In which a reluctant Viscount finds himself facing lace, invitations, and one royal decree too many.
The moment the butler uttered the words, "Her Majesty awaits you in the Blue Drawing Room," Julian Harrington knew—knew—that his morning was well and truly ruined. Possibly the rest of the season. And perhaps his entire life.
Because nothing good ever came from being summoned to a drawing room named after a color. It wasn't a study, where serious matters were handled with whiskey and walnut desks. Nor was it a library, where reasonable men like himself could lose themselves in Latin translations and avoid the nonsense of society. A Blue Drawing Room was designed for one thing and one thing only: aesthetic ambush.
He adjusted the cuffs of his coat with the grim focus of a man preparing for a duel, except instead of pistols, he'd be facing lace doilies, matchmaking monarchs, and an avalanche of invitations tied in satin ribbons.
"Viscount Harrington," he muttered under his breath, as if testing the sound would make it feel less absurd.
The title still fit him like an ill-cut waistcoat—far too stiff, too formal, and entirely unwanted. A man wasn't meant to go to sleep as the perfectly respectable second son of a noble family and wake up a blasted Viscount because his older brother had committed the unthinkable sin of marrying a princess and becoming king.
"Traitor," Julian whispered as he stalked past the ancestral portraits lining the gallery of the royal family—each one glaring down at him as though they too disapproved of how things had unfolded. His brother's portrait seemed particularly smug about it.
He could still remember the moment the crown had been placed on Jamie's golden-brown head. His elder brother had grinned like it was all a lark, as though being handed half a kingdom was a clever joke only he was in on. And somehow—somehow—Julian had been left behind with the debts, the estate, the title, and a stack of letters from very determined mamas with very dull daughters.
At the tall white double doors, a liveried footman bowed low. "Her Majesty, Queen Helena, and His Majesty, King Consort Jamie, await."
Julian gave a terse nod and stepped inside—into a room that looked like a bonnet factory had exploded.
The Blue Drawing Room was a riot of tasteful periwinkle, pale gold, and embroidered cushions that had certainly never known the indignity of actual sitting. The air smelled faintly of lemon verbena, roses, and treachery.
Seated on a velvet settee, Queen Helena radiated regal cheer like a duchess at a charity fête. She wore a silk gown in icy lilac that shimmered every time she shifted, and on her head, as always, sat the crown. A real one. With jewels. And implied threats.
Beside her, lounging like he'd just invented leisure, was Jamie—His Majesty, King Consort of England, former rakehell and current monarch by marriage. His smile curled at the edges like a man who'd just watched someone else walk into a trap of his own design.
"Julian," Helena greeted, her voice warm and imperial all at once, like honey poured over sharp steel. "How wonderful of you to come."
"I rather thought I didn't have a choice," Julian replied coolly.
Jamie, unbothered and grape-fed, popped a red orb into his mouth and offered a shrug. "You didn't."
Julian's eyes narrowed. "Why do I suspect you had something to do with this summons?"
Jamie widened his eyes with mock innocence, the picture of a man who had never done anything wrong in his life—which was a bald-faced lie. "I merely suggested to my darling wife that our newly minted Viscount might benefit from a touch of... visibility."
"Visibility?" Julian repeated, flatly, already experiencing a phantom headache blooming behind his right temple.
"Yes," Helena said with all the brightness of a rising sun. She clasped her hands once—regally, decisively, fatally. "Which is why we've decided you'll be hosting this year's Spring Ball."
A silence fell so profound that even the clock on the mantel paused in horror.
Julian stared at her. "The what?"
Jamie casually plucked another grape. "The Spring Ball. You know. The one Mother used to throw. Garden strolls. String quartets. Sugared almonds. Too many ruffles."
Helena's smile widened. "It's been too long since Harrington House has properly opened its doors. The public misses you, Julian."
"The public," he repeated, deadpan. "You mean the mamas with daughters who giggle like wounded geese?"
"They pay taxes," Jamie said, trying to sound serious and failing. "You must give back to the community."
"I'd rather give them my spleen."
Helena ignored this. "Your mother agrees, by the way."
Of course she did. Lady Harrington had been hinting for weeks that he ought to 'socialize more,' which was code for get married and stop scowling at everyone during tea. She'd taken to leaving fashion plates on his breakfast tray and sighing at irregular intervals.
Julian closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, as if preparing to leap into a lake full of piranhas with only his dignity for armor.
"Helena," he said with strained civility. "You know I do not host balls."
"Nonsense. You hosted that supper."
"I locked a marquess in the wine cellar and set fire to the soufflé."
"And yet," Jamie said, amused, "it was the most talked-about dinner party of the season."
Julian turned his glare on him. "You married a queen, Jamie. Why am I the one being punished?"
"Because I'm king now," Jamie replied with a grin. "And you're the viscount. Congratulations. Now you get to wear slightly tighter cravats and pretend to enjoy dances with strangers. It's tradition."
"I hate tradition."
"I know. That's what makes this fun."
Julian's jaw flexed. "I have the estate to run. Correspondence to manage. Tenants. Harvests. An entire economic ecosystem—"
"And you'll still have all of that," Helena cut in, still maddeningly calm. "But you'll also have ballrooms, music, and a chance to find a wife."
Julian blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Don't be dramatic. We only said a chance."
"I don't want a chance."
"Which," Jamie mused aloud, "is precisely why it'll happen."
Julian crossed his arms like a fortress closing its gates. "And if I refuse?"
Helena arched one perfect brow. "Then I shall send for Arabella Wexham to regale you with her theories on hat feather symmetry for four uninterrupted hours."
Julian visibly paled. "You wouldn't."
"She's already on her way."
That did it.
"Fine," he snapped. "I'll do it. I'll host the damned ball. But I refuse to dance."
"We'll see," Helena said, ever the monarch.
"Splendid," Jamie declared, tossing another grape into his mouth with the self-satisfied air of a man who had won a duel without lifting a blade. "You'll thank us later."
Julian turned for the door like a condemned man walking toward the scaffold, his shoulders already sagging beneath the imagined weight of ballroom garlands, dancing cards, and society's exhausting expectation that he might smile once this season.
Just as he reached the threshold, Helena's voice followed him.
"Oh Julian," she called sweetly.
He paused, spine stiff.
"Do try to smile more."
He did not smile.
He did, however, consider lighting the ballroom on fire.
An hour later, back at Harrington House…
Julian stood in the center of his richly paneled study, glaring at the pile of invitations on his mahogany desk as if sheer hatred might cause them to catch fire. Unfortunately, they merely sat there—mocking him in their pale pinks and gold trims, embossed crests shining smugly under the lamplight.
He picked one up gingerly, like it might explode.
"Lady Featherington requests the pleasure of your company," he read aloud, then added under his breath, "along with her cousin—the one who smells of lavender and defeat." Julian blinked and tossed it back into the pile. "I can't believe this is my life now."
Another card, equally offensive in its ornate frippery, caught his eye.
"The Earl of Dunsley inquires if there will be a dueling demonstration this year," he read, then paused. "Why would there be a—who in God's name duels at a ball?"
A third card simply read:
Lord Westchester regrets to inform you that he will be bringing his Pomeranian, Horace, regardless of any previously stated objections.
Julian groaned and dropped into his leather chair, one leg slung over the armrest like a man defeated. He buried his face in his hands, rubbing his temples. He could negotiate trade agreements over brandy, debate philosophy in Latin before breakfast, and ride a stallion into battle without blinking.
But this?
This was hell wrapped in lace napkins.
"Throw me into a bear pit," he muttered. "It would be a mercy."
As if summoned by dramatic despair, a knock sounded—followed instantly by the door swinging open without waiting for his permission.
"Of course," Julian mumbled. "Why knock at all."
Juliette Harrington swept into the room like a hurricane in pastel silk and lace, her parasol tucked under one arm, her hat pinned at a jaunty angle, and her expression already gleaming with mischief.
"I heard," she declared, tossing her gloves onto the desk and ignoring the avalanche of invitations they nearly toppled.
"I'm considering exile," Julian said without looking up.
"You're hosting the Spring Ball! Finally, something interesting is happening in this family again. I was beginning to think all the scandal had died with Jamie's wedding."
Julian raised his head and looked at his younger sister as if she'd suggested setting the drawing room on fire. "This is not a cause for celebration."
"It is for me," she replied, spinning once before flopping into the chair across from him. "I'm thinking emerald. Or perhaps chartreuse. Something with enough drama to match the occasion."
Julian blinked. "Is this a social event or a battlefield?"
"In this town?" Juliette grinned. "Both."
"I'm wearing black," Julian muttered.
"With a touch of scarlet?" she teased.
"A scowl. I'm wearing a scowl."
"So nothing new, then."
Julian reached for the small brass paperweight on his desk—an engraved globe the size of an apple—and lobbed it toward her head.
She caught it mid-air with infuriating grace, laughed, and tossed it right back. It landed with a dull thud in his lap.
"I'm going to ruin everything," he muttered.
"Oh, undoubtedly," Juliette said brightly. "But you'll do it with style."
He groaned. "Jamie never had to deal with this."
She arched a brow. "Jamie's married to the Queen. He deals with far worse. Try surviving breakfast with Helena when she's furious. You'll wish for Pomeranian duels."
Julian groaned louder and covered his face again.
Juliette leaned forward, her voice softening despite the amusement still dancing in her eyes. "You'll be fine, Jules."
He peeked at her through his fingers. "Don't call me that."
"You only say that when you're feeling sentimental."
"I'm not—"
She cut him off with a grin. "And who knows, dear brother? Perhaps some unfortunate debutante will fall in love with your brooding stare and sour disposition."
"I hope not."
Juliette laughed and rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts. "You say that now."
Before he could reply, she swept out of the study with her usual flair, her parasol knocking over a side table on the way. She didn't notice—or more likely, didn't care.
Julian stared at the mountain of invitations again.
"This is war," he muttered.
And then, because he had no other choice, he picked up his pen and began to write.