Sixty-Three:
Prince Henry
Cecelia was in a white Chanel skirt and blazer, with a white blouse. With the Tudor rose ring on her finger, she looked exactly like a young, royal fiancé should have. And I had kissed her. Not at a funeral, where she would forget it either, or was crying over her dead parents. No, I’d really, really kissed her. It was everything I wanted and more.
I could spend an entire lifetime doing nothing but kissing her. And, as luck would have it, she was going to be mine. She was my fiancé. There was nothing that stood in the way of us exploring our feelings now.
I thought of Mila Spires, and her offer. If I could produce an heir with Cecelia, I could have Coleum for my very own. I could be a King worthy of her. Instead of the spare.
We went to the Queens pa
