Page 55 of The Prince and the Bodyguard
“You’re thinking very loudly,” Bash murmured against my neck, his voice rough with sleep. “Everything alright?”
“Everything’s perfect. I’m just processing.”
“Good processing or worried processing?”
I turned in his arms to face him, taking in the soft contentment in his expression, the way his hair stuck up at odd angles, the small smile that curved his lips when he looked at me. “Definitely good.”
“Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Because we’ve got about thirty minutes before we need to get up, and I can think of better uses for that time than worrying.”
The thirty minutes passed far too quickly, filled with the kind of lazy intimacy that still felt like a miracle. Bash’s hands in my hair, soft kisses that tasted like sleep and possibility, the weight of his body against mine making everything feel right with the world.
I was spreading jam on toast when the moment was interrupted by my phone ringing, the distinctive tone I’d assigned to calls from the palace. My stomach immediately clenched with anxiety as I recognized the number. Marcus never called unless something required my immediate attention, and given the early hour, this was unlikely to be routine business.
“I should take this,” I said, noting the way Bash’s expression immediately shifted to professional alertness. He understood the significance of palace communications as well as I did.
“Prince Gregory,” Marcus’s crisp voice filled the small kitchen as I answered. “I trust you’re well?”
“Quite well, thank you, Marcus. What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling to inform you of travel arrangements that will need to be made for the Christmas holidays. His Majesty has requested your presence for the traditional family gathering at Sandringham House, and your father has specifically asked that you return to London several days prior for meetings.”
My heart sank. Christmas with the royal family was exactly what it sounded like—a formal, carefully orchestrated obligation where every moment was scheduled and every interaction observed. It was the antithesis of the life I was building here, and the idea of leaving Bash, of returning to that suffocating world of protocol and expectation, made my chest tight with panic.
“I see,” I managed, forcing my voice to remain steady. “When would I be expected to arrive?”
“The nineteenth of December. Your father wishes to discuss your progress and future obligations before the family gathering. I’ve been instructed to coordinate with your security detail to ensure appropriate travel arrangements.”
That left me barely three weeks to maintain this fragile happiness I’d found before being dragged back into the reality of my actual life. I caught Bash’s eye and saw my own concern reflected there as he was listening carefully, reading between the lines of Marcus’s formal language as effectively as I was.
Then the last bit registered. I had enough control to keep my voice completely neutral and maintain the expected formality. “I see. Will Special Agent Puller be traveling with me?”
“If he is available, that would be preferable, as it would draw the least attention. But if not, we will arrange for another security detail to accompany you.”
I swallowed thickly. “I will ask him.”
“Excellent. I shall send the preliminary schedule once arrangements are finalized. There are several social obligations planned, including dinner with the Pemberton family. Lady Margaret is particularly looking forward to seeing you again.”
Lady Margaret Pemberton. Twenty-three years old, impeccably educated, from one of England’s oldest families, and exactly the kind of woman Uncle Henry would consider a suitable match for a future duke. The implication in Marcus’s words was clear enough. This wasn’t merely a family holiday but an opportunity for me to fulfill the social obligations I’d been avoiding.
“How lovely.” The words were like ash in my mouth. “Give Lady Margaret my regards.”
“I shall. I shall be in touch soon with further details. Have a pleasant day, Your Highness.”
The line went dead, leaving me standing in our small kitchen with the weight of my real life crashing down around me. Bash was watching me carefully, reading the tension in my posture, the way my hands had clenched around the phone. “Bad news?”
I set the phone aside with careful precision, trying to organize my thoughts. “I’ve been summoned home for Christmas. Royal family obligations, meetings with my father, the usual holiday circus.”
“Ah.” Bash’s expression was carefully neutral, but I could see him processing the implications. “When?”
“December nineteenth. Would you… Would you be available and willing to accompany me?”
“Of course.”
His answer came so quickly that I blinked. “Are you certain? You may want to take into consideration that this will not be a fun experience, neither for you nor for me. It will be a full social schedule, filled to the brim with obligations.”
Bash was quiet for a long moment, and I watched him work through everything this meant—the class differences that would be on full display, the formal protocols he’d have to navigate, the absolute necessity of maintaining professional distance in an environment where every interaction would be observed and analyzed. “Why are they asking you to come home?”
I let out a long sigh. “They’re not asking. I was summoned. Not quite the same. And I was not given a reason, but I suspect it’s to tighten the proverbial leash they have on me. After what happened with Alexander, they’ll want to assure I won’t create a repeat of that scandal or, worse, surpass it.”
