Page 17 of The Unlikely Spare
Christ, what’s the protocol here? They didn’t cover “comforting crying aristocrats” in my week of training I got before joining Prince Nicholas’s protection team.
“You mustn’t mind me,” she says, and her voice is as posh as her appearance. “Just a foolish woman having a foolish moment. The perils of too much champagne and too many memories.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Is there someone I can fetch for you?”
“God, no.” Her laugh is brittle. “The vultures at this party would love nothing more than fresh gossip about the tragic duchess.” She sighs, twisting a heavy ring on her finger. “Tell me, Officer, do you have children?”
The question catches me off guard. “No, ma’am.”
“Consider yourself fortunate. They grow up to become strangers who blame you for trying to protect them.” A flash of pain crosses her face.
“Family can be complicated,” I offer inadequately.
“All I want is the best for him,” she says.
Her words twist something deep in my chest. My mam died when I was twelve, and the world suddenly felt too big, too sharp, too full of edges that could cut. Da had already been halfway into the bottle by then, and after she went, he dove in headfirst.
This woman is crying over a son who won’t let her care for him, while I’d sell my soul for one more day of Mam fussing over whether I’d eaten enough.
The injustice of it burns inside me.
She straightens her shoulders with visible effort. “It’s so difficult to watch someone you love determined to repeat history.”
The sound of unsteady footsteps and approaching laughter saves me from having to respond. Nicholas appears around the corner, guiding the blonde in the red dress, his hand resting possessively on her lower back. His shirt is partially unbuttoned, bow tie now missing entirely. A smudge of lipstick covers the corner of his mouth, and there’s another on his collar.
The laughter withers on his face when he sees us, his carefree expression hardening into something cold and wary.
“Officer O’Connell,” he says.
“Your Royal Highness,” I reply.
Nicholas’s gaze skims between me and the woman. His lip curls.
“I see you’ve met my mother,” he says.
The disdain in his voice turns my stomach. His mother stands there, tears still wet on her cheeks, and he looks at her like she’s something unpleasant he’s stepped in. I’ve seen hard men in Belfast show more compassion to stray dogs than this prince shows to the woman who gave him life.
What kind of person treats their mother this way?
Chapter Five
Nicholas
Well, isn’t this just spectacularly awkward?
My mother is dabbing at mascara-tinged tears while my new protection officer hovers like some vigilant gargoyle. Of all the people who could have stumbled upon my mother during one of her theatrical breakdowns, it had to be him, naturally.
The gods of family dysfunction have truly excelled with this little tableau.
Mother deploys tears with tactical precision, usually when there’s an audience to witness her suffering. Tonight’s chosen spectator is apparently Officer Eoin O’Connell, who’s looking at me now like I’m a wasp that’s landed in his pint.
To be fair, it isn’t terribly different from his normal expression toward me in the past day since I made his acquaintance.
“Nicholas, my darling.” Mother, of course, now decides it’s time for herMother of the Yearact.
The blonde—Lady Genevieve? Georgina? Honestly, the champagne has blurred the details—shifts uncomfortably beside me, her intuition clearly telling her she’s wandered into a minefield wearing stilettos.
“Your Royal Highness,” she whispers, “perhaps I should?—”
