keeping it there as I slide onto the seat next to my father, his Royal Highness Prince Edmond, the Duke of Montgomery.
Let the fun begin.
“Hello, darling,” he says, every silver hair in place as he beams at me and pulls me in for a kiss on each cheek. “How’s my poppet? You look lovely. Love the suit. Very smart.”
“Thanks, Daddy. How was the flight?”
“A nightmare,” he says, then sips his drink as the car pulls into traffic. My attention automatically goes to the rearview mirror, where I see his security detail follow us in a dark SUV. A hazard of being the youngest son of the Queen of England. “Whiskey?”
“Am I going to need it for this conversation?” I ask tiredly.
“Probably,” he says, reaching for the decanter.
“Hmmm.” I stare out the window—still no sign of Damon; in a city of eight million people, you’d think there’d be something—and wait for the official lecture portion of the proceedings to begin. “I can hardly wait.”
“I don’t understand you, Charlotte.” He passes my drink, which I sip gratefully. Perhaps if I burn my throat to cinders, I’ll be excused from having to explain myself. “Breaking your engagement at the very moment you’re supposed to be moving back home and settling down? Leaving London again and hiding out here before any of us can talk sense into your stubborn head? Ignoring my phone calls for three weeks and forcing me to fly over here for a face-to-face? What’s gotten into you?”
I sigh. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I don’t understand. You and Percy have been together since you were old enough to date. You got engaged last Christmas, right on schedule. Mummy signed off on it. My office have been ready to announce it for months. Yet you tell me to sit on the news. Then you tell the poor chap you need a break. Whatever that means. Now this. You’ve gone and ended the engagement entirely rather than ending that ridiculous break.”
He finishes his drink. Pours another one.
“Yes, well, I told both you and Percy that I needed a moment to process things—”
“The time for processing is before you say yes,” he says.
“Is that so? It seems to me that the time for second thoughts is before one engages the divorce lawyers.”
He grimaces at me.
“Why should there be any question of a split?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you and Mum had the world’s nastiest divorce when I was little. As have several members of the family, come to think of it. Mostly because that ring on my finger started to feel like a tiny handcuff and I couldn’t see myself spending the rest of my life in the dull English countryside with Percy. The entire idea made me, I don’t know, seize up. Once I realized that, I didn’t want to string him along.”
“Well, now you’ve returned his ring and broken his heart. Disappointed me terribly. Does that matter to you?”
“Of course it does. I feel terrible about it.”
I revert to a glum stare out the window. I still cringe every time I remember that final conversation with Percy three weeks ago. The way his bright happiness slowly turned to disbelief, quickly followed by horror and, finally, heartbreak as he realized I intended to make our break permanent. I remember his initial refusal to take back his ring. His insistence that we could work things out and that he planned to wait for me. My insistence that we couldn’t and he shouldn’t because I want to make my life here in New York City.
Not my proudest moment, admittedly. Percy is a great person. One of my oldest friends and my first love. All that means something to me. He deserves someone who will fall passionately in love with him. Who will live for his smile and count the seconds until his return. Who can’t wait for the adventure of marriage with him.
None of that is me.
The whole truth?
Percy bores me to tears. There’s no challenge. No excitement. And I don’t just mean the wild initial phase of sexual passion, although God knows that could have used some work. I mean that there were no surprises. I never held my breath to see what he would say or do next. Why bother? I always knew exactly what he would say or do next. Percy has no career ambition. No driving hunger to make something of himself. No need to bother with that, either. Not when your father is an earl worth close to