To Kiss a King - NIcole Burnham Page 0,10
“Best of luck with the transportation minister, then.”
Sergio excused himself and Eduardo took the opportunity to speak with a member of parliament he’d known for nearly twenty years. Behind the parliamentarian, one of the Royal Orchestra members signaled Prince Antony that they were ready to begin. Eduardo was grateful that Antony and Jennifer would lead the guests on the dance floor. In recent years, Eduardo did his best to avoid the dancing that was expected at so many formal events. As a widower, and as king of his country, he had to be careful about who he chose as a partner on such occasions. Someone single and high on the social ladder prompted tabloid talk that they were romantic partners. If the woman had even a hint of scandal in her past, that hit the tabloids too, with subtle digs about his judgment. The media could take pieces of a person’s life and spin them to tell a story that was the polar opposite of the truth. It galled him that a short dance and idle conversation could draw attention away from all the positive work either he or his dance partner might be doing.
As the music started, the crown prince led his wife to the dance floor. A moment later, Marco and his wife, Amanda, joined them, bringing along an American entrepreneur and her husband.
The harsh glare of the media spotlight alternated between Eduardo and his four children, but always seemed to return to him and the question of his status as a wealthy, royal widower. On nights like this, where the press scurried around the room searching more intently for gossip than for hard news, he told himself it could be worse. He could be a Windsor. The attention garnered by the arrival of a new ambassador in San Rimini was nothing when compared to formal events at Buckingham Palace.
He concluded his discussion with the parliamentarian, then turned to accept a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter.
His country was at peace, he was happily productive, and though each of his four adult children lived their own lives, they’d chosen to remain under the same roof at La Rocca, allowing him to spend time with them and his three grandsons as he desired.
If he had to deal with ballrooms and dancing every so often, it was a small price to pay.
“You find something on the dance floor amusing, Your Highness? Or is there humor in the choice of music?”
He turned to see Claire Peyton standing beside him, wineglass in hand. The top of her dark head just reached his shoulder. Apparently, she'd caught him smiling to himself as he’d been lost in a moment of contemplation. “Actually, I was thinking about my children. It’s rare that we all attend the same event.”
“I understand why that would make you smile.” She looked toward the center of the floor, where Princess Isabella and her husband had joined the others. “From what I've seen, you and your wife raised four good human beings. That must have been a challenge, given the spotlight.”
“We certainly had our moments, but they’re happy, and that’s what counts. What about you? Partner? Children?”
“No. Brief marriage and divorce long ago.”
She said it plainly, as if she’d answered the question a thousand times. She likely had. She didn’t seem bothered by it.
He couldn't help but smile at her. Claire Peyton was a marked change from the previous ambassador. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, as if she were fully engrossed in every conversation, not only with him, but with others as well. Her speech had been eloquent, the perfect length, and—he suspected—partially off the cuff, despite what he’d told Sergio. Her dark brown hair was short and professional, though it curled around her ears in a way he found sexy. On the other hand, Rich Cartwright was pushing seventy-five during his stint as ambassador, wore perpetually rumpled suits and sported a short gray buzz cut. And though Rich had exceptional diplomatic skills, Eduardo suspected Claire would be more engaged than Rich had been.
“What is it?”
His face heated at having been caught staring. It took him a second to recover. “Oh, nothing. I was wondering why you thought I might find humor in the orchestra’s selection.”
Her brows lifted at that. “Do you recognize it?”
He listened, then shook his head. “I’ve heard it before, but don’t know the name. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s called ‘Let the Rest of the World Go By.’ Willie Nelson sang a popular version. But this is