Royal Indiscretion, chapter 16 (Patreon)

Yves opened the cottage door only as far as necessary to slip inside. He had expected Doug to be in his bedroom, but he sat on the couch with three pillows under his foot where it rested on the coffee table. Doug turned his head and smiled, so he was in a better mood than Nick had been. “How is your ankle?” Yves went to the window and pushed the curtains back. The sun illuminated the dust suspended in the still air.

“Sore. If this is tendon damage or a torn ligament, I need to get to a doctor. If this is a mild sprain, I really need to make sure the trainers and coaches don’t find out about it.” His smile faded.

Yves suspected that anyone who hired Doug would prefer to know about an injury, but he wasn’t in any position to preach to someone about what was ethical. “That is quite the dilemma.”

Doug sighed. “Nick said it’s a mild sprain and I just need rest.”

“That sounds like good news.” Yves couldn’t understand why Doug sounded unhappy. Perhaps that had more to do with the trip back from the castle than his ankle. Nick had been utterly unwilling to say anything about what had transpired between Doug and him. Yves didn’t know if that implied that the two had conspired or exchanged insults. Since Nick’s terrible mood had resulted in a tirade against Yves, Yves father and the entire line of Stenbock royals, Yves assumed insults had featured heavily.

Doug shifted, pulling his foot closer to the edge of the table. “Just tell me whether Nick is any good at this shit. Can I trust him when he says this is minor? And no, I’m not insulting him and suggesting he’s untrustworthy. I just want to know how much medical experience he has.”

Yves sat on the edge of the couch since there was nowhere else to sit.  “I’ve watched him handle everything from broken legs to hip dysplasia to arthritis. He knows animals and every bone and joint in their bodies, and as he is so fond of saying, people are animals.”

Doug nodded as though accepting Yves judgment, but then he said, “I hate this.”

“Being immobile?”

Doug’s laugh was unhappy . “Sitting here worrying about whether a stupid mistake is going to cost me millions of dollars,” he corrected Yves.

The idea that Doug could lose so much bothered him in ways he wasn’t prepared to consider. He should have warned Doug that the stairs were unstable, but he pushed that feeling aside. “Everyone gets injured. Don’t you have plans for when that happens?” he asked airily.

“Plan A is to never get injured and never get old.” Doug said with a boyish grin. Yves quite hated Doug’s easy charm.

“I rather think that’s a poor plan. And given that my grand plan in life was to get so high I stopped caring about being the family disgrace, that is saying something significant.” Yves said it in a perfectly serious tone. 

Doug’s smile vanished. He stared at Yves so long that Yves became uncomfortable. He threaded his fingers together and rested his hands on his knee. After years of Hagan and Duke Gerald’s tender mercies, Yves should be immune to unhappy looks. Apparently living in exile had worn away those emotional callouses.

“Plan B is to save my money and push my way into a business.” Doug said slowly, his emotions hidden.

“If your employers learn of your injury, will they cancel your contract?”

“No. They can’t do that unless I can’t play.” Doug shifted on the couch. “However, the second and third string quarterbacks will push harder to prove themselves, and there are certain players on the team who would probably root for me to fail. I guess it’s a little like being a prince.”

Yves leaned back. “I wouldn’t know. My country suffers a lack of princes. The most we have are a few dukes.” He kept his voice uncaring, but that did hit a close to the mark. Those who were above him in the line of succession were always judging and those below, hoping he failed.

“But aren’t you a prince or something close enough to it?”

“Not at all. Technically I’m a count, but I’m far enough from the throne that my title shouldn’t matter.”

Doug frowned. “Shouldn’t?” 

The man was annoying quick to take note of the weak spot in any argument. Yves was reminded uncomfortable of Duke Gerard

Yves stared at a small bug climbing up the inside wall.  “It must matter because when I’m off this estate everyone watches in case I make a single error.” 

“You mean the press,” Doug said with disgust. “They’re vultures, only sometimes they don’t wait for the prey to die before swooping in for a chunk of flesh.”

Yves studied Doug. He appeared genuinely repelled despite the fact that he had handled the press with a grace and ease. Apparently he was a far better actor than it first appeared, a trait Yves envied. He leaned closer to Doug. “How do you live with knowing that everyone wants you to make a mistake?” Yves had asked his father that question once. Duke Gerard had told him that if he studied harder he wouldn’t have to worry about others judging him. Child-Yves had then invested an obscene amount of time in grade four arithmetic. It hadn’t improved his life.

“Most people don’t want us to screw up,” Doug said. “I’m sure it’s a small percentage in both our cases. However, it’s easy to focus on the assholes. I do, anyway. When I’m in the locker room, I can’t keep myself from looking for Carl Mueller. He would murder his own mother for a chance to steal my job.”

Yves understood the impulse. If forced to sit down for a meal, he did tend to let his gaze wander to his father or older brother more often than his aunt. He found that their disapproval was like picking a scab—satisfying in some perverse manner. Perhaps Yves simply wanted to see that their disapproval was a universal constant.

“I have a question, though,” Doug said.

“Oh?” The bug had reached the bottom sill of the window and was now trying to navigate around it. Yves wondered what bugs worried about. The room was silent until Yves finally shifted his gaze to Doug.

“How do titles work?”

That cloth had been spun from nothing. Yves cocked his head to the side and stared at Doug. “Your parents have a title and then you inherit one,” he said with a shrug. He remembered being ten years old and standing in the grand church while his grandfather pinned the medal on his chest. For that one moment, he’d felt like he fit—like he was big enough to carry the weight of that ceremonial badge and the sash. And then his father had confiscated both, saying Yves could not be trusted to keep either safe. It wasn’t as if Yves would have used them on a snowman.

Doug frowned. “I thought you said your grandfather made you a count when you were a kid.”

The man was damnably observant. “This is a difficult topic,” Yves said was he smoothed the fabric of his work pants. Yves looked up to see Doug studying him.

“You have the same habit as your father,” Doug said.

Yves shot to his feet. Damn the man. Yves had grown up watching his father’s long fingers work some bit of fabric, so he already knew that he was mimicking his father’s disdain. He didn’t need to have a brash American point out the obvious. “I apologize for failing to warn you about the stairs. I would never have intentionally placed you in harm’s way, especially not after you assisted me. However, do not seek to place yourself in a position of intimacy.”

Doug’s eyebrows went up. “Intimacy?” The word came out strained, like the man might begin to laugh. 

“I know you are straight,” Yves snapped, hating how his accent grew thicker. He took a cleansing breath. “I do not use that word in reference to sex but rather to unwelcome familiarity. You have no intimate knowledge of my habits or the duke’s. Do not presume you do.” Yves spun around, but then he stopped. If he left the hut, he would have to speak with Nick or hide in the dog kennel. Yves preferred more warmth than the kennel would offer. 

“I’m sorry,” Doug said. “I didn’t mean to piss you off, and I am not making fun of your sexuality. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Yes, because Americans have a reputation for being so liberal minded.”

“Okay, that was bitchy,” Doug said. Yves decided to brave Nick’s temper, but before he could get out the door, Doug used the arm of the couch to push himself up onto one leg. “I get it. Fathers can be a difficult subject.”

Yves huffed. Were his father in the room, he would, no doubt, remind Yves that such verbal gestures were unbecoming of royalty. “Sit before you do yourself damage,” Yves said. It didn’t look like Doug planned to listen, so Yves sat again, hoping that good manners would dictate that he do the same rather than loom over Yves like a muscular flamingo. “Unless your father is in line to some little-known throne, I greatly doubt that you understand much, and I would appreciate it if you kept your attempts to relate to me to a minimum.” The moment the words came out of his mouth, it occurred to him that his father might have said something very similar. The bitterness of shame made him want to snatch the words out of the air, but it was too late. One day he would learn to moderate his words, but that day had no yet come.

An inelegant bray of laughter burst out of Doug, and he dropped back down onto the couch before propping his foot back up on the low table. “Shit. You didn’t Google me.”

“I saw your football salary.” Yves had been equally impressed and horrified.

Doug snorted and threw his arms across the back of the couch in an unconcerned sprawl. “You should go to the second and third pages where the good stuff starts.” His voice had a sharpness at odds with his body language. The hair on the back of Yves’s neck stood on end, and he wasn’t sure why. He had the same feeling as when he’d first arrived at Nick’s old property and Ya had eyed him. The dog had appeared at ease with huge brown eyes and a fluffy coat, but something in the gaze or the body language had warned him that a predator was watching him.

When Yves had shown an abundance of caution around the Akbash dog, Nick had proclaimed that maybe one member of the Stenbock family had an ounce of sense. Given that Nick was the provider of the king’s dogs, Yves probably should have taken offense on King Alphonse’s behalf.

Cautious of any metaphorical teeth, Yves kept his voice mild. “Such as?” 

“My father was just executed by the state of Texas.”

Yves leaned forward. “Executed? Do you mean murdered?” Horror rushed through Yves and sank into his very bones. Executions were atrocities that he thought of existing only in history books and spy novels.

“It’s not murder when a man had his day in court and a jury found him guilty of three counts of murder in the commission of a robbery. The hate crime finding was just a bonus for the prosecution.” Doug slowly turned his gaze toward Yves.

The blood drained from Yves’s face and he held the arm of the couch. He could not imagine Doug with his ridiculous desire to play the part of the shining hero having a father like that. “I…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Doug said with a wave. “It leaves everyone speechless.”

Yves truly had no idea how to respond. Many people tried telling him that he should be grateful for the family he had, but he had never actually agreed with them. However, Yves had to admit that Duke Gerard was a saint compared to Doug’s father. Politeness would demand he change the subject, but curiosity made him ask, “How old were you when he was arrested?”

Instead of taking offense, Doug shrugged. “Thirteen.”

“Mother of God.” Yves rubbed a hand over his face. He tried, and failed, to imagine the pain of that loss. He’d never grieved his mother because he’d never known her, so he had no frame of reference to even attempt to understand.

“God had nothing to do with it,” Doug said dryly. “Most people don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sure they fear offending.”

“I’m not so sure,” Doug said with another dark laugh. “They love talking behind my back, but to my face they pretend they don’t know anything about it. The press is the worst. They will eat you alive if you allow them.”

Yves had always catalogued his failures and miseries in life and considered them greater than those of the people around him, but he could not compete against this. Doug’s expression remained neutral—indifferent even—yet he had to carry a well of pain. No human could escape some sort of damage. 

“Can I ask something and get a serious answer?” Yves asked.

Doug turned his head. “Yeah. Sure.”

Leaning forward, Yves asked, “How did you survive without drugs? I have heard they are easily available in the United States, so how could you suffer all that and not want to…” Yves searched for the right words to describe what drugs had always give him.

“Escape?” Doug guessed. “Dull the pain? Distract myself? Lose myself?”

Yves nodded. That was an apt description of everything drugs had offered him. Still offered him. “All of it. How could you avoid wanting all of it?”

Doug blew out a long breath. “I did want that.”

“Clearly not as much as I did.” Yves stopped himself before he could confess his sins. Where once drugs had offered an escape from his father’s judgment and responsibilities, he now longed to erase the memories of his own failures. Rudy Sava was only one of many regrets he carried like leaden weights in his soul.

“I escaped into football,” Doug said softly. “I lost myself in being a quarterback and not Doug Wasso. I needed to have that physical outlet. I got in trouble in junior high because I broke into the weight room on the weekend to work out. If the coach and my grandmother hadn’t fought for me, I might have ended up in juvenile detention. But don’t kid yourself. I threw myself into unhealthy escapes. I worked out until my muscles screamed in pain and I couldn’t think of anything else. I set a goal to get recruited by a college team, and I didn’t give myself time to do anything that didn’t drive me toward that goal. I trained and studied.” He shrugged again. “But that doesn’t make me psychologically stronger than a drug addict because it was all still a twisted coping mechanism.”

“I doubt I would have ruined my life had I chosen American football as my drug of choice.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Doug said. “By the time I got to college, my coach banned me from games my freshman year and made me go to therapy in order to keep my scholarship.”

“What? Why?”

Doug sighed. “Other people hurt themselves by cutting or taking drugs. I literally hurt myself by working out too hard and intentionally pulling muscles because I liked the distraction the pain provided.”

“Oh dear.” When Yves had first seen Doug, he had mentally constructed some wild backstory, one that had more to do with Victorian literature than reality. He had seen Doug’s blue-gray eyes with their touch of sadness and had imaged insane mothers and lost love—not something as sordid as reality. “I do not mean to intrude into your personal life, but would your owners not be more concerned about a self-destructive tendency than a sprained ankle?” Yves was fully prepared for Doug to order him to get out. The man would be justified.

“Luckily I worked through it and the owners don’t know. But the day is going to come that I’m going to stop being a football hero, and all my demons are still there. I can’t say I don’t worry about the future.”

Yves leaned back. He normally hid his guilt, but Doug made confession look powerful. And he made Yves feel weak for failing to show the same strength. “I cannot see you making a mess of your life as I have.”

“I can. Football won’t last forever, and I can’t build a life as a successful businessman when everyone who could help me sees me as white trash and a meathead who is only good to put on shows for the rich.”

“A meat head? All heads are meat and bone.” Sometimes Doug’s use of language was baffling.

“It’s a colloquialism for a stupid person.”

“Ah.” Perhaps Yves had made one or two assumptions about Americans, but Doug had forced him to reconsider his prejudices. “You are far from that.”

“True, but between my professional football career and my family background, I have limited opportunities after my retirement from the team. I thought coming to Europe would help me improve my reputation, but right now, I’m not feeling like the odds are great. I’m not going to find a wife up here.”

“Did you feel a wife would cure this?” Yves asked slowly. He hated to imply that Doug lacked intelligence, especially when that appeared to be a point at which others had attacked him. However, that seemed a foolish plan.

“Yes.” He sounded so convinced that Yves was left without words. “Go on, say whatever it is you’re thinking,” Doug said.

“I can’t help but believe you are simplifying matters. Truth be told, many people see royals as buffoons and antiques that should be relegated to the history books. Even my uncle, King Alphonse, has limited power, and he can’t do business with anyone. The law forbids him from engaging in commerce.”

Doug held up a finger and struck a triumphant pose. “Yes, but a lady lower down on the royal ladder wouldn’t have those sorts of restrictions, and she would open doors for me. I could act as her manager and run companies in her name.”

Yves frowned. Doug was not an unintelligent man, but perhaps misunderstood the unforgiving nature of royal blood. “If someone who was a lady only by distant blood married you, then her children would no longer be lords or ladies. She would lose status because, in marrying you, she would essentially fall off the lower boughs of the tree.”

“People still want to get close to old money and old titles,” Doug said, but he sounded less sure now. It was a heady feeling to know that Doug was not only listening but potentially changing his mind because of Yves’s input.

“Really? Can you name me one grand-daughter of King Gustaf V or King Frederik IX? Do you know one of the siblings of Harald V or King Juan Carlos?”

Doubt flickered across Doug’s face. “No, but I assume people who live in their countries can.” His voice lacked the confidence Yves had come to associate with him.

“Fewer than you imagine,” Yves said. “And the wealthy businessmen you would hope to impress would be less likely to follow court politics than the average citizen. The jokes about inbreeding are rampant in those circles who respect money more than tradition.” Once Yves had disgraced himself thoroughly enough that others no longer feared that Duke Gerard or King Alphonse would listen to him, they had delighted in sharing every unpleasant stereotype of royals and courts.

“But if royals are as irrelevant as you argue, then you should be allowed to quietly fall off the bottom of the line of succession.”

Yves toed his shoes off and thought about that. “Maybe I would be, but I have caused so much drama that any major move on my part would simply be chum in the water for the circling sharks.”

Doug frowned. “Then something is really wrong.”

“Why?”

Doug leaned closer and paused, either for dramatic purposes or because he could not find the right words. Either worried Yves. Eventually Doug said, “Because your father wanted me to talk you into giving up your title. He said it was the only way to save you from the press and give you a life that would make you happy.”

Yves mouth fell open. Of all the declarations Doug could have made, that shocked Yves more than an announcement that aliens were taking over the country. And yet Yves believed him. His father wanted his title.