“Is there a change of schedule, Your Majesty?” Boyd asks, stepping up beside me.
“I’m going to spend the morning in my garage.”
He gives a single nod. “Of course, sir.”
I’d planned to spend this morning reading through the minutes from last night’s Cabinet meeting, but there’s no chance of me concentrating on that right now. Not until I’ve had a chance to clear my mind and let out some of this tension. And the best way for me to do that is with my cars.
I’ve always loved cars. Driving them, fixing them, building them. In another life I’d be a mechanic, no question about it. But I can’t complain; my privileged position allows me to keep a garage of vintage cars, all of which I’ve restored myself.
When I get to the garage I use the bathroom to change into something more appropriate for working on cars, and then I head over to where I have one of my Aston Martins set up on blocks. She’s a 1961 Zagato, and usually runs like a dream. She’s been giving me a little trouble lately, though, so I’m glad for the opportunity to get under there and see what’s happening.
As usual, I get completely lost in what I’m doing, and it’s not until Boyd interrupts me later in the day that I realize exactly how long I’ve been down here.
“Might I suggest you stop for some lunch, Your Majesty? It’s almost three o’clock.”
I bump my head against the hood as I startle at Boyd’s words. Ducking out from my work on the engine, I stare at Boyd in surprise. “Three o’clock?”
He cants his head toward the clock hanging on the far wall of the garage and I see he’s right; it’s right on quarter to three. Shaking my head in bafflement, I clear up my tools and close the hood.
By the time I’ve cleaned up, showered, and changed back into my suit it’s past three thirty, so I’m not surprised to encounter my daughter on my way back to my office.
“Papa!”
I smile as Katya comes racing toward me down the gallery with absolutely none of the grace a princess should exude. My father would be rolling in his grave if he saw the way my daughter behaves around the palace, a thought that never ceases to put a smile on my face.
I open my arms for her and she runs right into them, hugging me tight. I press a kiss to her blond hair, which, as usual, seems reluctant to stay in the neat braid it was put in this morning. “How were your lessons?”
She draws her head back and beams at me. “Did you know the first queen of Korova was named Katerina, like me?”
I offer an indulgent smile. “I did know that. And she was very beautiful, just like you.”
She smiles even brighter. “And there was a great empress of Russia with my name, too! And we’re related to her!”
I nod. “We are.”
Although we’re not technically related to Catherine the Great, because she’s not technically part of the Romanov bloodline. I don’t feel the need to make that clarification, however.
“And we’re the heirs to the Russian throne!” She chatters excitedly.
I snap to attention at that. Christ, is this man trying to get my children killed? “There is no Russian throne anymore, Katya,” I say sternly. “We represent the people of Korova. That is all.”
“Ahh, sorry, Your Majesty.” I glance up to see the American has caught up with us, one of those self-deprecating smiles on his handsome face. “We were having a history lesson and it turned into a bit of a hypothetical discussion.”
I frown as I make a decision. If I focus on his incompetence, I won’t have to think about the way his bottom lip is jutting out and how I want to snag it between my teeth and hear him groan. I narrow my eyes on him, making my disapproval clear. “If you are the expert you claim to be, you would know my great-grandfather relinquished any claim to the Romanov throne after the death of the Tsar. It’s what kept my family alive when the Bolsheviks took power.”
“I do know that. Like I said…hypothetical.”
“A dangerous hypothetical.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, before he finally dips his head in deference. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I’ll be more careful in the future.”
“Do that.”
I pull my gaze away from his face to glance down at my daughter, who’s watching us with wide, confused eyes.
“Come on, Princess, we need to get to your dancing lesson,” the American says, prompting Katya’s face to light up in excitement.
“Where’s Tomas?” I ask of my son, who’s nowhere in sight.
“He’s not really into ballet, so he went out riding.”
I blink a few times. “Alone?”
The American shakes his head. “Of course not. Lennox is with him.”
I frown at that. Lennox is relatively new to the palace; I haven’t had a chance to get to know him yet and feel him out.
The American arches an eyebrow at me. “I made the assumption that any of the security personnel working at the palace have been thoroughly vetted and can be trusted with the safety of the royal children. I hope that wasn’t too presumptuous of me…um, Your Majesty.”
I’m beginning to hate the sound of my own title. For some reason, the sound of it on his lips just sounds all wrong. Or perhaps it’s the way he always pairs it with a glimmer of amusement in his dark blue eyes. Treading the line between respect and rebellion, as if he knows I’m a fraud but doesn’t want to call me out on it.
“It’s fine,” I grumble, making a mental note to ask Boyd what he thinks of Lennox.
“Jai! Come on, Jai! Come on!” My daughter demands as she tugs on the American’s hand in an attempt to pull him down the hall.
“Katya, you should be addressing your tutor as Mr. Winters.”
Katya looks up at
