Lucas stared at him, open-mouthed. "I—what? No. Absolutely not. I'm not a—" He gestured vaguely toward the window, as if the morning light itself might have answers. "That's insane."
Trevor shrugged, unapologetic. "You married into the Fitzgeralt line, under the blessing of House D'Argente. You're the heir of one duchess and you're carrying the political hopes of at least three provinces who want to see what kind of legacy you'll leave. That makes you more than a state event. You're practically a public holiday."
Lucas flailed slightly, hands in the air. "I don't feel like a public holiday."
"You're not supposed to feel like one," Windstone said dryly, still scrolling through the morning's alerts. "You're meant to appear radiant and deeply inaccessible, Your Grace. Now, if we may continue. I've arranged for your office to be cleared and stocked. All documents requiring your seal are already sorted by urgency and potential emotional damage."
