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Chapter Thirteen
“A traitor is everyone who does not agree with me.”
—George III
Even an early-morning summons from the queen couldn’t pull Jameson’s attention away from what had happened with Dani.
His cock stirred thinking about last night. The feel of her. The smell of her. Her taste.
He’d been imagining it since the first time he saw her, and if he were honest with himself, he had to admit the craving had intensified with each encounter. But now, his need had been assuaged. He’d kissed her. Touched her. Breathed her in. He’d satisfied his curiosity and could get back to normal, making her remaining time here much easier to tolerate.
He’d tried to approach it with her before he left for the palace.
“About last night,” he began, clearing his throat.
She hadn’t even looked up from her phone. “We don’t have to talk about it. We made a mistake. Thankfully, it didn’t go any further. No reason to make it more than it was.”
It was exactly what he’d planned to say. More or less. And yet he didn’t like hearing it from her. Instinct urged him to argue with her.
Be quiet, you git. You got what you wanted with no histrionics, no issues. How often has that happened for you in the past?
Never. He didn’t engage in one-night stands. He dated. But he always found it challenging to separate those who were interested in him from those who were interested only in his title. The relationship would be going well and then the woman would start dropping hints about meeting the family or asking to accompany him to certain high-profile events. One woman even contacted the media, offering herself as a source since she was “the girlfriend of Prince Jameson.”
But he was good now. The situation with Dani was settled.
“Her Majesty the Queen,” the footman announced.
Jameson smoothed a hand down his thigh and glanced at his watch.
Why did he continue being on time when no one else in this blasted building offered him the same courtesy?
He stood and bowed deeply as his grandmother entered, dressed more casually than before, in a long black pleated skirt, white blouse, and light blue cardigan.
“Things are going well,” she stated as she took a seat.
On its face, a very benign statement, but Jameson could see the glint of excitement in her eyes.
And she had every right to be elated.
The coverage about the tribute celebration had been exceptional, from excitement about the various events to glowing reviews of the concert’s lineup and stories about Prince John and his history of charitable giving. She couldn’t have orchestrated a more positive response from the media or the public. Any stories about royal children’s screwups or turmoil amongst the queen’s siblings had been buried by an avalanche of agreeable press.
He settled across from her. “The reception has been affirming.”
“I’ll say. During my weekly meeting with Hammond, he didn’t make his usual unsubtle digs about the uselessness of the monarchy. He even admitted that the upcoming celebration was bringing a favorable light to all things British.”
A slight smile while mentioning the Prime Minister? Jameson had never seen the queen so giddy.
It was unnerving.
“My plan is working. Now more than ever, it’s important we keep this momentum going. This entire celebration has to go off without a hitch.”
If Louisa’s persistence and doggedness in dealing with him was any indication, it would.
“I’ve been thinking of other ways to celebrate Grandfather, and I’d like to create an award in his honor.”
His grandmother blinked and stared at him for several long moments. “Tell me more.”
“It would be an annually awarded monetary prize for work in the field of environmental studies, aiming for the prestige of the Nobel Prizes. It’s a lofty goal but achievable, especially since there is no current Nobel category for environmentalism.”
