I nearly trip over the hem of my dress as I storm down the stairs leading to the main entrance of the palace. I’m not sure if Drew had planned on sneaking me out a back door, but I’m done with that. From this point onward, I’m using the front door and I’m going to hold my head high while doing so.

  Simpson pulls open the door for me. “Miss Agnes, enjoy your evening.”

  Taking a moment to take a deep breath, I tell him, “Thank you, Simpson. I hope you enjoy your evening, as well.”

  “Thank you, miss.”

  Drew finally catches up to me. “You didn’t have to run.”

  Without even looking at him, I reply, “You didn’t miss anything. Just us servants exchanging pleasantries.”

  “Agnes, I do not think of you as a servant.”

  I have no idea why he sounds so angry. He’s done nothing but treat me like a lesser life form since I started working for him.

  “Simpson,” I say. “Do you have a home of your own?”

  He nods slowly. “Yes, miss, I do.”

  “And do you have a family?”

  He nods again so I ask, “Do you pay taxes?”

  “Of course, miss.”

  “You see, Drew? Simpson is a typical resident of Malquar. The fact that he works in the palace should be a thing of honor and not something that reduces his stature.”

  “I’ve never called you or Simpson servants.” He’s yelling now, which only stokes my ire.

  “Yet you treat me like one, so I assume you do the same to the rest of the staff.”

  “How do I treat you like a servant?” he demands. His hands are flailed out in front of him in a very Italian gesture.

  Simpson looks highly uncomfortable and I’m sure he’d like to escape, but I’m blocking his path. “You’ve told me several times that I’m not good enough to date you, but you’re still open to the option of something physical happening between us.”

  “First of all, I never said you weren’t good enough for me.” He takes a menacing step toward me. “All I’ve said is that our social stations make it unwise for us to become attached in any permanent way.”

  “Liar,” I hiss. “You’ve never entertained the idea of anything between us, and you’ve made it clear that’s because I’m not good enough for you.” I look at the butler and demand, “Simpson, would you let me date your son?”

  “I, um, suppose so, miss, but he’s only fifteen.”

  Drew starts to laugh which pushes my last button. “Not a word, Andrew,” I caution him. “Not. One. Word.”

  I storm out the front door of the palace and speed walk toward the awaiting limousine. Jones hurries to open the back door for me. “Miss Dupuis, may I say that you look very lovely this evening?”

  “Thank you, Jones,” I tell him sincerely. Then, realizing that he can’t be much older than me, I ask, “I don’t suppose you’d like to go out for a pint with me sometime, would you?”

  The poor man looks totally taken aback by my invitation, but before he has a chance to answer, Drew is next to me. “Unfortunately, Jones is unable to date you, Agnes.”

  “Is that true?” I ask the chauffeur.

  “I … um … that is to say …” He’s clearly beside himself, but I do nothing to let him off the hook.

  “It’s true,” Drew maintains while pushing me into the back of the car.

  “How dare you?” I demand while pulling my skirt in, so it doesn’t get caught in the door.

  “How dare I what? How dare I save my chauffeur from my insane secretary?”

  “I’m not your secretary anymore. Have you forgotten?”

  The slam of his door startles me into silence. Neither of us says another word until the car is in motion. That’s when Drew quietly says, “I have forgotten nothing, Agnes. I remember every moment we’ve ever spent together.”

  “The servants union should be alerted to what an attentive employer you are.” I know I shouldn’t be talking to the future king of my country like this, but I can’t stop now. In fact, I’ve always wanted to visit America; maybe I’ll emigrate.

  “There is no servants union, Agnes. As you well know, we refer to our helpers as staff.”

  Semantics. “Is there some rule that the staff is not allowed to date one another?” I demand, temporarily taking a reprieve from my previous rant.

  “Not that I know of.”

  I push the intercom button and alert Jones, “Prince Andrew has just given us his blessing to have that pint, Jones.”

  Before he can respond, Drew interrupts, “Like hell I have.”

  Chapter Forty

  Queen Charlotte

  Crawling into bed next to her husband, Charlotte says, “I wish I were a fly on the wall at the Legacy Ball when Drew and Agnes find out I’m not coming.”

  “Why don’t you just go and see them for yourself? Why all the cloak and dagger?”

  Shaking her head, Charlotte tells him, “Because if I’m there, then Agnes could quit and walk out. Heck, Drew might be so mad he’d do the same.”

  “You think Drew would quit being the heir?” Alfred chuckles.

  “He might leave early. If they both think I’m still coming, they’ll both have to stay.”

  “Yes, but how is that going to work with Chantelle being there? From what you said, today’s luncheon was a bit of a mess.”

  Releasing a shiver of excitement, Charlotte answers, “Alfred, I need you to keep me distracted or I’m liable to ruin everything and show up to that ball after all.”

  “I think I can keep you distracted,” he says as he reaches out to pull his wife to his side.

  “I thought we were going to watch a movie.” She giggles.

  “We could watch a movie if you’d prefer?” He shrugs his eyebrows playfully.

  “Hm, let me think …” Charlotte teases.

  “Get over here, woman.”

  “This, what we have, is what I want for our children. All we have to do is keep throwing Agnes into Drew’s path so he’ll see for himself that love is more important than anything else.”

  “We have to do that, huh?” the king asks.

  “You don’t have to do a thing, dear. I’ve got this under control.”

  With her arms wrapped around her husband’s neck, Charlotte adds, “I’m so glad you stood up to your parents and made me your wife.”

  Agnes

  When Jones gets out of the car and opens the door for me, I whisper, “I’m free tomorrow night.”

  “Too bad Jones isn’t,” Drew says with an edge. He stands behind me and nudges me forward. “Eyes on the red carpet, Agnes.”

  “I’ve been to the movies,” I growl. “I’ve seen it done.” And while that’s true, living it in real life is a world different from watching actors on the screen. There are cameras everywhere and flashbulbs are lighting up the night like an electric storm.

  With his hand on my back, Drew guides me up the path. He walks slowly, probably so the pictures of him aren’t blurry, the arrogant beast. One reporter calls out, “Sir, is that Agnes Dupuis with you?”

  He stops and answers, “Yes, it is. Agnes is meeting my mother this evening.”

  “She’s not your date?” a female voice enters the fray.

  “She’s not,” Drew tells her.

  “But you look so good together,” someone else says.

  “She’s a beautiful woman.” Oh, Drew’s a smooth one. No one would realize what an uppity sort he is.

  “Miss Dupuis, do you care to comment about the picture taken of you in the loo at Duval?”

  I stop and smile as graciously as I can. “I wasn’t feeling very well that night.” I put my hand on Drew’s arm and say, “Luckily, Prince Andrew was at hand to get me safely home.”

  “How was St. Tropez?” another disembodied voice calls out. “You don’t look like you got any sun.”

  “I read four books and stayed in the shade the whole time.” It turns out I’m a pretty good liar.

  As we reach the end of the path, another car pulls up. Crap, this night is turning into a comedy of errors. And not a good comedy, mind you.

  Chantelle Bain is released from the backseat of her car, looking as haughty as humanly possible. Her dress is such a light pink she appears to be practically naked. It’s hard to see the details on the gown at this distance, but I’m certain her choice of wardrobe was made for the color alone.

  “Chantelle, who are you here with?” The attention of the crowd turns to the new arrival.

  She smiles brilliantly before simpering, “I’m meeting my boyfriend.” Chantelle Bain does not do coy.

  “He’s just ahead of you,” another reporter yells.

  While my instinct is to run like an Olympic official has just fired a gun, I don’t. Drew isn’t moving, so neither will I.

  Chantelle catches sight of us and her entire demeanor shifts. Instead of gliding up the runway, she strides with purpose. Her expression quickly changes from playful to outraged. God help me, but I’m suddenly excited for the scene that’s about to occur.

  “Andrew.” Chantelle stops directly in front of him. “What is she doing here?” This is said as though I’m some random mutt he picked up on the street.

  Drew leans in as though to kiss her on the cheek, but instead, I hear him say, “You’re going to need to keep your voice down, Chantelle.”

  “Or what?” she demands hotly. “Are you afraid the public might find out about the illicit affair you’re having with your secretary?”

  I suddenly feel like one of the Flying Wallendas and everyone is waiting for a quadruple backflip on the tightrope wire above a sea of crocodiles. There are no nets.

  “Is this truly a scene you’d like to have here?” Drew asks Chantelle warningly.

  “It can’t be worse than the one we had at lunch today.” That girl is going to hate herself in the morning, but at present she seems to be unable to reel her emotions in.

  A voice from the crowd demands, “What happened at lunch today?”

  Chantelle unwisely decides to field the answer to that question. “I found out Andrew here has been spending time kissing his secretary. What do you think about that?”

  “It is true, Andrew? Are you and Agnes an item? Have you jilted Chantelle?” Question after question blazes through the atmosphere like machine gun fire.

  I sense that Drew’s trying to restrain his reaction, but for the life of me, I’m not sure he’ll succeed. Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I step forward. Calmly, I say, “I think you all know by now that the prince does not kiss and tell.”

  “Are you saying he’s kissed you?” That question is asked in surround sound. As in a lot of people ask it at once.

  “That’s not what I’m saying at all,” I tell them. “I’m merely saying that Prince Andrew is a gentleman, and he keeps his private business private.”

  “Are you saying that Chantelle is lying?”

  Chantelle takes a step toward me like we’re about to engage in a brawl. Ignoring her, I tell the captive crowd, “I don’t speak for Miss Bain. But I think she’s giving you a fair indication of the kind of woman she is.”

  “How dare you?” Chantelle throws herself at me.

  Drew steps between us and takes Chantelle by the arm. “I think you need to retire for the night, Miss Bain.”

  “Oh, I’m going to retire all right,” she shrieks. “I’m going to retire from pretending to be your girlfriend so the whole world doesn’t find out that you’re consorting with the help.” Actual spittle flies out of her mouth. Yuck.

  After moving her away from me, Drew tells her, “I happily accept your resignation.” Then he takes me by the arm and leads me into Symphony Hall.

  I have not forgiven Drew for his bad behavior toward me, but at the moment it’s all I can do not to applaud him.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Queen Charlotte

  Charlotte reaches over and groggily answers the phone. “Yes.”

  “Your Majesty, there’s been some trouble,” her press secretary says.

  Turning on her light, Charlotte sits up and shakes her husband. “Alfred, there’s been trouble.”

  “What happened?”

  Putting her finger up to her mouth to quiet him, she shakes her head.

  She holds the telephone away from her ear so he can hear as well, as their press secretary continues, “It appears Miss Bain has made a public statement that she’s no longer going to pretend to be the prince’s girlfriend. She did this at the Legacy Ball.”

  Charlotte barely controls her squeal of delight. “You don’t say.”

  “The whole episode was filmed by every major news outlet in the country. I’ve managed to secure the footage. I’d like to send it up to you to watch so that you are best prepared to handle the onslaught of media attention coming your way.”

  “Delightful,” Charlotte says. “Send it up with a bowl of popcorn, please. The king and I were looking for some entertainment tonight.”

  As soon as she gets off the phone, Charlotte asks, “Did you hear that?”

  “I did. But my question is, why does this make you so happy?”

  “Because I’m sure that Agnes acted without reproach and now, I can prove to that pigheaded son of ours that she’s perfect for him.”

  “You think he’s just going to roll over and change his lifelong plan because of something Chantelle said?” Alfred looks skeptical.

  Shaking her head, she replies, “Not at all. But now I can refute every concern he has about marrying someone outside of the aristocracy. When the nobility starts to act like drunken sailors and the common folk, like me, keep to decorum, Andrew’s whole line of thinking goes right out the window.”

  “I hope things work out for you, dear,” the king says. “But if I were you, I’d reserve your optimism until we see what we’re up against.”

  Prince Andrew

  My heart is racing so fast, I can hear my blood whooshing in my ears. I cannot believe Chantelle chose tonight to come unhinged. I realize I should have probably warned her that Agnes would be at the ball, but I thought I would have handed her off to my mother by then.

  Also, while Chantelle has been nothing short of a wildcard, I honestly had no idea she would create such a stink. Especially as she’s the one who wound up making herself look bad.

  While it doesn’t look good for me to have had a personal relationship with my secretary—my mum’s secretary, rather—thanks to Agnes, my reputation can withstand the ding. She behaved brilliantly in front of the cameras.

  Leading Agnes to a corner of the ballroom, I lean down and tell her, “Thank you. You were a real champ out there.”

  “Yes, I was.” Damn, she’s still mad at me. I don’t know why I thought things might have changed, but I suppose it’s because we worked in such unity in front of the press.

  “Would you like to dance while we wait for my mother?” I ask her.

  “No, thank you,” comes her frosty response.

  “Would you like a glass of champagne?”

  “I would like a bottle,” she says. “But I’ll start with a glass.”

  I signal a waiter to bring champagne, but even before it arrives, Agnes and I are targeted by our hostess. By now I’m sure the rumor mill has hit most of the guests here.

  “Miss Dupuis,” Baroness Elster says, “I hear that you and the prince are something of an item. What do you say about that?”

  Agnes smiles kindly before answering, “I was his secretary, but I assure you that’s all I’ve ever been to him.”

  “Are you saying you’re not his date tonight?”

  Shaking her head, Agnes answers, “I’m meeting the queen this evening. Prince Andrew was simply kind enough to escort me here.”

  “Didn’t you hear? Her Highness is unable to attend tonight.”

  “No, we hadn’t heard.” I sound as tightly wound as I feel. “When did my mother cancel?”

  “Earlier this afternoon.”

  “I’m sure we just crossed wires somewhere,” Agnes says. “Thank you for telling us.”

  “Now that the queen won’t be attending, we’re relying on Prince Andrew to say a few words. I hope you’re okay with that, young man.” She stares me in the eye like a headmistress daring me to say no.

  “It would be my pleasure,” I assure her. “What time would you like me to speak?”

  “I think ten o’clock would be best. That gives you an hour to dance and get this party started, as the kids say.”

  As she walks off, I lean toward Agnes. “I’ve got to stay, but I suppose you could leave if you wanted to.”

  “I would like nothing more,” she assures me, “but as your mother didn’t tell me not to come, she might want me here for some reason.” Looking down at her dress, she adds, “I’m certainly dressed for the occasion.”

  “You certainly are.” I whistle under my breath for emphasis. “Dare I hope you’ve changed your mind about dancing with me? If not, I’m going to be swarmed by a bunch of ladies that I’d rather not waltz with.”

  “That’s quite an ego you’re wearing,” she drawls.

  “I’m not being conceited, Agnes. I’m the crown prince of our country, I’m a bit of a catch.”

  She makes no effort to hide her eye roll. “Whatever you have to tell yourself to get through the day.”

  I’ve good and truly brought her anger upon myself. Today alone I’ve fired her, nearly ravished her, and then blocked both of her attempts to date others—Simpson’s fifteen-year-old son, and Jones. The cherry on the sundae is that I’m responsible for her being in the middle of an ugly scene with Chantelle. A scene that will no doubt be televised with great regularity for the next decade.

  After a waiter delivers our champagne, I raise my glass and toast, “To the most adept secretary a man has ever had.”

  “And fired …” she whispers under her breath. Louder, she adds, “To good help. Long live the servants of the world who save your butt.”