Agnes had every right to storm out of my office this afternoon. I behaved like a cad. The truth is, I revere women like only a son of an extraordinary woman can. I know they can do anything they set their minds to. I realize they are the stronger sex in many ways. So why couldn’t I just leave well enough alone and let Agnes have one small win?

  I’ll tell you why: I’m afraid one small win will lead to my undoing. I’m attracted to Agnes, and I cannot be with her.

  There’s been enough gossip circulating about my family ever since my dad married my mother. My grandparents were not in favor of their match, so the headlines were particularly scathing. Speculation over Mum’s capability lasted a very long time.

  Luckily, the queen has proven herself again and again to our country as a highly competent ruler, as well as a loving wife and mother. But then her six kids grew up.

  My youngest sister, Chérie, is married to her wife, Brigitte. They live in Paris with their daughter. And while Chérie was the first of us to settle down, she was also a wild child with a chip on her shoulder the size of a moon crater. She made a spectacle of herself in the press from the time she knew what flipping the bird meant. And believe me when I say, her shocking behavior only grew from there.

  My brother Geoffrey wanted nothing to do with being a prince, so he went to the States for university before going to culinary school there. Instead of coming home and picking up some of the royal slack, he got a job at a lodge in Oregon and pretended to be someone else.

  My brother Alistair has finally settled down, but not before parading every woman he could get his hands on in front of the press. My sister Aubrey was a particular nightmare in the love department, but she’s settled down as well. Now there’s just me and Sophie.

  Sophie had been engaged to Baron Harquardt. It was thought to be a love match until Thomas informed my sister that he had no intention of getting rid of his mistress once they were wed. Sophie broke off the engagement and has been so despondent ever since, I fear she’s given up on the thought of marrying at all.

  With all the theatrics that have gone on before me, is it any wonder I want to marry a woman who won’t have all the tongues on the continent wagging with conjecture and disapproval? The only problem is, I can’t seem to find someone to fit the bill who doesn’t bore me to death.

  Enter my sister’s secretary, Agnes Dupuis. Bree suggested Agnes take McMillian’s place when he got sick, and before I could find my own man, my mother jumped on board and made sure Agnes got the job. You’d think a queen would have more pressing matters to take care of.

  Now I’m stuck with a confoundingly beautiful and skilled assistant who’s charged with making my life run smoothly. And while Agnes keeps a tight calendar and makes sure I’m where I’m meant to be when I’m meant to be there, she’s having a sizable impact on my blood pressure.

  Picking up the telephone on my desk, I punch in the three-digit code that will connect me with the Master of Household.

  My call is answered after only one ring. “Your Highness, how may I be of assistance?” Bennet asks.

  “I’d like to know why Agnes Dupuis was made my permanent secretary without anyone asking me first.”

  “Sir, I assure you I did not make that call on my own. I suggested discussing the matter with you, but your mother said it wouldn’t be necessary. She told me you were delighted by the job Ms. Dupuis was doing, so she went ahead and made her title official.”

  Of course she did. “I see. Well, in that case, I should mention that Agnes will be arriving to work early as of tomorrow. I would like for you to let her know that if she’s not here by seven thirty every morning, she will only be given one warning before her employment is terminated.”

  “Oh … uh … yes. I’ll see to it. May I ask what additional duties Ms. Dupuis is meant to execute so I can better keep an eye on her?”

  “No, you may not. I will let you know if her performance is up to snuff, and nothing my mother can say will contradict that. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, Your Highness. I shall refer to you for all future staffing concerns.”

  “Only the ones that directly relate to me, please.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Thank you, Bennet.” I hang up the telephone before he can say anything else.

  My gaze travels to the door Agnes recently walked through. I don’t need her to stay until six tonight, but I’m not going to tell her that. Let her use the time to think about how much she really wants this job. Hopefully, after tomorrow morning, she’ll decide on her own that working for me is more trouble than it’s worth.

  While I’m relieved to have the evening ahead of me without my secretary’s presence, I can’t help but feel a small pang. Agnes Dupuis is like no other woman I’ve ever met. She doesn’t treat me like a prince in a fairy tale. She doesn’t swoon or fawn over me like every morsel of attention I throw her way will save her from starvation.

  No, Agnes treats me like she would any other employer. The reality of this both impresses me and infuriates me. Even though nothing romantic can ever occur between us—if I want to maintain any decorum with the press—I would still like to know that she’s as bothered by me as I am by her.

  Chapter Three

  Amelia

  “You’re dressed early,” Amelia tells her daughter as she joins her in the kitchen.

  Pouring herself a cup of coffee in a travel mug, Agnes gruffly replies, “I have to go into work early today.”

  “How is your job going anyway? You’ve hardly spoken two words about it since you’ve started.”

  After blowing on the contents of her cup, Agnes takes a sip before answering, “That’s because I’ve signed a stack of non-disclosure agreements which clearly state I’m not allowed to discuss the royal family’s personal lives with anyone.”

  “But I’m your mum. Surely, they don’t mean you can’t talk to me.”

  Agnes nails her mother with an intense stare. “I’m pretty sure those agreements are in place because a mother of some palace staff member sold secrets to the press to pad her travel fund or some such.”

  Amelia’s spine straightens while she points at her daughter. “Mothers are worried about their children. They are not gossip mongers.”

  Screwing the lid on her coffee, Agnes replies, “So, what you and Mrs. Basset talk about over the back fence is concern for your children, and not idle gossip that’s none of your business?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Amelia scoffs.

  “My bedroom window overlooks the rose garden, Mum. I’ve overheard several conversations recently regarding your and Mrs. Bassett’s interference in the lives of Grady and Princess Aubrey.”

  “I tried to get you together with Grady first …”

  “That’s your defense? You tried to interfere with my life first?”

  Amelia shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. “I can’t just sit around and wait for you to do something about finding a husband. I’m relying on you to make me a grandmother. Which, might I add, is something I’d like to be before you put me away in a home.”

  “You’re not even sixty, Mum.” Gathering up her purse from off the counter, Agnes says, “Quit being overly overdramatic. You know my plan is to open my own agency, and have it well established before I take time off to raise a family.”

  “Yes, but you’re not even looking for your spouse yet. Surely that’s something you can do now.”

  Agnes shakes her head while inhaling deeply. “Trust the job you’ve done raising me and let me make my own choices. Because honestly, while it’s a great help living here so I can save money, I will happily move out if you keep interfering. Please, Mum.”

  Instead of agreeing, Amelia stands up and glides over to her daughter. After kissing her on the cheek, she says, “You have a lovely day, dear.” Then she walks out of the room, intent on making sure her future machinations go undetected.

  Agnes

  As if I don’t have enough things going on, I can now add “worry about my mother overstepping herself” to the list.

  I didn’t really mind when she and Jacqui gossiped about the possibility of Grady and me getting together. I like Grady a lot. He’s smart and funny, and very easy on the eyes. If not for the fact that he and Princess Aubrey have adored each other since childhood, I might have even had a chance. Although, I’m not sure I really wanted one.

  Grady and I grew up next door to each other, but he was three years older. We never socialized beyond the odd wave when we were coming or going. Even so, I used to stare out the front door incessantly hoping to see him. Well, not him, really. I was hoping to see who he was with.

  Grady and Prince Alistair have been best friends since they were in primary school and, as such, Prince Andrew was often with them. He was the one I had my eye on—along with every other girl in town. Too bad I didn’t know then what a horrible man he would turn out to be. I could have redirected all that teenage pining and angst and learned six new languages. Minimum.

  Putting my coffee cup down on the front table, I pull a light jacket from the entry hall closet before plucking my keys out of my purse. Once I’m out of the house and settled behind the wheel, I turn on the ignition and check the time. Seven twenty. Crap, that barely gives me enough time to get to the palace.

  Forgetting my coffee, I direct all my attentions toward navigating the path to work. I don’t even turn on the radio because I don’t want to be distracted. I speed, roll through a couple of stop signs, and still only manage to pull into the staff parking lot at seven twenty-eight.

  After picking up my purse, I trot toward the back entrance which the staff uses. It’s seven thirty on the nose when my phone rings. I think about ignoring it, but decide I’d better at least look to see who’s calling. It’s Prince Andrew.

  “Hello?” I try valiantly not to sound like I’ve just sprinted a three-minute kilometer. The result is some breathy puff that makes me sound like Marilyn Monroe having an asthma attack.

  “I’m just checking to make sure you’ve arrived,” comes his terse reply.

  “Yes, of course. I’m on my way up to your apartment now.” There goes any thought of stopping off in the kitchen for a scone. I didn’t think to grab anything at home and my stomach is starting to wake up and demand sustenance.

  “Excellent. I would hate to start my day looking unkempt.” He hangs up before saying anything else, which is probably a good thing. I’m currently in the frame of mind where I might accidentally give him a piece of my mind.

  Andrew’s apartment is on the other side of the palace from my office, which means I don’t have time to drop off my purse and jacket. After running up three flights of stairs, I stop to catch my breath. While tucking away a few stray hairs that have sprung loose from my chignon, I walk briskly down a long hallway that leads to the royal apartments. Currently, Princess Sophie and Prince Andrew live in this wing, along with whatever extended family and dignitaries are visiting.

  As the heir to the throne, Andrew lives in Apartment One, which is reported to be the most opulent and impressive of all the royal apartments, next to the king and queen’s, of course. I’ve never actually seen it, as the prince spends most of his time in his office, which is next to mine.

  Stopping in front of the prince’s apartment, I hurry to make sure my blouse is properly buttoned and securely tucked into my panty hose. If I’m being honest, other than Andrew, the worst part of working in the palace is having to wear nylons. I’m not a fan of feeling like a bratwurst in a casing.

  I curl my hand into a fist, but right before it connects, the door opens. It’s my boss. In a robe.

  “Good morning, Your Highness. I hope you slept well,” I say while averting my gaze from his bare legs. I hope he got a cramp in the middle of the night that made it impossible for him to get any rest at all.

  “Agnes, come in.” He steps aside to let me enter.

  While I should keep a poker face expression, as is my job, I don’t. I breeze past him before stopping dead in my tracks and gasping like a heroine in a romance novel.

  The front room is gorgeous. It’s full of dark paneling and walls painted in a rich, deep navy. The light upholstered furniture saves the room from being cave-like.

  The ceiling is at least four meters high, but most likely closer to five. There are numerous chandeliers, and the windows are enormous, allowing the morning light to pour in and spotlight the exquisite hunting scenes on the walls.

  It’s not like I’ve never seen such grandeur; I work at the palace, after all. So then why am I so affected by this room? I don’t have a chance to investigate my reaction because Andrew orders, “Come with me.”

  I try to keep up as he travels the length of the room and turns down a hallway. Where in the world is he going? Please let it be the kitchen. Maybe I can stuff a banana in my purse for later.

  When Andrew opens the door at the end of the corridor, I’m rendered totally speechless. He’s leading me into his bedroom. Dear God. “Uh … what … rather … no …” A flood of nonsensical words rushes past my lips, causing my boss to turn around and look at me like I’m having a stroke.

  “Agnes, are you unwell?” he demands forcefully.

  “Um … I … it’s just that … what exactly are we doing in here?”

  He looks at his giant, four-poster bed covered in what is surely eight thousand thread count sheets hand woven by Himalayan nuns, before turning back to me. He bursts into laughter. “Relax; we’re not here so I can take you to bed, Agnes.”

  My face flames hot with embarrassment. “Of course not,” I say.

  “We’re here so you can examine all of my clothing and make sure it’s up to snuff.” He leads the way to a set of double doors across from his bed.

  “Don’t you have a valet for that?” I ask meekly, temporarily forgetting the conversation that led me to be here at this hour.

  “I do, but you’ve recently called him out on his sloppy performance. I thought it best that you inspect everything for yourself.”

  A thought hits me like a cricket paddle to the head. “What a wonderful idea, Your Highness. I expect once I sign off on everything, you’ll no longer require that I arrive at work early to approve your clothing for the day.” I’m practically giddy with relief.

  Scrunching up his handsome features, Andrew says, “Nonsense. I can’t risk going out in public without your final inspection. I just thought you should have a look and see what we’re dealing with before it goes on my person.”

  I want to cry. I want to beg for a crust of bread. I want to quit. But instead of doing any of those things, I simply accept my fate.

  A fate I’ve brought upon myself.

  Chapter Four

  Charlotte

  After checking her schedule for the day, Charlotte picks up her phone and dials her friend’s number. “Jacqui, hello.”

  “Hello, yourself. I hope you haven’t been making wedding plans without me.”

  Charlotte looks over at the stack of wedding magazines sitting on her breakfast table. “While I’m ecstatic that Bree and Grady are getting married, I do have two weddings before theirs.”

  “Ah yes, Geoffrey and Alistair are marrying that lovely pair of American sisters. The nuptials are in November and February, aren’t they?”

  The queen chuckles. “You know as well as I do those are the dates. The two of us could hire ourselves out as wedding planners.”

  Jacqui barks with laughter. “I’m pretty sure your gig as queen is solid enough that you’ll never need to get another job. And with the handsome pension the king has supplied for Georges, I think I’m in the clear, as well.”

  “It would make a good movie though, don’t you think?”

  “Only if you can get Nicole Kidman to play me,” Jacqui teases.

  “Nonsense, she’ll be playing me. You can have Sandra Bullock or Jennifer Aniston.”

  “Cate Blanchett, and that’s my final offer,” Jacqui says. “Now why did you really call? I’m guessing it’s not so we can cast the movie of our lives.”

  “No, it’s not. I’d like to move up our tea with your neighbor, Amelia, to tomorrow. I have an unexpected opening in my schedule.”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do. I’m assuming the topic at hand will be getting Andrew and Agnes together?”

  Glancing around the room to make sure there are no ears listening, Charlotte loudly declares, “I promised Alfred I wouldn’t be too pushy.” Then she quietly adds, “But that’s exactly what I have in mind.”

  Prince Andrew

  Agnes’s reaction to being in my bedchamber is both humorous and insulting. She’s acting like some vestal virgin being offered up for an orgy to keep the sacred Roman fires burning.

  “Why is it that you aren’t already dressed for the day?” she asks primly.

  I’m not about to tell her it’s because I’m never dressed this early. While I made a big deal out of telling her that I leave my apartments at eight every morning, the truth is, I never leave before nine, unless I have a commitment.

  “I didn’t want to waste my time in case you found a flaw with my attire. No point in getting dressed only to have to change.” I call out, “Finnley, Miss Dupuis is here to look through my closet.”

  The look on Agnes’s face is priceless. She probably thought she could insult my valet’s diligence and never have to face him. While I’d love to be a fly on the wall and watch their exchange, my breakfast is due to arrive, and I’m famished.

  Finnley walks into the room in his normal stiff manner. Even though he’s well into his forties, he looks like a schoolboy about to be reprimanded by the headmaster. “Sir.”

  “This is my new secretary, Miss Dupuis,” I say. Then I turn to Agnes. “This is Finnley, the valet whose competence you’ve questioned.”

  The grimace on Agnes’s face makes me think she might be trying to smile. Either that or she’s baring her teeth in preparation to attack. I suppose either is possible.