Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Where are Victor’s things?” I ask. I get the feeling that this isn't his room. It lacks masculinity. The maid stages my luggage in one spot. The room is by no means tiny. I could fit the entire downstairs portion of my loft in here.
“I’m sure Prince Victor’s attending to his mum. She’s prone to fainting,” she assures, beginning to unzip the luggage. I look Jane up and down. She’s dressed in a uniform, the same as the crowd of other staff. They could’ve easily been five-star hotel maids. Just like this bedroom could be a five-star hotel room.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I mean, where are his things? As in, is this Victor’s room?” I ask, using my hands as leverage to hop onto the tall bed.
“Miss Luxury,” she steps toward me with a smile, “please use this stool whenever you’d like.”
I smile as she pulls a wood step stool from under the bed.
She’s been kind, but something tells me Jane’s keeping secrets. She’s skipped over my question entirely. This is not Victor’s room. Even though I’m irritated, I thank her for the advice and add, “Jane, can you tell them I won't be coming out, not tonight. Though, this is such a beautiful palace. I think I’m going to love Arlington. Is there a bathroom?”
“Arling . . . ye-yes, but of course, forgive me. I hadn’t finished giving you the tour.” Jane steps across the large room and opens yet another door. “It's right here. Miss Luxury, if you would please, dinner is almost ready. In precisely forty-five minutes. There are clothes already here.”
“No, thanks. I’ve embarrassed myself enough today.” I take a deep breath.
“Are you sure? Look at all these beautiful items.” Jane smiles and opens another door to a friggen room, boasting an entire wardrobe. Though holding the same historic charm as the whole palace, this renovated room is modern. She pulls out dresses, pants, and the occasional jeans, all name brands.
“I was allowed to go shopping this morning for your arrival,” Jane says, proud of her fashion sense. “Is anything less than to your liking?” she asks, touching a few of the silks and delicate items.
“No.” I sigh. “Can you just go tell them I have a headache?”
“Allow me to offer you paracetamol. It’s our English form of pain reliever—”
“No, thanks.”
“Tea?” Jane asks anxiously.
“Nope,” I huff, realizing I shouldn’t have blamed it on a headache. “Are you going to get in trouble? What happens when Victor doesn't get what he wants?”
Jane cocks her head to the side and thinks. Her thoughtfulness makes me think Victor always gets what he wants. She takes a second to respond. “I'm sure the change of time zone and long flight are very fatiguing. I’ll tell them that.”
“Thanks! Later, will you update me on Princess Mary?” I wring my fingers.
“As you wish.”
She reaches for my luggage again, and I add, “No, worries, I got it.”
“Are you—”
“Jane, feel free to sneak out and enjoy the evening or something. I won't be a bother.”
Once she steps out of the room, I lie on a bed of clouds, drawing oxygen into my lungs.
You can fix this. Ehh, tomorrow might be best.
The horror flashing over Princess Mary’s face unnerves me. Needing an escape, I consider Momma’s journal.
Do I really want to invade my mother’s privacy? God, am I ready for this? My mind’s a broken record, worrying over what I might find. Do I really want to know?
16
Victor
Flames dance in the fireplace as I lean a forearm against the mantel, pouring myself another snifter of whiskey, despite Grandmother Sarah. Bollocks, she needs better role models. I’m encouraging her filthy habits. But each time I see the anguish on my mother’s disappointed face, I pour another round of amber fire.
Princess Mary has alternated from crying to complaining to comparing me to my father as she bats her crystal blue eyes. I’m over being Silas Tudor’s firstborn son. Yet my mother still thinks the association is ammunition against my character. Now, I’m obligated to endure Mum’s recycled accusations.
“That little commoner,” Mary begins with a scoff, “I’ve an idea of exactly what you see in her. Same as your cousin saw in that woman.”
“His wife, Mum? With whom he shares adorable little ones with?” I grit out.
“Of course, all babes are adorable. Once they grow up—”
“Bloody hell, Mary.” Sarah shakes her head, removing the whiskey bottle from before me. She doesn’t pour herself a round but takes the whole bloody bottle and saunters toward Mary. Before uncorking it, she points to Mum, saying, “Why didn’t I take you off the tit much sooner?”
“Mother! Choice words.” Mary turns away from Sarah and asks me, “Surely, you are your father’s child?”
There’s no need for me to respond.
My grandmother strikes. “Well, pretty princess, it’s becoming rather refutable that you came from your mum’s quim. Why not emulate that you are your mother’s child?”