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In preparation for her first interview Beatrice had done some research online, and had caught up with Prince Julius’s life.
A wild child...
A surprisingly happy teen compared to his very formal elder brother and elder sister...
And as an adult...?
He’d studied archaeology, followed by a stint in the military, and should now have an honorary PhD in brunettes—tall brunettes, widowed brunettes, curvy brunettes—all beautiful, all devoted. He had looks, charm, and all the benefits of being second in line to the throne.
Hetaerae were allowed—basically long-term trusted mistresses—as well as a wife, but Julius selected his own short-term company on his extensive travels.
Sitting in her temporary flat in London, about to finish her latest temporary job, Beatrice had topped up her hot water and lemon and read all she could on the maverick Prince.
He disappeared for months on end on archaeological excavations, then returned for duty and to party. His life, though, had swerved out of the fast lane and careered into the emergency one when his elder brother Prince Claude had died, suddenly and unexpectedly, a year ago from flu.
Prince Julius had returned to reside at the palace, where not only had his passion for archaeology been put aside, but his short-term relationships had halted and become...well, not relationships. All his flings now seemed to be with exes.
There was nothing tawdry—just gossip. He partied hard; he worked harder. From all she could glean, Prince Julius had not only taken on the role and responsibilities of his late brother, but the Queen had also retreated from duties, and he was picking up the slack.
Even after three interviews, she knew little more than the fact that the palace wanted to curb his ways and plan his wedding.
Beatrice had had several questions of her own. ‘He’s opposed to women in the line of succession?’ she’d asked at the third interview.
Beatrice had felt her chin meet her neck and her mouth gape at the cheek of that when she’d first read it, but the tone of her enquiry had been polite.
‘That’s not your concern,’ Phillipe, Head of Palace Protocol, had informed her.
‘Actually, it is—if I’m trying to update his image.’
‘That changes with the next generation,’ Jordan, the Prince’s PA, had responded. ‘Things move slowly here.’
Indeed, it seemed they did. So slowly that when Beatrice arrived at her hotel, the receptionist informed her that the dresses she needed pressing wouldn’t be returned until later that night.
‘I have a meeting at the palace at two,’ Beatrice said in swift Italian. ‘I would like it taken care of now, please. Thank you.’
After a quick shower, she clipped her blonde hair back, put on a slick of pale lipstick, and topped her crisply pressed grey shift dress with a darker grey jacket for a neutral look.
Neutral.
When she’d been a translator, her aim had been not to draw the eye. Now, given the status of most of her clients, her aim remained the same.
A car collected her, and on arrival at the rear of the palace there was a rigorous checking of her bag and pockets, and her phone was retained.
Then she was given another tutorial on protocol, and also informed, at a pre meeting the Prince meeting, that her car today was an exception and there was a shuttle bus for most palace staff.
Beatrice had by then decided she did not want the job.
She was led down a glass passageway to a very plush office and told that, should she get the role, her own office would be two floors down.
Of course.
She awaited this unsuitable heir who was being prepared for the altar.
Beatrice already knew he was handsome, but she was expecting him to be...well,petulant, as well as wrung out from the effort of balancing his workload with his rather decadent ways.
He was fully thirty minutes late.
‘Seriously?’ His deep voice carried ahead of him, speaking in Italian, and then he walked in. ‘I do not need a PR strategist.’
