Alexander is waiting for Olivia to walk up the aisle. For his Cambridge wedding at St. Mary’s, right in the heart of Market Square, my older brother is dressed to the nines. He looks immaculate in a pressed navy suit, crisp white shirt, and gleaming dress shoes. His platinum cufflinks catch the light every time he preens himself. He stands at the head of the altar and beams out over the crowd; the family golden boy.

I’ve been forced into a similar starched straightjacket of a suit. The stiff collar chafes my neck. The stubbornly ironed creases hardly let me move my arms.

The venue is bursting to the rafters with upper-class strangers, all pretending to be touched as the bride walks down the aisle. Yet like everything else in our lives, their presence is another PR move carefully organized by our father, the Duke of Cambridge. The whole thing is a farce.

I’m standing at the head of the assembly. Accompanied by Mendelsohn’s Wedding March played by a live string quartet, Olivia arrives. Onlookers gasp as she ascends upon us like one of God’s own angels.

I try not to roll my eyes. You’ve never even met her. In truth, Olivia is a nice enough woman—if a little bland for my tastes.

From where I stand beside Alexander at the front of the church, I try and catch my best friend Percy’s eyes to see if he’s as bored out his mind as I am. He’s sitting toward the back of the church, looking like he’s just walked in from an all-nighter. He’s managed to show up in a suit, but his hair is barely brushed, and his eyes are glazed. He catches my eyes and mimes snoring.

Olivia reaches Alexander at the front of the church. They promise to love each other forever. As cynical as I am, I manage a smile when my brother repeats his vows. At least I know he loves Olivia.

Finally, they exchange rings and say the fateful I do’s. Time for the party. I’m relieved to file out of the crowded church.

Outside, Duke of Cambridge Walter Southby, our father, stands at my side as Alexander and Olivia start to pose in front of the building for photos. He’s a paunchy, red-faced man with a permanent frown that turns quickly into the broadest beam as soon as a camera is pointed in his direction. He’s sweating in his waistcoat and jacket and keeps dabbing at his face with a silk handkerchief. What’s left of his strawberry blond hair has been combed to within an inch of its life. I can see the strokes of the comb’s teeth in his sweat-drenched hair.

He throws me a cautious sideways glance and lowers his voice. “I hope you’re not planning on doing anything stupid today.”

“On my best behavior.”

“That means watching your drinking and your mouth.”

“I know. We’ve had this conversation already.”

“I’m making sure you’re taking this seriously. Today is Alexander’s day. A lot of important people are here, and we all must put our best foot forward. I’ve already seen a couple of journalists floating around. It’s a big day for your brother.”

You mean, it’s a big day for you. “Understood.”

My father casts me one final suspicious glance and nods. “Stick to the speech we agreed on.”

“Of course.”

My father spots someone more important and walks away. I frown, but a smile quickly comes to my face when Percy finds me and slaps me on the shoulder with a big, goofy grin on his face. “Looks like you were having a pretty serious conversation with His Majesty.”

I make a face. “Just warning me not to bring shame to the fine family name.”

“Too late for that, isn’t it?”

We both laugh. My reputation as a party animal has always preceded me. I’ve always been a thrill seeker—whether that be drink, fast cars, or chasing women; the sort of things that any hot-blooded young man of twenty-seven would pursue. But the son of a duke should be above such idle pleasures.

Eventually, it’s time to move onto the reception, which is taking place at Longstowe Hall.

Longstowe Hall is a stately home set like a jewel within acres of immaculately sculpted gardens. The grounds feature double flower borders, yew hedges, and a remarkable rose maze. The building overlooks a lake, with a view of the lime tree avenue beyond.

The wedding reception is taking place in a huge white marquee overlooking the lake. It’s adorned with sweeping white cloth, almost like a circus big top, and filled with linen-wrapped chairs and tables set with fine silverware and tall, bursting bouquets of expensive flowers.

Everyone mills around outside the marquee, enjoying the free champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The women stand on their tiptoes to keep their heels from sinking in the grass, and the men pretend they’re not sweltering in their stuffy suits.

At the high table within the marquee, I take off my jacket and throw it over the back of my seat, then head back outside. I down a flute of champagne to help me get through the afternoon, then quickly nab another from a passing waiter.

The guests are all talking among themselves, but I eschew the small talk. Acquaintances of my father are never the most engaging of conversationalists. I hardly feel the need to talk about politics, Brexit, or how many kids Kate and William have popped out.

In fact, with my father’s warning ringing in my head, I know I’m probably better off silent.

I’ve been on thin ice with my family since I “liked” a satirical article online that poked fun at the royal family. That happened only a couple of weeks after I was banned from a local nightclub for drinking too much and refusing to wait in line. My behavior has been imperfect, but I find it hard to feel too remorseful. We can’t all be pencil-pushers and stuffed shirts.

After half a dozen drinks and a few hundred photos, it’s time to dine. A servant—no, a waiter—clad in a stiff penguin suit ceremoniously rings a bell to instruct us to head into the marquee. We move like cattle inside and take our seats.

The high table faces out over all the guests. I hate sitting there and knowing that everyone is looking in my direction. Percy is already grinning like a moron, waiting for me to screw up.

In front of me sits hundreds of socialites dressed in designer suits, gowns, and elaborate fascinators. They all wear the same fixed, empty smiles plastered on their faces like mannequins.

We all stand when the bride and groom enter. A round of applause fills the air. Alexander lifts an arm and waves his hand in small circles like he’s Queen Elizabeth. Olivia shyly clutches his other hand, but her smile is radiant.

When they sit at the center of the high table, everybody else sinks into their chairs, and my father initiates the meal with the first toast. He stands, raising his glass of champagne in the air. “It is with great pleasure that we welcome you all here today to join us in celebrating the marriage of Olivia and Alexander. I invite you to join me in a toast. For the first time as a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Southby.”

Everyone cheers and drinks; then the waiters begin to serve the first course.

I’m sitting to the right of Alexander. He turns to me with a wide smile. “There we have it, Henry. I’m a married man.”

I tilt my glass in his direction. “Congratulations.”

“I know Father’s worried you’re going to try to be funny during your speech.”

“I wouldn’t dream of being funny.”

Alexander grins but says no more. He’s waiting for me to cause a disaster, just like everyone else.

The food is exquisite. We’re spoiled with course after course of the most delicious catering and bottomless glasses of champagne. By the time it’s my turn to give a speech, I’m feeling a little light-headed, but as best man, I have no choice.

I stand up and raise my glass. My father and Alexander are both staring at me with worried expressions. Everybody in this room is waiting for me to screw up.

I clear my throat. “Welcome, everyone, to the celebration of Alexander and Olivia’s wedding. It’s an honor to be the best man for this occasion.

“I’d like to start by welcoming Olivia to the family and congratulating her on her bravery. As a Southby, you’ll be sacrificing your fun, freedom, and most likely your sense of humor for awkward business dinners, unstylish and dowdy clothes, and conversations that revolve almost exclusively around the weather. I’d say the sacrifice is worth it for the love of a handsome, charming and intelligent man. Which is why I’m confused that you’re marrying Alexander.”

I pause, waiting for the laughter. Apart from one loud hoot of laughter from Percy at the back of the marquee, it’s crickets. Everyone else is staring daggers at me.

My cheeks redden, but I push on with the speech I’ve prepared. “In all seriousness, Alexander is a great guy. He’s Cambridge-educated, has a great job, and is well-respected in the community. And now that you’re his wife, you can also benefit from the Duke’s generous acts of nepotism.”

Silence. Is that a tumbleweed?

“All joking aside, Alexander has been a lot happier since Olivia came into his life. Olivia, you’re a pleasure to be around, and we’re blessed to have you join our family.

“I wish you both a long and happy marriage. To the joyous couple!”

Everyone echoes my toast, and then almost immediately start murmuring mutinously under their breaths.

I sit back down and see Alexander watching me with a raised eyebrow. “Really, Henry?”

“What?” I retort. “It was meant to be funny. It’s not my fault the people here wouldn’t know humor if it bit them in the arse.”

“At least you didn’t mention my final year of boarding school.”

I grin. “Thank God for small mercies.”

We clink our glasses together and drink. At least Alexander saw the funny side.

When all the food is devoured, and all the speeches recited, a live band strikes up. People leave the marquee to head toward a raised dancefloor outside, overlooking the lake. There are fairy lights strung up around the gardens. They sparkle on the waters. I have to admit, it’s a beautiful wedding.

A few minutes after the dancing begins, I’m not surprised when my father storms up to me. His face is red and puffy with rage, his eyes narrow points. “That was not the speech we agreed on!”

I shrug. “I thought I’d try to liven up the dinner a bit. People were falling asleep in there.”

“You’re a disgrace,” he spits. “That speech was in terrible taste. Nepotism? You know that ‘nepotism’ is the first thing these people cry when a Southby does well for himself. You do realize you’ve undermined your brother and me?”

“It was a joke.”

“I’ve had enough of your ‘jokes,’ Henry. You’re walking on extremely thin ice. One more screw up, and we’re going to have a very serious conversation about your position in this family.”

He waddles away to bother someone else, and Percy immediately takes his place at my side. “I told you switching the speech was a risky move.”

“The wedding was more like a funeral.”

“You’ve got tongues wagging, all right.”

“Let them gossip.” I let out a long breath. “Jesus—I have to be born into one of the only families in Britain where a son can get disowned for writing a few jokes into a best man’s speech.”

“Ah, the Duke is threatening to disown you again?”

“I think he’s getting close to meaning it.”

Percy grins. “I remember when my father disowned me.”

“How’s that going?”

“No complaints. My mum’s still one of my fans.”

“You’re lucky. I think my mother’s getting a bit sick of me as well.”

“There’s only one thing to do,” Percy says in a mock-serious voice.

“What’s that?”

“Get a stick and shove it up your arse. You’ll fit right in.”

I laugh. Percy is one of the few people in my world who understands my frustration with the pomposity and artifice of British nobility. Like me, he’s been known to rebel against the strict rules and restraints of our status. For that reason, we’re both black sheep of our families.

Percy nudges me to get my attention and nods towards a group of young women standing by the lake. “Care to make this night a little more interesting?”

“Of course.”

We make our way over to the ladies. Despite my reputation, I can see the interest in their eyes when I approach. Regardless of the rumors, I’m still young, rich and handsome, which always seems to do the trick.

“Hello,” Percy grins when we arrive opposite the girls. He grins widely, offering his most charming smile. “I’m Percy Collins, and this is my very good friend, Henry Southby. He’s the one who just received the world’s worst response to a best man’s speech in the history of weddings. But don’t worry—what he lacks in stand-up comedy acumen, he compensates for in charm.”

One of the women, a vivacious redhead with a mischievous gleam in her eye, raises an eyebrow in my direction. “That’s quite a pitch from your friend there. Do you always come in with a wingman, or have you got your own moves as well?”

I take a step toward her, grinning devilishly. “I’ve never had any complaints. Can I get you a drink?” I place my hand on her hip suggestively to lead her back toward the bar.

Suddenly, a young man with a prematurely receding hairline and watery brown eyes comes barreling toward me with his hands curled into fists. “Is Alexander’s brother bothering you, Helen?”

Helen looks amused. “No. He’s not bothering me.”

He looks toward me and raises a finger threateningly in my direction. “This is a wedding, Henry. Not one of your cheap strip bars. This isn’t the time or the place to be picking up women.”

“Firstly, I’ve never been to a strip bar. Secondly, Helen and I were only talking.”

“It’s never just talking with you.”

“You should know better than to believe everything you hear. I’m actually a very charming gentleman.” I flash a suave smile in his direction.

Helen is amused, but her beau is getting more and more enraged. He turns away from me. “Stay away from my date, all right?”

I hold up my hands. “Of course.”

Percy and I step back and turn away. “A swing and a miss,” Percy sighs.

“The night is young.”

Percy and I continue to drink on the outskirts of the wedding party. The formal, ballroom-style twirling and prancing aren’t my style.

A couple of hours later, while Percy and I are standing once more by the lake, two beers in our hands, Helen reappears. I grin and feign warding her off. “Better not come near me, Helen. Your beau might get the wrong idea.”

She laughs. “Lucas isn’t my boyfriend.”

“Does Lucas know that?”

“I was hoping I could get that drink now.”

“By all means.”

I hold out my arm to her, but before I can take it, I’m shoved roughly in the back. I turn to find Lucas red-faced and furious behind me. From his stumbling gait and flushed skin, I can tell that’s he’s had a few too many.

So have I. I straighten up and turn to face him. “Lucas. Helen and I were just—”

“I know exactly what you and Helen are up to. I told you to stay away from her.”

“Lucas!” Helen explains, her hand on her hip. “You’re drunk. Go back to the tables and have some water or something. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly. Go inside.”

“So you can stay out here with this lowlife? I don’t think so.” He shoves me again.

I calmly roll up my sleeves.

“You can’t keep your hands to yourself, can you?” Lucas continues. “You’ll go for anyone with nice legs.”

“Lucas!” Helen exclaims.

Lucas shoves me again, and it’s the final straw. I push him back, and a full-blown scuffle breaks out. He pushes me again, and I put a hand into his chest. Then Lucas lifts his fist and throws a punch.

It hits me square in the jaw, and hard. I stumble back and trip—right into the lake. I hit the water with a splash loud enough to attract the attention of the whole wedding party. The live singer gasps into the microphone, and every head turns my way.

With Percy’s help, I pull myself out of the water, my suit drenched through and hair dripping. As I step back onto dry ground, I look up and meet my father’s eye. He looks ready to kill someone.

You’ve done it this time, Henry.