A Royal Indiscretion (Patreon)

I am still struggling to find a new story that I can shop to a new house. Part of the problem is that Loose Id has been the home for my science fiction, and so writing in that genre feels "off."  So I'm doing something I've never done before--a variation on the royal/millionaire romance, only my royal is broke.  And he has issues.  A lot of issues.  I might have watched too many episodes of The Crown.

  

“Sir, are you ready?”

He wasn’t. He was definitely not ready—not ready to rejoin the catty remarks, the etiquette, the extravagant clothing and posturing when everyone knew the money had largely vanished or was locked into family estates and conservatories that prevented the spoiled heirs from selling off property. He wasn’t ready for the accusations, especially the ones that were true.

He smoothed his hand over the charcoal gray morning coat and wondered if he had time to call his sponsor. “In a moment,” he told the attendant. There was a pause, and Yves could feel the disapproval in the silence. Either that or his paranoia was turned to high, but honestly, the servants could be just as judgmental as his family, so he suspected the censure was real.

“Of course, sir,” the attendant left, most likely to tell archduke that his nephew was, once again, making life difficult for everyone. Yves took a deep breath and reached for his cellphone. He sent a quick text to his sober sponsor’s number and then he stared at phone waiting for Nick to response. Any response. The mute phone mocked him. 

Yves wished he didn’t crave drugs.  He wanted to be a better man—a stronger one. Failing that, he wished he could vanish into the countryside and go work with his dogs. He had found a peace with animals that utterly eluded him when it came to human beings. He stood and walked to the arched windows. In this old part of the castle, the stone was exposed and the crisp autumn air seemed to soak through into the room. The eastern rooms lacked the magnificent ocean views, but Yves almost preferred the hilly pastures and rock walls. A few horses picked their way over the rough land, seeking the last of the grass before winter killed it.

Maybe he should do something to express himself. His therapist had insisted that speaking up was healthy, not that the king or the archduke would agree. But Yves had spent a life veering wildly between trying to live up to his family’s expectations and going out of his way to anger them in every way possible. Maybe he needed to find some middle ground.

He could do this. He could live up to his obligations without crumbling under the weight of his titles and his family. He could. Yves ran his hands down his gray waistcoat and considered switched it out for a light pink version. Protocol could allow it, even if the press would likely pounce on the gesture. Yves looked at his phone again and the only message was a generic weather update warning that snow was coming. This time of year, if it wasn’t snowing, it was about to start snowing.

Instead of going for the grand gesture, Yves headed for the upright wardrobe and dug out a new tie—a subtle pink and gray stripe that would whisper his statement instead of shouting it. He quickly changed ties and headed for the door.

Right back into the world of hidden agendas and curtsies and plastic smiles and titles. Great. Yves slipped his phone into his pocket and opened the door. Unsurprisingly, an attendant waited right outside the door, his uniform something out of the fifteenth century. No doubt he could ask Philippe and he would be able to explain the historical significance of every tassel.

Yves missed his jeans. He missed pulling on a dirty sweater at the ass-crack of dawn and going out into the cold. He flexed his hands and found himself nearly desperate to grab an ax or a shovel. When he realized his hand was shaking, he quickly put it in his pant pocket. If anyone saw the tremor, they would come to all the wrong conclusions.

“Sir,” the attendant said, delicately urging Yves to get with the program. Yves hated the feeling that his moment of panic had made the staff’s life more difficult, and he immediately hated himself for caring about what other people thought. 

He’d made bad decisions. Horrible ones. He’d trusted the wrong people and hurt everyone who’d tried to honestly help him. He couldn’t change that, but he was not the same person now, and he would not accept the condemnation of those who could not see the man he was now.

And if Yves repeated that often enough, he might believe a small fraction of it. Until then, he was committed to putting on a good face. He had enough practice. Besides, if he wanted to repair the damage he had done to his childhood friendships and the parts of his family he still respected, he had to get this right.

He touched the gray and pink striped tie, and he regretted the small rebellion. 

“Where would the groom’s party be right now?” Yves asked brightly. He didn’t want to wander the castle in the vague hope that he’d end up in the right place.  He would rather go find the bride, but as a single man, that was not acceptable. Even a brother couldn’t break protocol to that extent.

“The formal parlor of the west apartment, second floor, sir.”

“Thank you.” Yves plastered on his best smile and started walking. The carpet here was thin and the air smelled of autumn and sea salt, but as Yves approached the western side of the castle, he noticed more and more modern renovations. Exposed stone gave way to plastering and dark wood trim. As Yves drew closer to the western apartments, he pulled out his phone and texted Nick once more.

--I’m hate this.

--I don’t even remember the damn rules

Again, his phone mocked him with silence. Two servants passed carrying boxes, but both paused to nod to him and offer polite “sirs.” It nearly sent Yves running for the stables. Or the kitchens. He bet someone down there knew how to get some oxy. His emotions terrified him.

His sponsor and therapist talked about him facing his demons and proving himself to his sister as a vital step in rebuilding his relationships, but Yves was starting to fear he might be eaten by the demons who lived in his drafty old castle. Why did she have to choose this place?

Two attendants stood next to double doors, and as Yves approached, they reached for the gilded doorknobs, opening them. With his heart pounding painfully against his ribs, Yves stepped into the west apartment. The entry was empty, but he could hear a faint murmuring of voices, dulled by the heavy tapestries and carpets. An attendant stood next to the arch that led to the formal parlor, but Yves didn’t get that far. The voices quieted.

They knew he was here. Since Yves wanted to avoid a public confrontation, he waited to see which family member had drawn the short straw and gotten assigned to play babysitter for the family’s black sheep.

Peter stepped through the arch. So, Yves didn’t even rate a family intervention. He got the husband of a distant cousin.

“Yves,” he said, his voice formal even as he ignored all court protocol. After all, Yves was the king’s nephew and a duke. Peter’s grand claims to fame were being distantly related to the deposed Czar Nicholas II and marrying someone so tangentially related to the king that it took a chart to track the relationship. And yet Yves didn’t even get a polite nod.

“Peter. Nice to see you.”

“You’re late.” Peter gestured toward one of the closed doors, and the attendant moved to open the door he indicated. 

Yves considered ignoring the request and heading into the parlor, but if he did, everyone would suffer. Besides, Peter probably didn’t want this task. He was an older man—a downright boring one. He would probably prefer to avoid Yves altogether. So in the spirit of being a different man, Yves headed into the small library without protest.

“It’s been a while since I had to get ready for a formal event. I couldn’t decide which cufflinks to wear with these trousers.” Yves sat in a wingchair and brushed invisible lint off his striped pants. He preened a little before looking up at Peter. While Peter had him beat on respectability, Yves was stunning in a double breasted waistcoat. That gave him a sort of control, and Yves pulled that power around him like a suit of armor. Sadly, drugs worked better against the barbs of others. However, Yves could not allow himself to think that way or he would end up in the kitchens.

The attendant closed the door after Peter. “Where is your top hat?”

Yves considered Peter with horror. “Oh lord, you can’t be serious. If the older generation wants to wear top hats, I’m all for it. But I’m neither old nor part of the actual wedding party. As a male guest, I am allowed to go to the church bareheaded.”

Peter looked constipated, but he didn’t argue.

“Go on,” Yves said. “I’m sure you’ve been charged with communicating certain truths to me.” That was his father’s favorite phrase.

“There are some concerns,” Peter admitted. He drew himself up and looked down at Yves. “This is Mary’s day. You’re here to mend fences and to show the world that the family can pull together to celebrate. We might be trying to command the world’s attention, but that does not mean that we want you to take the spotlight.”

For a time, Yves looked about the room, carefully plastering over the dull terror in his soul. The press would love to see him in the spotlight. They’d made good money peddling stories about his bad choices, but that was the past, and Yves was a different man now. They didn’t know him—not the new him. He needed to hold onto that truth. “I have no intention of doing anything to hurt Mary.” He looked at Peter coldly. “I actually like her. Besides, I’m sure the press is happily typing away on stories about designer dresses and the waste of tax monies as the government provides security for all the royal guests.”

Yves offered Peter a plastic smile. Who married someone so bland that they made white bread appear interesting in comparison? Yves might have sworn off men in general, but even in his sexual heyday, he wouldn’t have looked twice at boring Peter. 

“Make sure you remember your obligation to your sister. She’s the one who went to the king and asked that you be allowed back into the fold.”

Yves would yell at her for that after her honeymoon. Right now he waved a dismissive hand in Peter’s direction. His father would have pulled out an entire speech on decorum and respect for peers, on Yves wouldn’t have listened to. “It would be hard to keep me out of the wedding considering that I’m sixth in line.”

“God help us all if you ascend to the throne,” Peter said dryly. 

“I’m sure the world would be devastated. The king really should tend to his duties and start producing heirs so that Mary and I get pushed farther down the pecking order. Or perhaps it’s Queen Fenella who is dragging her metaphorical heels on producing children to ensure the line of succession remains queer free. Someone should really speak to one of them because I like Mary enough that I hate the idea of her being sucked into a political black hole.”

Peter’s expression had a hint of closely-guarded fury. “Focus on your own duties. Smile, make small talk, reassure everyone that you aren’t about to try and sell the family jewels.”

“I never stole anything,” Yves said hotly. He’d manipulated, cajoled, beguiled and blackmailed, but he hadn’t stolen. “And I grew up learning how to charm the masses. I will be just fine, Peter.”

“Just don’t charm any young boys.”

“Oh yes, because all homosexuals are pedophiles. You had to drag that old gem out,” Yves said with ice in his voice. “Would you like the statistics on how many pedophiles are heterosexual? So many men like adult women and little boys. Homosexuals are less into children and more into consenting adults. Would you like to make an inappropriate crack about homosexuals and bestiality before we leave? Do you have any other stupidity to share?” Yves stood and eyed the bourbon sitting on a low shelf. Fuck. He wanted a drink. Instead he turned his disdain up full blast and gave Peter his coldest expression. “Never comment on my love life again or I might be tempted to tell your wife about that fat little mistress you keep on the side. Now I am going to go be charming and beautiful, and if the papers choose to write about me rather than Mary, they will be impressed with my recovery.”

Yves prayed they wouldn’t drag up all the shit from his past again. His dirty laundry had been aired, re-aired, commented upon and put into fucking syndication, so hopefully everyone was tired of the loser royal and they could all move onto Mary and her boring, boring fiancé. He turned toward the door, but Peter spoke up before Yves could retreat.

“Just keep your love life to yourself and don’t fall off the wagon.”

“My love life is not any of your business,” Yves said sharply, which was a better than admitting he didn’t have a love life. He hated that his family felt like they owned him, and this time they hadn’t even tried to exert their authority in person. They’d sent Peter as a proxy. Yves’s fingers itched to text Nick. But he reminded himself that he wasn’t a young, closeted boy. 

He didn’t have to destroy himself in some misguided attempt to hurt everyone else.

They only had power if he gave it to them. Sure, they could bribe him with offers to let him access family trust funds or live in family homes where staff would coddle him, but he didn’t need that. He would socialize and schmooze and impress everyone. A few newspapers would take pictures of him. Internet sites would hold him up as the gay royal or the addicted royal or the recovered royal or the royal fuck up. He could survive.