My father, His Serene Highness, the Crown Prince of Avonia, or Winston, as my grandmother calls him, is away on a two-month diplomatic tour in Southeast Asia at the moment. Of course, this is when it would all come crashing down. Not only is the reigning monarch away, but this is the one time this month when I was supposed to have an entire evening to myself. I had planned to spend it not-so-alone with the Duchess of Funville, who lets me play her back-nine whenever she’s in town, which is not very bloody often.

She’s from Scotland, and her father owns half the golf courses around Europe. She’s one of very few women who is only interested in a naughty diversion, rather than hoping to end up wearing matching his and hers crowns. Since she’s already got her own castle, she has no interest in mine. (Hers is slightly bigger, and the fact that I can admit that should indicate that I have no need to compensate for anything, wink, wink.)

Instead of arriving at her hotel, like I’m supposed to be doing right now, I’m stuck dealing with what could be the final crisis that brings down our family’s nearly eight-hundred-year reign. Turns out our new prime minister is secretly plotting against us. In spite of my father basically handing him the election last fall, he’s going to bend us all over and give us the old ‘referendum to oust the Royal Family.’ Well, thank you, Jack Janssen. Wanker.

I sigh and stare longingly at the suit of armor that stands guard at the door to my office. Whatever happened to the days when a prince could say, ‘Off with their heads!’ and shit would get done?

I’ve been in a meeting with Damien Peters, my father’s senior adviser and government liaison, and Mr. Blue Cheese for over an hour now. I’ve positioned myself behind my antique oak desk so the smell is only choking Damien, who is seated next to Vincent. (But don’t feel too bad for Damien. He’s a complete twat.) I glance out my office window at the view of the city across the river, where my naughty duchess awaits. My pants are suddenly very constrictive. Time to take control of this meeting.

I hold up my hand, interrupting Vincent who is repeating how shocked he is. “All right, setting aside the fact that the PM is basically a lying shit, what can we do about it? If he calls for a referendum, we can’t exactly stop him. We’ve faced these votes before, and the people haven’t ousted us yet.”

“Unfortunately, with the poor economy and the high unemployment rate, and your father’s recent… situation… about the taxes…” Vincent pauses and clears his throat twice, which is what he does whenever he’s about to drop a fucking a-bomb on me. “…the polls are showing that seventy-two percent of the population will vote to have the monarchy dissolved.”

Well, isn’t that a kick to the jewels?

Damien clears his throat. “There’s been either no press or bad press lately, Your Highness. The people are feeling rather cut off. I’m afraid the family’s private nature hasn’t played out well, especially when the royal family across the pond is constantly giving interviews and photo ops—”

“They’re very open with their lives. Will, Kate, Harry, all the young royals, really.” Vincent gives me a look that is somehow both apologetic and accusatory.

Oh, God. If I have to hear about Mr. and Mrs. Perfect and their perfectly adorable babies one more time, I’m going to vomit. “I highly doubt that posting pics of my morning fruit plate is going to make a difference. We all know there’s an ebb and flow to these things. Popularity waxes and wanes every few years. We can fix it.” The words feel like sand in my mouth. I don’t have the first fucking clue how to fix this. What I do know is that if I don’t find the right combination of hopeful phrases right now, I’ll never get these two out of my office, and I can pretty much forget practicing my follow through this evening.

Damien shifts in his seat—away from Vincent. “We need to win back the people, and in short order. If Janssen does call for a referendum, we’ll only have a matter of weeks to convince an increasingly angry, financially-strained public that they have any use for you whatsoever.”

Well, thank you, Mr. Obvious. Like I didn’t know that already. Think, Arthur, think. I stand and walk across the office to the wall of windows. I look out at the city lights as they twinkle against the darkening sky. A city of critics waiting to dethrone me before I can even sit my arse down on it in the first place.

“Critics.” I snap my fingers and turn to the men. “Who’s my worst critic?”

“What’s that got to do—”

I hold up one hand. “Worst of the worst. Who hates us the most of anyone out there?”

Vincent and Damien glance at each other and at the same time say, “Tessa Sharpe.”

“Really? Never heard of her. What’s up her arse?”

“Blogger. Just really hates the monarchy.”

“Usual reasons? Taxes, patriarchal society, blah, blah, blah?” She’s probably a lesbian. They tend to hate us.

Vincent pulls out his phone. A moment later, he says, “Here it is. Last week, she called the Royal Family ‘a pack of dishonest, inbred leeches.’”

“Ouch. That’s a bit much.” Definitely a lesbian. “How’s her following?”

“She has the widest reach of any anti-royal site out there at the moment,” Vincent says.

“By far.” Damien needs to assert his opinion on everything. I told you he was a twat.

“She seems especially fond of criticizing you, Your Highness.” Vincent holds up his iPad again. “Prince Arthur is the worst of the bunch. A ridiculous man-child who spends his days loafing around and nights drinking up the people’s money. I can just imagine him a few years from now, the crown tipped sideways on his drunken head, leg slung over the arm of the throne, slumped down like a petulant teenager with no fecking clue how to rule a country.”

“Loafing around? Well, if there’s anything I’ve never done a day in my life, it’s loaf.” My hackles go up at the insinuation. I walk over to Vincent, hold my fingers sideways under my nose and look over his shoulder at his screen. A picture of a lovely little blonde smiles back at me. Those long waves caressing her shoulders don’t exactly say lesbian. The glossy pink lips say ‘good to go,’ which quite frankly is my target audience. “She’ll be perfect.”

Both men screw up their faces in confusion. “Sir?”

I walk back to the window and suck in air that doesn’t smell of feet. “We don’t need to convince the entire country. That would be an impossible task, especially if a referendum is called anytime soon. We really only have to convince one critic. The harshest one.” I smile confidently, hoping that this will put an end to this meeting. “I bring her into the fold, show her my best side, and get her to do our publicity for us.”

“I don’t understand.”

Now, I’m really thinking on the fly. Duchess, here I come! “I shall invite this Ms. Harpy—”

“Sharpe.”

“Whatever—to the palace to stay for, say… two months, during which time, I’ll convince her of the necessity of the Royal Family for this great nation.”

“You can’t invite an unapproved member of the press to live at the palace.”

“Of course I can. I’m allowed house guests.”

“But not a tabloid journalist.”

“She’s not a journalist. You told me yourself. She’s a blogger.”

“Too risky, Your Highness. I’m sorry, but no. We can’t let you make this call.” Damien shakes his head as though the matter has been decided.

“You seem to be forgetting in whose house you’re standing. This is the House Langdon. I am the Duke of Wellingbourne and will one day be the ruler of Avonia. This is very much my call to make.”

“Your father is going to be furious.” Vincent’s tone is firm.

“When isn’t he?” I shrug.

“You might fail miserably,” Damien pipes up again.

“Or I might have a spectacular win.” And a spectacular orgasm, because both of them are now gathering their things.

Vincent gives it one last shot. “Sir, if I may suggest, let’s not act until we’ve spoken to your father.”

“Tell you what. Give me the night to think about it. I’ll see if I can reach him.” I won’t bother, but it’ll be fine, really.

What’s that saying about it being better to beg forgiveness than ask permission?