Royally Pucked (The Copper Valley Thrusters Book 2)

Leaving my bed this morning is among the most difficult tasks I’ve ever done. I’d far rather stay cocooned beneath the blankets with Gracie, listening to the gentle hum of her deep breathing, our legs entangled, my hand cradling her belly, but I have duties I must attend, the sooner the better.

Because I do not intend for last night to be my last night with this generous, sweet-hearted, amazing woman.

And provided my tasks this morning don’t result in my being immediately called back to Stölland to answer for myself, I’m to board a plane to Florida early this afternoon for my other obligations.

Which only makes leaving Gracie more difficult.

Whilst I’m gone, the baby will grow. She’ll be viewing pictures of other men’s dicks to print on cookies. And I’ll be attempting to reconcile myself with that fact.

I can’t bloody well tell her how to make a living, and I can’t even think the words allow me to take care of you, my lady without seeing her wrinkle that nose at me while insisting she’s perfectly capable of caring for herself.

It’s remarkable how the very independence and strength that brought her here to rescue me is the very same independence and strength bringing yet another red haze into my vision.

Viktor nods to me when I descend the stairs. I don’t know how the man survives on so little sleep, but this morning, I’m damned grateful. “Could I borrow your office for a private phone call?” I inquire.

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

“Any word on when my father might arrive?”

“Approximately an hour, Your Highness.”

Which most likely means sooner, because my father is nothing if not early whenever possible.

“Thank you, Viktor. Ignore the stove. I’ll clean the mess shortly.”

He’ll ignore me, of course.

I settle into the simple chair behind the cluttered desk in the guards’ quarters and make a video call to a number that may very well be the end of me.

After six rings, the prime minister’s face blinks to life on my phone.

His dour expression would suggest he’s not pleased to see me. “Your Highness,” he says flatly.

“Mr. Isaakson. Lovely to see you this morning. How’s the weather?”

“Far better than my afternoon is becoming.”

Ah. I can see the normal charm won’t get me far.

The man’s still probably bloody irritated about that little incident with his daughter.

I was a rather obnoxious fool last summer.

“I owe you quite the apology, Mr. Isaakson. You and your daughter.”

A phone call without the video would’ve been easier. An email easier yet. But if I’m to have any chance of political assistance from the one man in a position to provide it—yet with so very little motivation to care about my situation—then I need to man up.

“Your father has convinced me you’re not one to make apologies or admit indiscretions, which is why he was so very willing to support me in the next elections,” Isaakson says after a moment. “Which begs the question, what do you want?”

“A favor for a lady, sir.”

The man’s eyebrows are bushy as hell, threaded with gray, lowering to dangerous levels by the moment. “A lady.”

“Ms. Elin Liefsson, to be precise. I daresay she’s come to the conclusion I’d make a rather terrible husband, but she’s not in a position to call off.” Or so I assume. Despite unrestricted access to my credit cards over the last several days, she charged barely two hundred dollars. Having been acquainted a time or two with the cost of ladies’ shoes alone, and knowing her disdain for me, two hundred dollars is a paltry sum. Additionally, Kristofer reported that she spent most of her days in the museums rather than in stores.

The woman has no more interest in being a duchess or a princess than I have interest in the means by which she acquires a higher title.

Isaakson clears his throat. “She’s hardly the first woman to come to that conclusion.”

“Yes, but she’s the only woman with the misfortune of having been betrothed to me.”

“This is a matter between you and your father.”

“Actually, ‘tis a matter between myself and my grandfather, but as he’s long departed, his sins have fallen upon his son and grandsons.”

Isaakson pauses with his shoulder leaned into the screen. It’s clear he meant to sever the line, but I’ve been given one last chance to make my case.

“My father is a good king. He puts his people first, bears his responsibilities with all the gravity due, and performs his tasks with the well-being of Stölland always at the forefront. As a gentleman, he knows he must honor not only his own commitments and debts, but those made by his father before him.”

“I have no quarrel with your father.”

I grin, because these two quarrel all the time. Better for the country that we compromise over our opinions to find the best solution than that the Prime Minister and I become nothing more than yes men to one another, he told me once. I rather suspect each of them like to argue for argument’s sake.

I’ve often known my father to do as much.

“So if a man such as the Earl of Austling were to try to make a claim on the throne, you’d support my father?”

He blinks. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Honor, debt, and betrothals, Mr. Isaakson. Honor, debt, and betrothals.”

Isaakson stares at me through the phone without speaking. I’ve never inquired as to his feelings about Elin’s father. We’ve rarely had reason to talk at all beyond the occasional ceremonial gathering, and even then, I must confess my attention was less on the political guests and more on being a bloody nuisance.

But I do like to think my father wouldn’t have political allies who are idiots.

Austling isn’t his ally.

Austling is part of his inheritance, and the ugly part of his inheritance at that.

“Are you implying what I think you’re implying?” Isaakson finally says.

“I’m a spare heir banished to the Americas to get my head bashed in on the ice, which is far less troublesome for my family than allowing me free reign in Stölland,” I reply cheerfully. “But as my betrothal is quite political, it seemed prudent to seek the advice of a political man.”

“Is His Majesty aware that you’re telling me this?”

Translation: Is your father aware that you’re sharing the king’s secrets with a man who could destroy him?

“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”

“You’re quite the pain in the arse.”

“Her ladyship is quite brilliant in her medical field.” I’ve no idea if she is or if she isn’t, but I’ve learned a thing or two having her in my home. “‘Twould be a shame were she forced to set aside her research to play the role of a socialite instead of making a real difference in the world. And I’m quite willing to indefinitely serve as an honorary ambassador for Stölland, should that be more beneficial to the country than yet another dukedom merely for a dukedom’s sake.”

“A bloody pain in the arse,” Isaakson repeats, this time with a sigh and a rub of a bushy brow.

“A tutor once told me to find what I excel at and to practice that skill to perfection. Being a bloody pain in the arse is most likely not exactly what he meant, but I do take my talents seriously.”

Would you look at that.

The man might’ve just smiled.

Or possibly I’ve given him indigestion.

“Is there anything else you feel the need to confess, Your Highness?”

“I rather think I’ve done enough for one day.”

I disconnect the call, unsurprised when the door creaks open across from the desk.

My father peers in.

“Finally decided to grow up, then?” he asks.

If he’s angry, or disappointed, or worried, he’s hiding it well. He always has.

“’Twas inevitable, I suppose. Shall I take you to breakfast? There’s a lovely pie shop just around the corner. I’m certain I can charm the proprietress into opening early for us.”

He sighs, but there’s a smile teasing his lips. “You’re hell-bent on causing headaches all around today, aren’t you?”

“I’m merely warming up, Your Majesty.”