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A hand grabs my shoulder and I jolt up, swinging defensively. My fist whizzes past a worried face, clipping his glasses.
“Alex, calm down.” Edward jumps back before I can take another shot at him.
I blink, damask wall coverings swim into view erasing battlefields and bloody pavement, and I relax into the chair. Shoving a hand through my hair, I check my watch. Six in the morning. Brilliant.
“You okay?” Edward asks carefully. He’s been walking on eggshells since I arrived in London. I can’t blame him. We’re practically strangers. When I left he was a kid, now he’s an adult with problems of his own.
“Fine,” I bark, my throat dry.
“You were…” he hesitates as if weighing what to say.
“Screaming,” I finish for him. My first few months in Afghanistan I’d gotten shit for my nightmares from those bunked around me. After that, they’d seen enough horrors that I wasn’t the only one calling out in the night. No one talked shit anymore. Then again, no one talked about it at all. “It’s nothing. Bad dream.”
“You’re still sleeping out here?” My brother takes a seat across from mine. He’s still in silk, striped pajamas and his hair is tangled from sleep, but he doesn’t act tired.
“Bed’s too comfortable.” A bed is for someone soft and welcoming. Someone like her: the girl I kissed. Clara. I think of her lips and almost need to adjust myself. Then, the dream returns to me and I remember that it was her in the street.
But why?
“Too comfortable?” Edward asks, taking me from my thoughts of Clara. He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t press to me to talk about it. He can connect the dots—draw a line from where I’ve been and what I’m telling him now. It’s a Royal family tradition to not pry. If something can be left unsaid—if a door can be closed to an unsavoury truth—it’s best not to speak or question or reopen that door. There’s a lot that goes unsaid behind these walls, and I’m not the only one not talking.
“Why are you here anyway?” I ask him.
“You were screaming,” he reminds me, his mouth quirking up like this is obvious. His bedroom is down the corridor.
“Not here.” I gesture to the parlour that’s become my unofficial bedroom. “Buckingham.”
“Dear old dad wanted me here before I took up residence elsewhere.” His words carry the load of a heavier burden. “When I finished St. Andrews, he insisted I come straight home and learn my bit.”
“Which is?” I ask. Currently, my father is avoiding me with such devotion, I assume he honed the ability purposefully during my time at the front. We’ve barely spoken more than five times in the few months I’ve been home. There have been no mention of my duties other than a revolving schedule of sodding appearances I am expected to make. He doesn’t ask me about the dreams or why I sleep in a chair at night or anything. It suits me fine given that I hate the man and I hate being his heir.
“Behave. Smile” Edward forces one like he’s offering me a sample.
“Pretend,” I add for him.
“Pretend?” he repeats with practiced confusion.
I’ve been waiting for him to tell me, but it seems obvious he won’t. He’s spent a few weekends at home while he was finishing his final term. There’d been a trip to the country with friends. I’ve spent enough time with my little brother to know that he’s keeping a secret.
“I know,” I say with meaning.
“I’m not sure—” he starts.
“Look, I get it. If you don’t want to tell me, I understand. You…you barely know me, but I see you with him.” I don’t want Edward to think he has to hide who he is from me like he does our father.
“Him?” He’s still playing dumb, clinging to the lie like my mind clings to the dream.
“David.” I decide that he can avoid uncomfortable topics as is the family way, but I can’t. Secrets will bury us all alive if we let them.
“No one knows,” he says quietly. He sinks into his chair like he’s deflating.
“I assume David does.”
“He’s aware,” Edward says dryly.
“And he’s also in the closet?”
Edward’s eyes flash and I realize I’ve misstepped. “Sorry. Is that not PC?”
“I guess it is. I just never really think about it,” he admits, “and I suppose he is and he isn’t.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I think he’d be fine with being open about it if...”
“If you were.” There it is. The double edged sword of loving a Royal. I’d seen glimpses of it as a child before my mother died. The woman I knew and loved transformed into someone else when the camera came out. She fell silent. She took his arm. She became a different woman—his wife. His queen.
But never his equal.
It isn’t done. Edward knows it. I know it.
Why the fuck would he drag someone into this life—even secretly?
“Do you love him?” I ask, wondering how far he’s let it go.
“Yes,” he murmurs.
“Shit.”
“I guess I have your blessing.” His tone remains flat, coloured by hopelessness.
“Love complicates things.” Especially for us.
“I think being gay is complicated enough,” Edward says. “Why not add love into the mix?”
“Does he know? Father?”
Edward laughs. It’s completely joyless. It rings through him as hollow as a bell. “Of course. Why do you think I’m under his roof? Wonder where he’ll send me to fix me.”
“Don’t be afraid of him.”
“I’m not. I just…not all of us got to leave.”
I clench my jaw holding back an angry retort. He doesn’t know about why I was sent away. He’s no idea how real that danger truly is, and if I tell him, he’ll never have the courage to be true to himself. Instead, I stick to the facts. “War isn’t a vacation.”
“I’m sorry. That was a terrible thing to say.” He hangs his head a little, but I wave it off.
“I don’t think either of us had a grand time for the last seven years. Although, you did graduate university, which makes you far more grand than me,” I remind him.
“Come off it. You’re a war hero,” he says. “The party tonight is for both of us.”
It isn’t, but I don’t correct him. I’m being trotted out like a prize stallion for his graduation party not a guest of honour. My father’s only intention is to put me out to stud as soon as I’ve made a suitable match—a girl he will pick out for me, no doubt—and only after the wedding. Propriety must be considered. Then he’ll outlive me and hand the throne to my child. He’s stubborn enough to do it and witless enough to not realize that I don’t want the crown. I won’t marry. I won’t further the bloodline.
“You’ve had your own education,” Edward says kindly, mistaking my silence for something else.
“Yes, I suppose my degree is in blood and suffering. I learned how the world works on a battlefield. Fear drives us. It makes men seek power. It makes men do terrible things. It controls all of us.”
“They didn’t teach us that at St. Andrews.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it out of my toast this evening,” I promise him.
“I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t mind seeing his face if you let that slip.”
I can’t help but smirk. “Consider it a graduation present.”
“Whose graduation is this?” My father storms into the breakfast room and drops a stack of magazines. A tabloid nearly knocks over a tea pot.
“Edward’s, I thought.” I don’t bother to look at the cover. He wants me to, which is enough of a reason not to do it.
“This is not at one of your disco clubs,” he roars.
I bite back a smile at the thought of an actual disco club in London. “You’re being cryptic.”
His eyes narrow and it’s like staring into my own. It’s the only feature we share: blue eyes. Although his have gotten watery and mine brighter. It’s ironic given that I’ve never seen the man cry.
“I’ve overlooked your late night debauchery because it’s been constrained to appropriate avenues. Everyone expects you to be a bit pent up. No one thinks anything of those stories,” he says in a sharp voice. “But that is the bloody Oxford-Cambridge Club. Who is this woman?”
My eyes shift to the paper automatically, no longer interested in our skirmish, and land on her. There are two pictures. One of her exiting a flat, completely unaware that she’s been photographed. She’s in shorts and trainers and she’s more beautiful than I remember—more beautiful than she is in the dreams she haunts. The other shot makes my balls ache. Someone snapped a photo of our kiss. I have a good idea who, and I’ll be sure to make Pepper pay. For now, I’m lost to the memory captured and smeared across a gossip rag. Her body pressed to mine. How her lips parted so eagerly despite her surprise. She’d folded into the kiss, submitting so naturally that I’d nearly picked her up and carried her off like a prize.
Why hadn’t I?
“Who is she?”
I barely process the question, still reliving the moment. “Clara Bishop.”
I’ve tried not to think of that name. Knowing it makes it hard to stay away. I’ve considered seeking her out, but something about her is dangerous. I can feel it.
“I know who she is,” he barks, breaking through my thoughts and bringing back to our confrontation. “Everyone knows who she is, but what is she to you?”
“What?” I can’t follow what he’s asking me, because my father, who is neither perceptive nor empathetic, is not reading my mind. He doesn’t know that I’m wondering why even this picture has this effect on me.
“Is it her graduation? Is she your lover? How did you meet?” He bombards me with so many question I feel as though I’m at a press conference.
“She’s a girl I met.” I try to sound casual, but I feel anything but. Clara is not just a girl I met. She’s a mystery. She’s the star of my nightmares. She’s featuring in my waking fantasies. I don’t know her at all. I tell him so.
“You can’t go around kissing girls at exclusive clubs, especially Americans. The press assumes you’re in love with her.”
“Love?” I repeat. “They have a lot to learn about me. It was Jonathan’s graduation—a party you made me attend.”
He ignores me. “What kind of message do you think this sends? People are speculating if it’s serious.”
“It’s not,” I say flatly. I walked away from her. I left her behind. I’d forced myself to leave her alone—to not seek her out. It’s more difficult to do with my father dragging her into the mix.
“There are reporters camped out at her flat. I hope you made things very clear for her and that she’s not the attention-seeking…” he trailed away, staring at me as I abandoned my breakfast and headed toward the quarters I used primarily as a closet. “Where are you going?”
“I won’t let them bother her. They have no business disturbing her privacy.”
“And you’re going to do what?” he demands. “Go tell them that? You’ve been away too long. I don’t have time to teach you your place, but allow me a moment to refresh your memory. The press doesn’t care what we say, they care what sells papers. Drawing attention to her will only sell more papers.”
“I should apologize,” I begin.
“You should have kept your cock in your pants in the first place. There’s a party starting in a few hours. You aren’t going anywhere,” he informs me. “And after, you won’t seek her out. She’s an unsuitable match in every way.”
“Not this again,” I grumble.
“Who you are seen with matters, and an American? You won’t see her again,” he says with the air of someone rarely told no.
It’s why I say it now.
“No.” I continue past him toward my room and the waiting tuxedo. “Maybe I’ll fall in love with her instead.”
I won’t, but seeing the look on his face makes me almost consider it.
Garden parties make me miss the war where no one wore ridiculous hats or conversed in subtle barbs. There’s less courtesy amongst Edward’s pack of friends than in a mess hall and the civility here is far less palatable.
And then there’s my brother playing his role: charming, debonair, studiously ignoring his boyfriend who’s sitting at a table alone while Edward flirts with a redhead.
If this is what my future holds—tea parties and false flattery—I wish I’d never come back. It would be easier to have never gone. I would be numb to this life now, conditioned to accept this as normal. But I don’t fit in here.
I don’t want to fit.
I’m about to excuse myself quietly from the festivities when Pepper Lockwood catches me. She’s smart enough to have brought her mother, so that won’t tell her off for what she’s done. That’s the limit of her intelligence as far as I can tell, because she was stupid to have pissed me off. I know she took the photo and I know she sold it—I can’t fathom why.
They blend into the scene well, their flowery blue dresses another floral addition to the landscape of partygoers. It’s amusing to see Pepper like this—her make-up toned down along with her sex appeal. At the clubs, she prefers to wriggle on a hook like a piece of meat waiting to catch something. I’ve never bit. Here, the intent is different. Both Lockwood women are on the hunt for husbands by the look of it.
“Alexander,” Mrs. Lockwood’s voice is coated with sugar as she takes my arm. “I can’t believe how much you’ve changed. You’re a man now.”
Thank god, she was here to inform me.
“But you haven’t aged a day,” I say. It’s not polite flattery. Thanks to modern plastic surgery, she hasn’t aged a day. “You could pass for sisters.”
Pepper looks less flattered by this proclamation. It’s all the more enjoyable because it’s true.
“Still a ladies man.” Mrs. Lockwood flashes a mouthful of brilliant white teeth. “Unless the rumours are true…”
“Most rumours about me are true.” It’s easier to be what they want me to be. No one’s interested in anything else.
“But you’re not seeing an American, surely!” Her hand flutters to her chest like this has caused her actual pain.
I wish I was seeing that American right now, but since Pepper got me into this mess I don’t dare bait her mother. Whatever I say could easily wind up as tomorrow’s headline.
“No,” I scoff, gently pulling my arm free and shoving my hands into my pockets before either can try to hook me again. “Of course not. It was a prank someone played on me.”
“Well, it’s not funny at all,” she says seriously.
I level my gaze at Pepper. “No, it isn’t.”
“You’ll have to be more careful of who you kiss,” she says innocently.
“I think I’ll be more careful of my friends,” I tell her. Forcing a smile for Mrs. Lockwood, I cock my head toward the shrubbery. “You must excuse me. I have to find my brother.”
What I want to find is a moment alone, but it’s not in the cards. A press secretary or attaché or someone grabs me and hauls me toward the tent where my father and brother wait. Edward’s smile is thin-lipped. I glance over to the table and see David’s is nonexistent.
My father doesn’t even bother feigning happiness that we’re here. That doesn’t stop him from taking a Champagne flute and lifting it.
“Thank you for coming today to celebrate my sons. No father could not be prouder of them.” His voice booms over the crowd, which has fallen silent with respect.
I don’t miss what he’s actually said. Judging from the way Edward flinches, he didn’t either, but we both hide it well.
“Edward has continued our long relationship with my university and graduated a year early,” he continues.
“Nerd,” I whisper to him.
“Wanker,” he says under his breath.
Father frowns but quickly goes on. “And Alexander has served his country and the world in the fight against terrorism. He’s seen first hand the sacrifice made by our men and women in uniform. Two very different educations, but important nonetheless in reminding us all of our duties and responsibilities. I am certain both my sons understand the important roles they play in the world now. So please join me in raising your glass to them.”
It takes effort to lift mine. It feels as heavy as the yoke he’s hung around my shoulders with his poison-laced speech. I don’t drink. Instead, I wait my turn.
“I warned Edward that I would speak today,” I begin when the crowd quiets. “His concern over what I might say is warranted given that I missed the last seven years of his life and thus might recall some more embarrassing moments. That’s not what I think of when I look at my brother, though. Mostly, I’m surprised—surprised to find a man where I left a boy. A graduate where I left a student. The only thing that hasn’t changed is that’s he still my brother, so it’s good that’s the most important thing of all. Without family, we’re nothing. Please raise a glass to my brother, who is my better in every way—save eyesight.”
Edward’s smile lights his face. He pushes his glasses up as if to emphasize the truth of this final statement. Rather than taking a drink, he turns to hug me. It’s an odd sensation. We aren’t usually the type of family that embraces. But I find that I don’t hate it as much as I might have expected.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“I couldn’t let him get the last word in,” I admit, earning me a laugh
A crowd gathers around us for their turns at offering well wishes. When I finally manage to sneak away, my father catches me almost immediately.
“I’d like to introduce you to someone. Her daughter—”
“Not now,” I cut him off. “I’ve had as much as I can take for today.”
“I thought after that speech there was hope. You played the situation well, but you haven’t learned anything,” he says with disgust, staring at me like I am an unwanted weed.
“I thought I learned about sacrifice,” I say calling him on his bullshit. “Giving up seven years of my life wasn’t enough? Send me back.”
“Why? You don’t even see the truth,” he hisses. “You didn’t go there as a sacrifice. Other men sacrifice themselves for King and country.”
“And why did I go?” I spit back.
“Punishment,” he says coldly.
I don’t ask him for what. That list is too long. Turning, I stride away, uninterested in more of his recrimination and unwilling to flatter one more simpering mother. When I reach the hedge, I loosen my bowtie and unbutton my collar. But I still can’t breathe.
I need away from this—away from these fake people playing their given roles. I need someone real—and there she is again, plucking at my subconscious. Clara is real. I’d felt her. I’d held her. I want to tell myself no. I want to stay away, if only because I have no desire to drag her into the battle between my father and me. Because if he finds out I’ve seen her, he won’t let it rest.
But I belong to no man. No country. Not yet. I can only answer to myself and somewhere in London, I’ve left Clara Bishop to hide out in her flat while I sipped champagne at a garden party.
I can think of a number of ways to make it up to her and she’s going to enjoy every minute.
“Fuck.” It’s like I have no choice. Pulling out my mobile, I call Norris and issue one command. “Find her.”
“Are you certain?” He doesn’t ask me who I’m referring to, because he doesn’t have to. He’s seen the papers. He expected this call.
“Yes,” I say for once being completely honest. “Find her. I need to see her.”
I’ve never been more certain of anything.
See you in hell next week: Brimstone is coming!
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