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“A pint, sorry. Would you like to join us for a beer? Have you a few minutes?” I did my best to sound endearing and not commanding and dominant as my role within the monarchy required.
“Sure.” She plopped down in the chair next to me and my heart exploded a little. She was pure joy, just bouncy, bright without a hint of reservation. It made me wonder if this evening wouldn’t get infinitely better in my hotel suite later.
I waved for the waiter. “Another round please,” I ordered and looked at her. “You want Guinness, or do you prefer something else?”
“I’m good with Guinness.” Her eyes sparkled in the low light.
“Well then, Guinness all around.”
“So, are you from Ireland?” Her expression turned dreamy. I wondered if she had a connection or an affinity with my homeland, she seemed so enamored.
I chuckled a little, “Yes, in fact, I still live in Ireland.” Her expression darkened a little. “Though I do come to New York quite often.” That brightened her back up.
“I’m part Irish,” she puffed up while saying.
I loved Americans and their boasting about being part Irish on some branch of their family tree. Most likely their Irish heritage came over a hundred years ago when the Irish migrated to the United States. Usually, they knew nothing of the true Irish culture, but the party did have lots of green and there were bangers and colcannon, and Guinness. She got a lot of our foods right at least, and they were quite tasty.
“You must be, this is one of the most authentic American St. Patrick’s Day celebrations I’ve been to minus the fashion show, that usually isn’t done, but of course, it could be construed as a parade of sorts.” I laughed, I was really reaching, though my compliment touched her as she straightened her back with pride.
“I love St. Patrick’s Day,” she confessed as our beers came. “Did you know that the prince of Ireland is here?” Oh, she was delightful.
“Who knew there even was a prince of Ireland?” I laughed.
It was the one thing that was most often asked of me outside of Ireland. ‘There’s a prince of Ireland?’, or a king or whatever… yes our monarchy was so small and indistinguishable, no one knew we existed, except for those of us in the Republic of Ireland. And even though no one outside of my family and the Irish dignitaries cared, we were traditional sovereign lords of our kingdom. While we had some influence, it wasn’t much. In fact, Flannigan O’Shay, at the end of the table, had more notoriety and power being the prime minister’s son than I did as the Prince of Ireland. He had more clout globally, but at home, I was the most influential person, next to my father.
“I knew, but I have to confess I just found out yesterday.” Her cheeks warmed with pride as she sipped on her Guinness and wrinkled her nose, clearly not a fan of its rich bitter taste, this made me laugh, the little hypocrite.
“Yes, I know him personally, such a stodgy ol’ bore.” I took a deep drink of my beer buying me time to gauge her reaction.
She must have been introduced to James, I wondered what she thought of him. He’d been like a mentor to me on matters of state and my duties to the monarchy, but we’d never really been close.
“He’s very proper like I thought a prince would be, though,” she dropped her voice, “he’s a much older than I expected.” She, like so many, probably had fantasies of a handsome prince. I might easily fit those fantasies. James, for sure did not.
“He’s ancient.” It felt good to laugh and have a bit of fun at James’ expense. James not only knew how boring and old fashioned he was, but he also prided himself on being such.
‘We have time-honored traditions to uphold,’ he scoffed whenever I did anything to disappoint him, which seemed to be everything. ‘It’s time you started making more of an effort.’
He was in his late sixties but looked and acted much older. He was good at keeping me in line, which I hated. Despite not being known in the United States, I was quite famous in both Ireland and England, as a most eligible bachelor prince who was also a naughty womanizing playboy. James did well to keep the throngs of wanton women away from me as I was known to sample them. I was always up for little, no, a lot of wantonness, but sadly, discretion was paramount and the women who clamored for me in the streets certainly had no intention of being discrete.
Lucy, the pinch-faced perfectly almost-royal consort loomed in my future and so too did our endless nights of uninspired, obligatory, baby-making sex. I’d have the most proper wife a monarch could ever imagine. I refused to sign the betrothing contract promising a union with Lucy several times, hoping she and her family would get the hint. I had privately told her on several occasions I had no intention of marrying her.
