square was a hideous shade of yellow that clashed with his green checked tie. In other words, he was the main contender in the “who’s going to give the prince a headache first” competition.
Christian spread out his fingers, counting off. “Last I checked, there were no less than seven—possibly more, since I haven’t checked this week—different committees charged with planning and executing an entire year’s worth of the appropriate hoopla and commemoration.”
“Yes, but nothing’s been announced from the palace.”
“In case it wasn’t clear, we delegated. To said committees. Now, like most of the rest of Moncriano, all we have to do is show up and party like it’s 1320.”
Christian almost, almost added a hip thrust and a screech in homage to Prince’s “1999.” But he figured most in the room wouldn’t get the reference. And they’d all been enough of a collective pain in his ass so as not to deserve his sweet dance moves.
“Your Highness, with all due respect…” Lady Margareta got up from her ladder-back chair that had to have clocked at least a couple of hundred years of supporting the nobility. No, she didn’t just get up, she crossed half the room to plead her case right in front of him. Just…why? It was a room, not a stadium. He could see and hear everyone fine. Or was it just that his annoyance-meter was stuck on overdrive? “We cannot properly mark seven hundred years without a coronation. Or a wedding. Preferably both.”
Sir Filip also left his seat to plead his case. Which was impressive, because he used a cane carved from an oak tree on his estate—as he’d tell anyone who remarked on it—due to a crushed hip that never healed right after his horse fell on him. “And, if I may, Your Highness, it is imperative that we perhaps not wait for the year of celebration to kick off. All this uncertainty swirling around King Julian must be put to rest before the vote on joining the European Union.”
He’d chosen this room specifically for this meeting. The walls were covered in blue-and-white tiles depicting daily life in Moncriano during the Renaissance. And the vaulted wooden ceiling was surrounded by the coats of arms of the forty-eight main noble families in gilded woodwork. Christian’s idea had been to subtly remind them of unity.
Turned out that they were all unified—against him. Or rather, against his father remaining king and himself remaining single.
Hand splayed across his chest, Sir Kai stepped into the fray. “While we appreciate all of you taking the time to share your thoughts, you’re retreading familiar ground. The prince does not have time to listen to you all talk in circles. If you have something new to share, then he’d entertain it.”
Well, hell.
Sir Kai had homed in on exactly what bothered Christian the most about this meeting. He’d been hearing the same thing—from the same people—for weeks.
What he needed was a fresh take. His papa had always said, “When in doubt, take it to the people.”
He looked up at the coffered ceiling. Those coats of arms only represented the noble families of the realm. Yes, their money and influence helped keep the wheels of commerce turning for the country.
But the rest of his people—the ones in the trenches every day, working for the influx of tourists and statesmen who helped turn them into an economic powerhouse capable of attracting the interest of the EC—those subjects could have a very different take on things.
And their voices were equally important. Maybe even more so, since their numbers were greater.
“In lieu of any fresh revelations coming to light”—Christian paused, for form’s sake, but of course nobody spoke up—“I’m going to do some research into this myself.” He nodded at the assembled advisors, all sporting the same gaping mouths and wide eyes. Except for Sir Kai. His eyes almost twinkled at Christian’s abrupt announcement.
He made it almost across the length of the receiving room in the blissful peace of shocked silence. Two steps from the door, a clamor broke out behind him. Christian didn’t care. They’d had their chance.
But then the door opened just as he reached for it.
Mallory burst through it like sunshine breaking through the fog over the ocean. Her burnished hair tumbled in loose waves over a tight cream sweater. It was tucked into a corduroy miniskirt the light brown of a red oak tree. Matching boots came up over her knee, which just made him hunger to touch the few inches of exposed skin between them