With him bearing her hand, they processed toward the door, pretending to be regal — until she tripped on the hem of her dress and almost fell over. Giggling, she reeled into him, and one of the guards at the door hurried to catch her, only stepping back when it was clear Isaac had her. The guard gave Isaac a grave nod and said, “Take care of our lady, milord.”
Isaac fought the urge to strut with his head held high, knowing that he could trip or make a spectacle of himself by once again pretending to be something that he wasn’t. He was only Royalty through adoption — he wasn’t a blood Royal, but he could certainly act the part when the occasion called for it. But it seemed that Summer was to get there first, stumbling as he grabbed at her, cradling her against his chest as he chuckled fondly. “Of course I will — you don’t even need to ask me to take care of her…”
A pageboy darted up, snatching the torch from the door and beckoning. “Cook says, dinner’s ready so you better come,” he piped, seemingly unconcerned about the informal nature of his words.
Summer looked up at Isaac, eyes dancing. “Father may rule the princedom, but Cook rules the castle. If we are late, dinner will be cold and there will be no recourse.”