A Queen from the North (The Royal Roses Series, #1)

IS ARTHUR, PRINCE OF HEARTBREAK, FINALLY OUT OF MOURNING?-5

AMELIA AND CHARLIE grabbed a quick dinner at a Wagamama near Paddington Station in London before taking a late train back to York. Why the entire family needed to spend two weeks at Kirkham when her brothers had perfectly reasonable homes in London was beyond Amelia, but tradition was tradition. Besides, her mother liked having the whole family there when people came to take tours of the public part of the house and gawk at the Tower Crown that had belonged to King Edward V before Richard III had imprisoned him and his brother in the Tower of London. While a perfectly natural part of living in a Grade II Listed building, Amelia thought her mother had never entirely acclimated to the sense of intrusion upon her home.

It was bitterly cold but clear when they finally got back to York. As they waited in front of the station for their brother Nick to pick them up, Amelia blew out her breath to watch the steam curl away up toward the black sky and the stars that shone above the ancient walls of the city. On the side of the station, a poster celebrating three hundred years of British unification had been defaced with spray paint tracing out the White Rose of York.

When Nick arrived, Amelia and Charlie bundled themselves gratefully into the warm interior of his car.

“Somebody had an interesting race,” Nick said by way of greeting.

“What?” Amelia asked absently from the backseat. She wondered whether it was worthwhile to nap on the forty-five minute drive to Kirkham House. Charlie made a curious noise as he buckled himself in.

Nick smirked over his shoulder. “Just wait ’til we get home. Mum will fill you in.”

Sure enough, despite the late hour, their mother met them in the private dining room, which tour visitors never saw. The public dining room was decorated with heavy oak furniture and tapestries that illustrated the family’s ancient ties to the northern line of nobility. This dining room, thankfully, was smaller and had more modern furnishings. But with Rebecca Brockett, Countess of Kirkham, sitting at her accustomed place at the foot of the table, the space was no less imposing. Despite the late hour she was impeccably attired and sat with the posture of a former dressage champion.

“Welcome home,” she said warmly, although she did not stand. Lady Kirkham, with grey hair that was cut short and curled elegantly, had always looked slightly like a relic of an older time that no longer quite existed. Except that time most certainly did exist, in this house and this town and in the existence of Amelia’s entire family. That her mother was absently scrolling through a tablet resting on the table did nothing to dispel that truth.

“Mum,” Amelia said warily. She exchanged a glance with Charlie, who shrugged, looking as confused as Amelia felt. Nick, having received his greeting, stood by the fireplace, tracing a pattern on the stonework of the hearth with the tip of his shoe.

Lady Kirkham pushed back her chair and stood. She clasped her hands in front of her, as if about to make some momentous proclamation. “You met the Prince,” she said to Amelia. She looked archly amused.

“Yes? Wait. How did you know that?” Amelia felt as though she were being accused of something but had no idea what.

“You were noticed.” Still, that note of amusement; whatever Amelia had done she wasn’t in real trouble. She just had no idea what she’d done.

“The Daily Observer.” Her mother took her tablet off the table and handed it to her. Amelia took it warily.

There was a picture, a bit blurry from the degree of zoom but distinct nonetheless. It looked as though someone had taken a mobile phone picture in the Royal Box at Kempton and caught a glimpse of the scene out on the balcony by accident. Amelia was clearly visible in profile, smiling; Prince Arthur had been captured with his head thrown back laughing.

Romance at the races? The article underneath read. Lady Amelia Brockett, daughter of the Earl of Kirkham, corners His Royal Highness for conversation at Kempton Park. Could a post-Christmas fling be in the air?

“Oh.” Amelia shoved the tablet back at her mother.

“How did that come about?” her mother asked.

“Someone with terrible manners and no discretion sent an accidental candid to the papers?” Amelia suggested.

Her mother looked unconvinced. “Do be sure no one gets the wrong impression. And my goodness, you shouldn’t be so familiar.”

Amelia made a despairing noise.

“Also,” her mother said thoughtfully, glancing at the picture again as she set the tablet down. “He’s twice your age.”

“Mum!” Amelia protested. One innocent conversation was being blown entirely out of proportion, and apparently she was going to reach new depths of embarrassment before the holiday was over. “It wasn’t a big deal. I met Prince Arthur. Who Charlie is friends with. We were in the Royal Box. We talked for fifteen minutes about horses and then I escaped. I’m not trying to get with the Prince. I’m just trying to get into graduate school and flee everything wrong with my life!”