{2022 WATTY SHORTLISTER} {18+ COMPLETED}
England, 1842
Lady Hutton, otherwise known as Penelope Chapman, cares not that her husband has a wandering eye. That is, until he wanders away completely--all the way to the continent with his mistress, wh...
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Beckett was quite sure that Queen Adelaide of England was as peculiar of a queen as a country could have.
But that was precisely why he liked her.
She spoke plainly, like those she championed. The queen had never been one for flowery language. And yet, her words could cut down any man with their wit and precision. Adelaide had not simply inherited the crown; she fought for it. And there was a reason that she won.
After all, she came back from the dead, faced the man who'd tried to kill her, and then all but brushed him aside.
Simply put, she had gained Beckett's respect tenfold.
But the damn woman was currently putting his loyalty to the very test.
He shuffled on his feet as he stood before the seated queen.
"Your Majesty, you have never led me astray. And so I say this with the utmost respect and adoration for my queen."
She raised her brow, but beyond that, her expression was unmoving. Placid and calm.
Beckett cleared his throat before making his position on the matter of his assignment quite clear.
"No."
Adelaide leaned forward, over the desk which was oddly small and simple considering the number of important documents that spread across it. "No, Colonel Ash?"
"No," Beckett repeated.
Loud, thudding footsteps sounded outside the chamber door, and Beckett whipped around, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. While he did not precisely expect enemies of the state to simply barge into Buckingham, he couldn't help the response. It was ingrained in him, as natural as breathing.
Protect the queen.
A snort came from his left, breaking through Beckett's defensive state.
A man sat in the corner, one leg crossed lazily over the other as he leaned back in an upholstered seat. He ran a hand through his neatly combed blonde hair, and a wry smile tugged on his lips.
"Settle, mate," he said.
Beckett scowled.
Settle. He did not know how to do that. And he also did not like being spoken to as if he were an animal.
The man flicked his eyes toward the gold-trimmed door even as the footsteps faded away. "I reckon it's merely Kingfield, coming to impose his dominance on you for daring to openly declare your adoration for his wife." He chuckled. "And then refuse her orders."
His casual way of speaking relaxed Beckett, and he rocked back on the balls of his feet with a slight scoff. "Kingfield does not frighten me."
Which was the truth. The prince consort was a man for whom the word overbearing was a perfect description. But Beckett had dealt with far worse men in his life, those who did more than overuse their intimidating glower.
