Page 23 of The Unlikely Heir
Later that afternoon, I’m in my room, trying to relax before the banquet by scrolling through my phone. But it turns out social media isn’t a fun place to hang out when you’re the biggest trending hashtag.
Although I do learn that my grandmother owns most of the swans in the UK, so the fact one of those swans chose to attack me is considered amusing by many people.
I also learn that the monarch is the only person in Britain who can eat a swan. A fact that Larenn and Joshua obviously didn’t know, given one day I will be the monarch and might decide to exact my revenge.
I’m doing a deep dive into the history of why the monarch owns a good proportion of the swans, along with all dolphins, whales, and sturgeon—apparently, it’s a tradition dating back to thetwelfth century to protect these species from poachers—when there’s a discreet knock on the door.
“Come in,” I say.
It’s Herbert, holding a suit bag. “I’ve got your tuxedo for the state dinner, Your Royal Highness. It’s a white-tie event.”
“Oh, thank you.”
I take the bag from him and place it on the bed before unzipping it.
“Would you like me to help you put it on, sir?”
I stare down at the components of the tuxedo, completely baffled. Until now, I’ve waved off Herbert’s offers to help me dress, but I’m definitely going to need him for this one.
I raise my gaze to him. “If you don’t mind, that would be great.”
“Of course, sir.”
Herbert stands there patiently, watching me, and I realize he’s waiting for me to start stripping.
“Um…do you want to…I mean…?” Somehow, I’m blushing more than a tomato on a tanning bed.
Herbert regards me with his unwavering expression. “Sir, I can turn my back if you wish. But I have dressed many men, and I assure you there’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“So, you’re telling me you won’t flinch even if I have lizard scales under my shirt instead of skin?” I ask.
Herbert’s face remains expressionless. “I assure you that after thirty years in this job, nothing can shock me.”
I wish I had just a smidgen of Herbert’s unflappability. I’m pretty sure right now in my life, I’m flapping so much that even Larenn and Joshua and their feathered friends would be impressed.
Luckily, I have Herbert here because the last time I dressed up in a tux was for my senior prom, and that had been a simple tux, not this tailored monstrosity, with a shirt so pristine white it would put fresh snow to shame and a black cummerbund that makes me feel like a sausage overly stuffed into its casing.
“Did you know that the cummerbund actually originated in India? British military officers saw the Indian soldiers wearing them and started wearing them as an alternative to waistcoats,” I say as Herbert gives my cummerbund a tug to ensure it’s fastened correctly.
“No, I didn’t know that, ir,” Herbert says. “That’s very interesting.”
My eyes dart to his face. I have no idea whether he’s being honest or not. I’ve had loads of people tell me the random facts I share are interesting, but most of the time, there is a sarcastic lilt to their voices.
Just as Herbert is fastening my cufflinks, my phone beeps with a message.
Once Herbert has finished, I pick it up.
It’s Scott.
Oh god. I’ve been waiting for this. I guarantee the fact I got up close and personal with the bottom of a pond while escaping marauding swans will not have escaped his notice.
I tentatively open his message, bracing myself for the inevitable bird-related puns.
Which is why my forehead scrunches when I see his message.
He’s dead to me.
I blink. What?
