Barely Regal - E. Davies

Prologue

Wren

A murmur of voices slipped around a door, and Wren caught his breath. He stepped quietly away from the bottle of blueberry lube on his oldest brother’s bedside table.

As the fifth-born son of King Alphonse van Rosavia, Renford had every right to wander around the palace. But technically, that right didn’t extend to his brothers’ suites.

A housekeeper was talking as they opened the door. “I’ve already asked to work that day. It’s been years since Rosavia hosted anything this big. And I heard Prince McHottie is coming…”

When the voices faded again and the door clicked shut, Wren tiptoed after them and made his escape the opposite way down the hall.

Wren tried to look casual as he walked, hooking his thumbs into his now-empty pockets. Half an hour ago, they’d been stuffed suspiciously full with five bottles of blueberry lube.

He’d picked the stuff up as a joke from the sex shop in Alpina, Rosavia’s capital. He knew the palace disapproved of him potentially being seen in such places, but no harm done. Nobody had recognized him. All it took was a warm winter hat and he could go wherever he wanted.

There were perks to being the last in line for the throne.

Of course, he’d left one lube bottle on his own nightstand. His brothers would be arguing over which of them was the culprit for weeks. Wren grinned with delighted anticipation.

Just as he reached the door to his suite, a voice made him jump.

“Your Highness.”

The gravelly rasp of his valet, Thomas Pierce, was unmistakable. Pierce had been in the royal household for ten years, and at thirty-five, he was the most junior of the princes’ valets.

Wren shouldn’t be surprised that he could locate him in what seemed like moments. The man seemed to have eyes in the back of his head—maybe to guard the fine ass that always filled out Pierce’s black uniform trousers perfectly.

His valet’s smile was kind but firm, the slight wrinkle to his forehead telling Wren that he was being summoned somewhere that wasn’t optional, and Pierce wasn’t sure how Wren would react.

After ten years by Wren’s side, with the subtlest shift of his expression, Pierce could impart a world of information to Wren. At a glance, Pierce could tell him anything—like if whichever official Wren was talking to was playing a game Wren hadn’t spotted. Or he could make a promise—only five more minutes of shaking hands before Pierce would usher him away. Anything Wren needed, Pierce could give him with a look.

“Thom?” Wren asked, his body orienting itself toward him before he even noticed, like a compass finding north. He always called Pierce by his first name, despite protocol, yet it never made Pierce rise to the bait.

In fact, Wren had yet to find out how to shatter that mirror-still grace—even with all his teenage antics, Pierce had been unflappable.

“His Majesty requests your presence in his study.” Pierce definitely knew more than he was saying, then.

Wren pouted. “Right now?” He wanted to be around when Sander got home to see his reaction. It would probably be the funniest. But if they’d sent Pierce to fetch him, it was something formal.

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“Any idea what about?” Wren pretended he couldn’t see the answer on Pierce’s face. He wanted to see what his valet was allowed to say. He had a way of giving Wren a heads-up to brace for a scolding, but they couldn’t have found out about the lube already. What other cheeky stunts had he pulled lately? There was the way he’d flirted outrageously with one of the new footmen, just to see him blush…

Pierce’s lips twitched with amusement, as if he could hear Wren’s mental guessing game. “I believe your father wishes to discuss your royal duties, now that you’re nineteen.”

Wren pretended to heave a sigh. “I guess I’ve had my year of fun, and it’s time for the royal shackles.” He started walking alongside Pierce, trying to match his step even as Pierce tried to walk half a pace behind. “Maybe they’re making Ben the head of palace entertainment. Or the commander of the cellars. I could be commander in chief instead. I can’t be worse at it than him.”

Lying around all day was Ben’s style, but not Wren’s. He got anxious without anything to do, and since leaving school a whole year ago, he’d spent the year growing more and more anxious to do something. University wasn’t his cup of tea. Not after his terrible grades, anyway. He certainly didn’t want to