age. No more watching the festivities from the palace balcony. She’s to be a part of things this year. It’s tradition.”
Henry refrained from reminding his mother he was well acquainted with Bella-Moritz’s many traditions and he himself had been riding in the Flower Festival’s royal procession for the past twenty-eight years. Doing so wouldn’t help matters. “She just needs more time,” he said quietly, keeping his gaze trained on his daughter.
Rose wore a black riding helmet and stark-white breeches, the traditional dressage uniform dating as far back as the Chevaliers themselves. She looked like a mini-Olympian as she stood beside her pony on the emerald-green grass of the riding arena—albeit an Olympian who had no intention of actually climbing into the saddle.
The sun shone brightly. Bella-Moritz was famous for its beautiful summer season. Everything seemed more lovely this time of year, from the clear, turquoise-blue sky to the shimmering Mediterranean Sea. June in Henry’s kingdom always reminded him of fields of blooming hyacinth, sun-drenched lemons, and perfumed gardenia bushes with glossy dark leaves and the intoxicating fragrance of their blossoms, soft and white like Chantilly cream.
Down on the riding paddock, Rose inched closer to her horse—a pale gray Welsh pony she’d named Daisy. The pony, which had been trained at Buckingham Palace’s Royal Mews in London, England, had been a gift from the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge during their most recent royal tour of the region. Rose had been thrilled until she’d learned her grandmother expected her to actually ride the pony.
Now, six months later, Rose slipped Daisy a sugar cube while her riding instructor’s back was turned. His daughter was perfectly fine, so long as she wasn’t sitting astride the animal. The more they pushed, the more terrified Rose seemed to get.
Henry wondered if Will and Kate had this same problem with Princess Charlotte. Somehow he doubted it.
The queen sighed. “Time is the one thing you don’t have, I’m afraid.”
Right. Two weeks wasn’t long. In fact, it seemed almost infinitesimal, which made what Henry was about to say all the more problematic.
He squared his shoulders and met his mother’s gaze. “I’m taking Rose on a brief trip for her birthday. I think a break from all the pressure will do her some good.”
“A trip? Now? Are you mad?”
No, he was a father. Not just a prince, but a dad—Rose’s only surviving parent. “It’s her birthday,” he pointed out. Again.
“I realize that. And if a celebration is what you want, that can easily be arranged.” The queen gestured to the opulent surroundings, as if Henry had forgotten that just outside the door, a fleet of footmen and palace staff were waiting to cater to his every whim.
“She doesn’t need a royal banquet,” Henry said, a bite creeping into his tone. “She needs a chance to be a child for a few days.”
His mother arched a brow at his insolence. She might be family, but she was still the queen, after all. “You indulge her too much. You always have.”
“Not always.” Henry shook his head.
Just the past four years.
Four years of going through the motions, as if losing his wife hadn’t changed everything. Four years of preparing for his future role as king, while his young daughter grieved. Four years of unrelenting quiet in the castle.
