Finn just nodded, already preparing for the next guest in line.
/~/~/~/~/
Later, after the reception had ended and the last guests had departed, Jericho found Finn in the hall outside the reception room.
“Perfect,” Jericho said, grinning. “Absolutely perfect. You hit every mark - proper address, appropriate topics, and graceful conversation. The duchess was charmed.”
“Was she?” Finn felt numb.
“Absolutely. I heard her telling Lady Pemberton how delightful you were, how well-spoken and thoughtful.” Jericho clapped him on the shoulder. “See? You can do this.”
“I did it right,” Finn said slowly. “But I felt like I was acting the whole time.”
Jericho’s grin faded slightly. “That’s because you were. That’s what court is. Everyone performs here, you just have to learn the script.”
“Darragh doesn’t perform.” The words came out more defensively than Finn intended. “He’s himself.”
“Darragh’s the king.” Jericho’s response was gentle but firm. “He has ultimate authority. He can afford to be himself because no one can challenge his right to be here. You’re still proving you belong.” He met Finn’s eyes. “Once you’ve established yourself, once people accept that you’re competent and worthy of your position, then you can relax. You can show more of your real self. But right now, you need to play the game.”
Finn wanted to argue. Darragh had married him precisely because he didn’t play games, because he was authentic and honest. But the memory of Count Villiers’s cold politeness stopped him. The memory of sitting in council meetings feeling stupid because he didn’t understand basic economics. Worse, the memory of tension in Darragh’s voice as he’d apologized for failing to prepare Finn properly, still haunted him.
“How long?” Finn asked quietly. “How long do I have to perform before I can be myself?”
Jericho considered the question seriously. “Honestly, that depends. Six months? A year? Until after the summit, certainly. You need to prove you can handle yourself at major events without making mistakes.” He squeezed Finn’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard. But it’s worth it. Once people respect you, oncethey see you as competent, the pressure will ease up, and you can breathe again.”
“And if I can’t keep it up that long? If I make another mistake?”
“Then you apologize, learn from it, and do better next time.” Jericho’s expression was sympathetic. “But you won’t make the mistakes you were making before. You know too much now.”
Finn nodded slowly. The logic was sound. If performing was what it took to not embarrass Darragh, to not prove the advisers right about his unsuitability, to not be the weak link that damaged Safe Harbor’s reputation at the summit - then he’d perform.
Even if it meant feeling like a fraud every time he opened his mouth.
Even if it meant losing the authenticity Darragh claimed to value.
Even if it made him feel sick to his stomach.
“Okay,” Finn said. “Keep teaching me.”
Jericho smiled, pleased. “We’ll do another session tomorrow. I want to go over the delegation from Westmarch. Their politics are ridiculously complicated, and you need to understand the dynamics before the summit.”
“Tomorrow,” Finn agreed.
He watched Jericho walk away, then turned toward his own chambers. Darragh would be waiting, probably wanting to celebrate Finn’s success at the reception. Finn would smile and accept the praise and not mention how hollow the whole thing had felt. How much he’d hated every carefully calculated word that had come out of his mouth.
This is what being king consort means,he told himself firmly.This is the job. Learn it. Do it well. Stop complaining.
But as he climbed the stairs to his rooms, Finn couldn’t shake the feeling that with every protocol he mastered, every conversation he successfully performed, he was losing a little more of the person Darragh had fallen in love with. And he had no idea how to stop it.
Chapter Seventeen
The trade minister’s voice droned on about timber export quotas, and Darragh forced himself to pay attention. Beside him, Helena scribbled notes while Marvin nodded at intervals, his reading glasses perched on his nose.
A sharp knock interrupted the presentation.
“Enter,” Darragh called, frowning. His secretary knew better than to interrupt scheduled meetings unless…
James appeared in the doorway, face drawn tight. “Your Majesty. Urgent correspondence from the Northern Collective.”
