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Beatrice knew only too well that Stavros, Jordan’s husband, had worked at the stables. Jordan talked about her marriage so fondly and freely that Beatrice felt as if she had already met him!
Still, it wasn’t the smell of the stables that she wantedout; it was the scent of Julius that she wanted to gulpin. It felt as if there were a fire behind her, truly. But there were no alarms, no ladders against the wall, no passers-by to wave to for help. Nothing to show or recount.
Even Jordan was oblivious. ‘I think, in this case, he ought to at least consider an apology.’
The fact that Julius had wondered the same thing would remain with Beatrice. ‘Well, I don’t think it’s necessary—and I’ll tell the King’s aides the same.’
‘This won’t go away,’ Jordan warned. ‘Look, I’m only saying this to you,’ she said, which Beatrice didn’t believe for a second, ‘but I’ve heard a whisper that they’re discussing sending him to rehab.’
‘Why on earth would they even suggest such a thing? He’s the healthiest person I’ve ever met.’
‘It’s a battle of wills,’ Jordan said. ‘Julius won’t go, of course, but he might agree to sign the Document of Intent if they threaten him with it. Honestly, you’d think he’d have more sense than to go out partying on the anniversary of his brother’s death. It’s not a good look.’
‘He was probably just trying to get through the day.’
‘And the night.’ Jordan rolled her eyes. ‘In his usual fashion, no doubt.’
‘Well, at least he’s lying low now. This is all old stuff.’
‘Old?’ Jordan checked. ‘Claude’s anniversary was in June—just a couple of months ago.’
‘I meant it was before my time.’
The thought afforded her too much relief. One day—today, tomorrow, who knew when?—she would be sitting here looking at images of Julius and his current lover and discussing more recent scandals.
Better that, though, than looking at an image of his chosen bride.
‘I should go,’ Jordan said. ‘Enjoy!’ She gestured to Beatrice’s slice of cake and her cards. ‘I’d better get on.’
‘Jordan?’ Beatrice halted her. ‘I don’t like this gossip about rehab.’
‘Of course not. That’s why I told you about it.’
Oh.
With Jordan headed to the more sumptuous floors above, and everyone gone from her office, Beatrice stared at the near empty cake plate and the candles that had been lit for her. She was still a bit stunned, because she just didn’t do birthdays. Avoided them.
She opened her cards—the pink one first. It was signed by all the Prince’s team.
Hope you had a brilliant time celebrating!
That was the general theme. And they hoped that her trip to Sicily had been amazing. That was the other.
The Big Thirty next year, Jordan had reminded her, and added a smiley face.
And then Beatrice took up a letter opener and carefully sliced open the big creamy envelope with her name written on it in Jordan’s handwriting, and pulled out the most exquisite card.
It was a beautiful black and white shot of the Prince’s residence with the White Lake in the foreground. It deserved to be in a frame on the wall in its own right.
She opened the card and saw the flash of his scrawl above his printed name and title, and then she glanced at the piece of cake.
Why did it have to be like this?
It was a simple crush.
On HRH.
It was purely physical, but her body—which knew nothing about men—seemed to be coming to life around him. She was flustered at work...perhaps for the first time.
