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On the front page, in the bottom right corner, a headline read, NICK SAYS NO TO POLO: “Horses Are Terrifying Beasts.” “Crikey, who did you plant that one with?” Nick asked.
“Did you have to say ‘terrifying beasts’?” Nick frowned, examining the paper. “I don’t have to sound wimpy in these things, you know.” “Well, I was feeling colorful,” Clive hedged. “And it worked, didn’t it? Penelope is busted. Besides, everyone already thinks you’re afraid of polo.” “I’m allergic to horses!” Nick yelped.
“Look, this one uses the royal we. ‘We do love you ever so much.’ That’s about as romantic as an appendectomy.”
This is typical Freddie. He throws parties where a simple tantrum would’ve been sufficient.)
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said softly. “I’m so in love with you,” I blurted.
“I know you’re the heir and I’m the spare, Knickers, but that doesn’t mean you’re also meant to be my nanny,” Freddie said. “Let me have my fun.”
Marj’s equivalent on Richard’s staff was a heavy-lidded fiftysomething man called Barnes, who had a coiffure so elaborate it made Donald Trump look like he suffered from alopecia.
My soul married yours that first night at Windsor, and while I’ll be the king of this country someday, every day I will be your servant.”
“Paddington Larchmont-Kent-Smythe, your tantric pupil is a bastard,” Bea is saying into her phone. “I want you to take his laptop and run it over with your car and then call me immediately.”
