Page 27 of The Unlikely Heir
“Hello, brothers.” Amelia glides over to us, and I immediately smile. She’s dressed in a long light-blue dress and is wearing contacts instead of her usual glasses, so she blinks in a slightly startled way when she looks at me.
Amelia and Nicholas haven’t been working members of the royal family until now, but at least they’ve attended a lot more of these types of events than I have.
Amelia gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry about what your friend did.”
“Yeah, me too.”
I desperately want to change the subject, so I glance around the room. The Grand Reception Room is dominated by large chandeliers, with tiers of lights and crystal tassels cascading from the roof.
“Do you think chandeliers are just the historical equivalent of disco balls?” I ask.
Amelia stares at me while Nicholas smirks.
“American humor definitely takes some getting used to,” he says. He flicks a look at Amelia, but she frowns back at him.
Luckily my grandmother comes back over to us.
“The first guests will be arriving soon. We need to form a reception line,” she says. “As heir, Callum will be next to me.”
There’s a flicker of annoyance on Nicholas’s face before it’s back to neutral. He watched Cliff’s interview. Did he hear the bit where Cliff predicted I wouldn’t be in this job for long and he should be ready to take over?
Inheritance by birth order is a ridiculous thing when you think about it. Why is it that I, as the firstborn, am assumed to have more skills than my siblings?
Nicholas is poised and charming as he jokes with a courtier as we move into a line. It’s difficult to imagine him getting up close and personal with pondweed.
Amelia tugs the sleeve of her dress, and I realize she’s nervous too. I try to catch her eye to give her an encouraging smile, but before I can, the first guests descend on us. After that, it’s a dizzying array of faces and names. At least being American gives me an excuse not to recognize any of the movers and shakers of the Commonwealth and British societies as they’re introduced to me.
I finally spot a figure I do recognize bowing to my grandmother.
Oliver Hartwell.
He’s by himself, unlike nearly all the other politicians tonight who have brought their partners. Oliver’s divorce made almost as many headlines as his election did. I guess it’s not surprising he’s turning up stag. It wouldn’t be easy to invite the guy you’ve been chatting with on a dating app to a first date at the Commonwealth Heads of Government banquet.
I guess the same principle applies to me now. How do you date when you’re the heir to the throne, when every potential date knows that if the relationship progresses, they will become the queen consort?
Let’s face it, it wasn’t like I had much success before that extra pressure.
“Your Royal Highness.” Oliver has finished greeting my grandmother and moved along to nod his head at me.
I wonder how much of Oliver’s success as prime minister comes down to his incredible voice. Smooth and deep, with a hint of humor, like he’s secretly amused by some aspect of life the rest of us can’t quite grasp.
I’d vote for him just to have an excuse to listen to him speak. Although even as I think that, Clive’s lecture about the royal family not voting intrudes like an unwanted pop-up ad.
I shake hands with Oliver, and while I don’t have the same dizziness as the first time I shook his hand, it’s still an unsettling experience to touch him. His grasp is firm, his palm warm.
“Prime Minister,” I say. I’m not sure I manage to keep my confusion off my face because he gives me a curious look.
But I don’t have time to analyze my reaction to Oliver Hartwell because the prime minister of Canada, Jeffrey Ference, and his wife, Elizabeth, are waiting for me to greet them next.
“Nice to meet you, Your Royal Highness,” Jeffrey says.
“It’s so nice to meet you too,” I say. “It’s nice to hear some people who sound like me.”
“I’m not sure many Canadians want to hear that they sound like Americans,” Jeffrey says.
Oh shit. I was trying to find some commonality, and instead, I might have started a diplomatic incident.
Elizabeth gives her husband an eye-roll. “Ignore my husband’s sense of humor, Your Royal Highness. How are you finding England?”
