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Anthony yanked at his shirt collar, desperate to feel some fresh air on his heat-prickled skin. Alas, nothing. He’d have to have a word with his new valet. It was bad enough he was expected to wear a three piece suit on a roasting June day, but to be assaulted by this level of starch really was beyond the pale.
It didn’t help that he was surrounded by bodies. His ‘entourage’ of apparently essential bodyguards and press managers and various officials were pressing so tightly around him he felt like a sardine in a sauna. Considering the route to the Royal Box had been roped off and the crowd were at a safe distance, there was really no need. But then that was the life of a King, always in the shadow of others, never a moment of privacy.
Somewhere, amongst his personal swarm, there was a hapless assistant who had been holding a parasol above him to keep him cool, but the poor woman seemed to have got lost in the melee. As such, Anthony was left exposed and melting beneath blistering sun.
Attempting a subtle pat of the back of his hand to his forehead, he wiped at the beads of sweat forming, only to be blinded by the white flash of a camera snapping. Damn, that would no doubt be on the front page of a tabloid tomorrow. His tomato-red face on a double page spread with some kitschy headline was not what his family needed right now.
“Your Majesty?” A distinctly recognisable timbre cut above the murmur of the crowds, and Anthony sighed inwardly. Outwardly, though, he plastered on his well practiced smile and walked towards the familiar face leaning over the barrier.
“Agatha,” he offered kindly.
Around him, his entourage clumsily ground to a halt, before shuffling back into formation and following him to the reporter and her camera crew.
“We’ve only got five minutes before we’re expected at Centre Court, Your Majesty,” Sophie, his private secretary, whispered to him. Anthony gave her a small nod of acknowledgment, before turning to face Agatha Danbury.
It would be a stretch to say he looked favourably upon any of the vulturish press that flock around his family, scratch away at their every move to try and find any weakness. But, of all the bottom feeders, Agatha was one of the few, if not the only, that Anthony could tolerate. As the BBCs leading royal correspondent she had reported on her fair share of their controversies, but when it mattered most, she had operated with grace and respect. One of the few who gave them space after his father’s death, rather than peppering them with question and five page double spreads of Anthony’s grief stricken face at the funeral. For that alone, he would always give her a few words.
“Welcome to Wimbledon, Your Majesty, and lovely to see you here today. It’s been a while since we’ve seen you at the tournament.” A microphone is shoved in his face by a worryingly young looking sound man, before Agatha flashed her notoriously withering glare in his direction and the poor boy visibly gulped, pulling the equipment back a few inches.
With a practiced ease, Agatha turned her warmest smile to both the camera and Anthony in turn. “What do you make of the court line-up this year? Some wonderful talent with a real competitive chance for a British champion, don’t you think?”
Anthony cleared his throat. “Oh absolutely. It’s always exciting to be here and I look forward to supporting all of the competitors.”
Agatha continued with a few more questions, cleverly positioning each to allow an easy answer from Anthony. This was the other reason he liked the woman, she knew when Anthony held little interest in whatever event they met at, feeding him questions that demanded little knowledge so he could still seem fascinated in jam making or steel manufacturing or whatever was behind the ribbon he was cutting on that day.
“And I see Colonel Basset is due to join you in the Royal Box today. Somewhat unusual for an equerry to be invited to family social events, is it not?”
Ok, he didn’t like Agatha that much.
His smile dropped - only for a second, he’d gone through too much media training to let emotion in like that - but Agatha wasn’t fooled. She crooked that eyebrow of hers and waited for a response. Yes, she was kind, but she also had a job to do and was sharp as a tack when she thought there was a scoop to be had.
“As a trusted and well liked member of the royal household, the Colonel is often invited to join our family more…socially,” Anthony replied placidly, but his teeth ached at how tightly he tensed his jaw.
When he’d discovered Simon engaging socially with Daphne the previous week, he’d not been quite so placid about it. Anthony only hoped the man’s black eye had gone down before he faced the cameras later today.
Simon had been a trusted friend for years, one of the few people Anthony had let in outside his family, so to find his tongue down his sister's throat had felt like the ultimate betrayal. However, it seemed the two were involved, and serious, and after many, many family meetings it had been impressed on him by his rather stubborn sister, and completely delighted mother, that Simon would be more involved socially going forward. Whether Anthony liked it or not. Hence the end of Anthony’s decade long avoidance of Wimbledon. ‘Saphne’, as Hyacinth had christened them, were being soft launched, and Anthony had been asked - no, instructed - to be there, smiling and on his best behaviour, to show his support.
“And the lovely Princess Daphne, she’ll be joining too, no doubt. Always a great lover of the sport.” Agatha held Anthony’s gaze as she unnecessarily elongated a few of those words. The nosy cow.
Anthony just smiled politely back. Thank god, yet again, for that press training. “My family have always loved Wimbledon, it’s the sporting event of the year for us.”
That much was true, at least. His family were present in one form or another every day of the tournament, and they loved it. Even Anthony had, in a very distant feeling past.
It had been their father who’d started their love of the game, and especially this tournament. An avid tennis fan since a boy, he spoke of Wimbledon in reverent tones. About its long history and traditions, the players who’d graced its courts, the standards it set for worldwide tennis. He’d wax lyrical about the grass; how it was grown, maintained, cut, all by experts and fanatics - just like him.
For Anthony, they were some of his fondest memories, sat nestled between his parents. Above him, their heads would snap left and right, left and right, punctuated by the occasional ooh or ahh. Anthony never cared much for the game. He didn’t remember any of the sporting greats he’d had the opportunity to watch from a front row seat. All his memories were of sweetness - ripe strawberries that exploded on his tongue, indulgently smooth cream to follow, and the honeyed warmth of being cocooned between the two people who loved him the most.
And when a match dragged on into the late afternoon, and Anthony’s eyes would droop, he’d rest his little head on the soft linen of his father’s suit, and drift off beneath large, safe hands holding him tightly.
Like they always did, those memories tightened Anthony’s chest, like an iron grip fastened around his heart. That was why he hadn’t been back to the tournament in a decade. It was too painful.
“In fact the Royal Box is going to be busy today. Your family of course, and we have the Beckhams, and some Hollywood royalty joining, too. Oh, and even some pop stars, I hear Sienna Rosso is in attendance.”
Shit. He really didn’t like Agatha today. How the hell did she know about Sienna?
Sienna was the latest of the many eligible young ladies his mother was constantly pushing his way. Despite his continued insistence that he would not marry, and most certainly never for a love match, Sienna had arrived unannounced one day at the palace. It seemed she had ‘just popped in’ - who pops into a palace, he simply didn’t know - to visit his mother. Somehow, he’d been forced to join her for tea. After a long hour of awkward conversation he’d made his excuses - being the King did occasionally have its advantages - and he’d gotten out of there, and away from her painfully obvious flirtation attempts, as quickly as he could.
The following day he’d had to give yet another lecture to his mother - of which he was fairly sure she paid no attention. And to Sienna, he’d sent his usual flowers and curt ‘thanks but no thanks’ card - which was usually enough to put these women off.
So what was she doing here now, in the Royal Box? It seemed the Queen Dowager was not going to let this one go so easily. The woman was determined for him to find a Queen, despite his utter and total lack of interest.
“Well I look forward to watching some great tennis in such great company,” Anthony replied stoically, eager now to move on.
“Though it’s a shame Prince Benedict won’t be joining us, he’s still on a visit to Argentina I hear. Did you know he was such a passionate tango fan?” Agatha’s face remained passive but the glitter in her eyes told him she knew exactly what Benedict had been up to, and with whom. Anthony had been on the phone with the Argentine Ambassador and a few senior members of their government just that morning trying to smooth over Benedict’s new passion for tango, or rather, tango dancers. How the hell did Agatha know about that?
“Ben has always been a great advocate for the arts,” Anthony began to reply, “and I know he has really appreciated….”
There was another word on his tongue. A well-former sentence in his head. Years of public relations training had made him ready to answer the most difficult of questions, but every single logical thought had entirely disappeared from his mind.
Because there she was.
The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
He could have missed her. She was almost swallowed in the busyness of the crowd. A sea of heads around her. But then, no, he couldn’t have, not really. It was impossible to miss her. It was as if the oceans had parted to reveal her in all her brilliance.
Beside him, someone spoke. A question, maybe. It mattered not. He could no more look away from this woman than stop his heart from beating. Not that his heart was beating.
His head was floating in the clouds. Vision blurred. Sounds muffled. It was only her who was in complete and total clarity
Her head was slightly bowed as she walked. Dark hair slicked back into a ponytail before exploding into a riot of curls cascading down her back. Her tennis whites, a simple fitted vest top and skirt, glowed brilliantly against her bronze skin.
His eyes trailed down. The skirt barely skimmed the tops of her thighs - dear lord, the tops of her thighs - and then beneath, her legs seemed to go on forever.
Anthony groaned aloud.
“Your majesty?”
The voice so close beside him was a shock. Were there other people in the world beside her? Apparently so, as one of them was looking rather quizzically at him at that very moment.
“You were saying…” Agatha prompted.
“I was saying…” Anthony repeated, as his eyes shot helplessly back to the woman.
“Your majesty?” Agatha tried again, until she followed his gaze. Then, her face was alight with unbridled delight as she looked from Anthony, to the woman, and back again. “You were saying about your brother? Prince Benedict?”
“Yes, I was saying, about my brother…” Anthony trailed off dumbly, the power of speech apparently beyond him.
Agatha merely grinned, clearly in no mood to rescue him this time.
“Oh,” she said brightly, as if only just noticing the impossibly beautiful woman now only a few metres away, “Look, there goes Miss Kate Sharma, one of the best-ranked players in Britain. Off to her first round match I believe."
"Kate Sharma." The name tasted sweet on his tongue. Somehow knowing it made things even worse. “Kate.”
Agatha continued, completely undeterred. "Are the two of you acquainted?"
The Press Training in him was screaming for a nonchalant response. Any response, really. A sentence, even. A word.
Only, at that exact moment, one of the coaches beside the woman - Kate Sharma - said something that made her smile. Oh good lord, her smile. That alone would have been enough to finish him off, only, it got worse. She laughed.
Her lips, already perfectly pink and lush, stretched wide, and her eyes lifted. As they caught the morning sun their deep mahogany brown grew iridescent in a golden glow.
Anthony was totally, and completely, lost to her.
There was another sound beside him, even a touch on his arm, but his eyes stayed locked on Kate as she stode past him and disappeared into the crowd.
It was only when he lost sight of her that he turned back to the enquiring face beside him, and the many other puzzled faces of his entourage staring at him. And the camera man, grinning ear to ear at the shot he had just captured.
“I think it’s safe to assume that you are, in fact, not yet acquainted, Your Majesty.” Agatha beamed, a knowing arch of her eyebrow as she turned back to the camera. "Well, it certainly looks like Wimbledon is hotting up this year. I'll be back with more after we hear the latest weather from Carol. Back to you in the studio."
Dazed, Anthony let the movement of his entourage carry him away. Beside him, he caught Sophie’s barely hidden smile.
“Please tell me that wasn’t as mortifying as I think it might have been.”
“What part, Your Majesty? The part where you ogled a woman you’ve never met so hard you forgot how to speak? Or the part where you did it on national television?”
Anthony groaned again.
“Thank you, as ever, for your honesty, Sophie,” he sighed, his face turning tomato red for an entirely different reason this time.