Royally Matched

by Emma Chase

  "Thank you." She hands over the dripping garment. "Coffee would be awesome, if you have it."

  Without rising, my mother motions for her to sit. "What brings you out in such terrible weather, Miss Herald?"

  She smiles, sits, and pulls out a folder from the briefcase in her hand. "Before I explain, I'm going to have to ask you each to sign a nondisclosure agreement. And I realize that's very odd, but I have a special opportunity for . . ." she checks her paperwork, "Sarah and Penelope Von Titebottum." She glances at my sister and me. "For both of you, but it's a matter of national security, so I need evidence of your confidentiality in writing. You're under no obligation, except to keep my offer to yourselves."

  Penelope begs with her eyes . . . and her mouth.

  "Please, Mummy! Sarah, please, please, pretty-pretty please?"

  My mother huffs and rolls her eyes. "Very well, give it here."

  We each sign the short, one-paragraph document. And Stanhope sets a cup and saucer on the table for Miss Herald. She files the form away, takes a sip of the steaming liquid, and after our butler has left the room, closing the door behind him, she leans forward.

  "Have you heard of the television series Matched?"

  "Out of the question," my mother declares the moment Miss Herald finishes telling us about the royally themed reality-TV dating show.

  "No!" Penny squeaks. "It most certainly still is in question."

  "Not for me." I shake my head. "Thank you for the offer, Miss Herald, but I don't even like having my photo taken. I have no interest in being on a television show."

  "What about being queen?" she prods.

  "I have no interest in that either."

  Penny raises her hand. "But I do! I could still join up, right? Even if Sarah doesn't?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Absolutely not," Mother says firmly.

  Penelope is offended. "Mother, you're acting like you don't trust me at all."

  "I don't." She shrugs. "And with good reason. There are plentiful examples of your lack of judgment, darling. Let's see . . . there was the tattoo artist."

  "It was a phase."

  "The circus performer."

  "He was interesting!"

  "The convict."

  Penny squirms. "Being on the lam wasn't as romantic as I'd thought."

  She falls to her knees beside my mother's chair. "But this is different. It's not about a boy . . ."

  "Isn't it?"

  Penny rolls her eyes. "Henry's a lot of fun and he's fantastic to look at, but he's a playboy--everyone knows that. When he marries he won't have just a mistress; he'll have a whole harem. We would never work."

  Then she resorts back to pleading. "But you know how I love to perform. This could open up doors for me, Mother. For a real career in the industry."

  My mother closes her eyes. "I'm going to regret this . . . but, all right."

  Penny starts to squee, and my mother holds up an ultimatum finger.

  "If Sarah goes along to keep an eye on you, to be your voice of reason because it's apparent you were born without one, you may participate."

  Penelope flings her arms around her. "Thank you, Mummy!"

  Then she whips around to me. Looking so hopeful, it just about breaks my heart.

  "Sarah?"

  "Penny . . . I can't. I have my flat, my work. I just can't blow them off for . . ."

  "Six weeks in total," the producer supplies.

  "For six weeks. I'm sorry, Pen."

  She shuffles on her knees over to me--probably giving herself rug burns.

  "Please, Sarah. This could change everything."

  That's what I'm afraid of.

  "It'll be so much fun. The best kind of adventure."

  And my chest aches. Because I want this for her--I want to be able to do it for her--but the prospect of so much change, so much unknown, terrifies me.

  "I don't think I can do it, Pen," I whisper.

  She clasps our hands together. "We'll do it together. I'll have your back and you'll have mine."

  I open my mouth . . . but the words stay trapped in my throat.

  "Penelope is supposed to report for military service next month," Mother tells the producer.

  "We'll be able to get her out of that," Miss Herald says. "We have a signed edict from Prince Henry excusing all the contestants from work, school, or any other obligations for 'confidential' Palace business. It's an official Act of Royalty."

  Her words stop me cold. "What did you just say?"

  "An Act of Royalty. It's like a proclamation, an order from the Crown . . ."

  "Or an act of God," I whisper.

  "Yes, exactly."

  And the wheels in my mind turn.

  "Could I get one? A letter for my employer if I go with Penny, as her . . . assistant?"

  "Of course. Many of the ladies are bringing their own staff--chefs, hairdressers, yoga instructors, dog walkers--it'll be interesting."

  "But I could have the letter?" I push. "To be excused from work for six full weeks?"

  "Sure."

  My eyes meet Penelope's and her eyebrows rise. Because she knows exactly what I'm thinking.

  "That does change things, doesn't it?"

  It certainly does. Now we're down to the lesser of two evils.

  And the choice is clear.

  I was never a cheerleader, but if I had pom-poms I'd shake them until my hands fell off. Yay, reality television!

  "Show us where to sign. We're in."

  I'M IMPRESSED. Two weeks after I ring Vanessa Steele, I barely recognize the place. The castle is buzzing with activity--crewmen and women swinging figuratively from the rafters, installing lighting and cameras--without damaging the historical integrity, of course. Fergus had a full-out tizzy about that one, but I talked him down.

  There's always someone to chat with, someone saying hello or asking me a question or mentioning how excited he or she is to be working with me.

  It feels bloody grand.

  Set designers are arranging props and baskets of flowers here and there and oohing and ahhing over the antique paintings, suits of armor, and what Nicholas and I always called the Fantastic Wall of Death. It's a large wall in the great room, covered floor-to-ceiling with weapons that were used by our ancestors on the battlefield. Writers and directors walk about the property, creating storyboards and film location lists.

  AD's and PA's and Extra PA's flit about, and I'm really hoping we can add DP to the frequently used initials vernacular very soon.

  But then, in the library, Vanessa dashes those horny hopes as fast as Cinderella's coach poofed back into a sad little pumpkin.

  "No sex."

  We're going over my contract. I don't have to sign the $50 million NDA like every single other person who's even remotely involved, but I do have rules.

  Sodding rules. Everywhere I look, there are do's, don'ts, musts, and for fuck's sake nevers.

  Doesn't anyone know how to have fun anymore?

  "What do you mean, no sex? I've seen your show--sex is the whole point. All the good parts are blocked out, but it's picnic sex, candlelight sex, after-hiking-through-the-forest sex. I was really looking forward to that part."

  She shakes her head, her shiny, short hair swaying. "Prepare for disappointment. This is the royal edition. It's special. Special rules."

  "I don't want to be special. I want to be like all the other average blokes on your show. Only, better-looking. Sucking face in the morning with one contestant, then sex with a different woman in the evening. And no one even gets angry. It's a fascinating study in human behavior." I clap my hands. "Bravo, sweetheart."

  And she's still shaking her head. Damn it.

  "In this case, we're selling the fantasy. The fairy tale. That the woman you choose will be your queen. And in order to keep that fantasy going, you can party, but you can't have sex."

  "Are you telling me that you actually found twenty noble virgins?"

  Because if that's the case, this isn't go
ing to be nearly as much fun as I thought.

  "I'm telling you it doesn't matter if they're virgins, as long as the audience believes they are." She glances out the window, tapping her finger on the desk. "I mean, you're just looking for a good time, right? You weren't actually planning on settling down with one of these girls, were you?"

  "I don't plan on settling down for a very long time, sweets. My brother has the positive publicity covered and while one of my duties is to beget an heir, men can have children well into their fifties, so I have plenty of time for practice shots." I lift my glass of scotch, toasting the Almighty. "Praise the Lord."

  Vanessa nods. "Perfect. Then I think we'll both get exactly what we're looking for, Henry."

  I skim the rest of the contract.

  "You should have your attorney look it over too," she says.

  "No need." I glance up, pen poised. "There's no ban on blow jobs, is there?"

  Vanessa laughs. "No. Just be discreet."

  I wink. "Discreet should have been one of my middle names."

  Right after "Ironic."

  I sign the final page with an eager flourish that John Hancock would envy. Vanessa picks up the contract and slides it into a leather folder. "Congratulations, you just bought yourself a month's worth of good times."

  I lean back in my chair, folding my arms behind my head, content with the world.

  "Oh, one more thing," Vanessa adds. "It's about your staff."

  Ten minutes later, they're all gathered in the library. Cook, Fergus, James, and his security team, stand in a circle an I'm in the center, like I'm about to lead them onto the football field to victory.

  "I've explained to Ms. Steele that there is no need for my private staff to sign nondisclosure agreements. Because the House of Pembrook, of which you are all members, is better and more honorable than that." I meet eyes of each person, peering particularly hard at Fergus. "Aren't we?"

  Granny isn't the only one who knows how to manipulate.

  "That means we have only one rule: no one tells the Queen. I can't stress this enough."

  I continue to slowly turn to each of them. Fergus glares, Cook smiles, James and his lads look like they're going to puke.

  I hold out my hand, palm down, and motion for them add their hands on top. "What do you say?"

  "Your parents are rolling in their graves, God rest their souls," Fergus grinds out, making the sign of the cross.

  And inside, I flinch. Hard.

  On the outside, I shrug. "Won't be the first time, old man."

  Then it's Fergus's turn to flinch. He glances down, sheepishly.

  "Come on," I rally, "don't get depressing on me. This is the way it's done now. The Pope tweets, politicians troll, and the heir to the throne finds his match on reality television."

  "It's tasteless and tawdry," he argues.

  "Where have you been? The whole damn world is tasteless and tawdry."

  My voice changes then, softening, and I almost believe my own words. "But she could be out there, Fergus, just waiting for me to find her. The woman I'm supposed to love, the future mother of my children, the lady who is destined to be Wessco's queen--she could be one of them. And wouldn't that be a tale to tell?"

  He looks at my face for a moment, and his expression doesn't soften at all. But then he nods. And steps forward, putting his hand over mine. "Your father would've had a good laugh about this. Always enjoyed a dip on the wild side, that one."

  I smile and smack his back. Then I look to Cook. She grins broadly, her cheeks round and full and her brogue thick as molasses.

  "I don't tweeter like the Pope, but . . ." And she adds her hand to mine and Fergus's.

  James whispers with the other boys, then turns to me, speaking for the group.

  "This could be considered treason, Sir."

  I scoff. "No. No one's talking about betraying government secrets or overthrowing the monarchy. It's just a case of . . . what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

  Poor James rubs the back of his neck, looking like he's going to shit himself.

  "I can't lie to the Queen, Prince Henry."

  I shake my head. "And I would never ask you to. But . . . if she's not asking you directly, then it's not really lying."

  "I email daily reports to Winston. He'll have my arse if he finds out I didn't tell him about this."

  Yeah, that's a tricky one. Winston is the head dark suit at the Palace.

  "Then we'd best make sure he doesn't find out. Continue your reports . . . just keep them . . . vague. General. 'We're all good here at Anthorp Castle, how the hell are you?'"

  He still looks like the weak link.

  So I put all my cards on the table.

  "Look, James, I am Prince of Pembrook now. And I realize I'm not Nicholas; I never will be. But if this goes south I won't let you or your boys take the fall, I swear it. So, it comes down to trust. Either you believe in me or you don't."

  And I really need someone to fucking believe in me. Even for just a little while.

  James's blue eyes read mine, like he's delving into my brain. After a long moment, he scrubs his hands down his face. "Fuck it--we're with you, Prince Henry."

  The lads nod behind him and I can't not smile.

  "You're good men. I've always liked you. You're going places, I can tell."

  James and the rest of the security boys add their hands to the pile. And because I don't want to be a full-out wanker, I don't cheer or yell. I just nod to each of them, tap our hands, and say, "I'm proud of all of you. And grateful to each of you. I won't let you down. Go, team."

  MR. HAVERSTROM ISN'T PLEASED WHEN I present him with my official Act of Royalty letter, excusing me from work for the next six weeks. But, as he acknowledged, he can't fire me. And while I'll miss the library and the regulars and lunch with Annie and Willard, in the end, it's worth it. The unknown of Matched pales in comparison to the stark terror of standing in front of hundreds of people. No contest.

  Ten days after Miss Herald showed up at our front door, a car arrives to take Penelope and me to Anthorp Castle. The property is only a little over an hour's drive from Castlebrook. It's guarded grounds, the royal family's private property, so while I've read a few books about the castle's history and have seen photos, I've never actually visited.

  When the car pulls up the long, winding drive and stops in front of giant wood-and-iron doors, I decide for the first time that a book just can't compare. The smell of salt and sea is in the air, and the wind coming off the water whips at my hair. It's sunny and cool, and the huge gray stone castle with its points and towers, flags and flowers, drawbridge and moat, is straight out of a fairy tale--like Cinderella or The Little Mermaid.

  Yes, with the waves crashing on the rocks below the cliff, The Little Mermaid is the perfect comparison. And it's my favorite Disney movie.

  A few of the show's crew members collect our bags and carry them in. I notice a few other ladies--in designer clothes and large sunglasses--exiting cars nearby. A couple are familiar to me--the Duchess of Perth, Laura Benningson, and Lady Cordelia Ominsmitch--but the rest I've never met, though I'm sure Penny has. Miss Herald greets us in the main foyer and gives us a quick tour. Penelope chooses her room almost immediately--a large pink room on the second floor, near the main staircase and close to the action.

  "I'd like to explore the grounds on my own, if that's all right," I tell Miss. Herald. "I'll select a room after."

  "That'll be fine," she replies. "The crew, wardrobe, and makeup are using the whole west wing, but any other empty room is up for grabs."

  She hands Penelope her schedule for the day. The first filming session is late this afternoon, in front of the castle with the full cast, including Prince Henry, to shoot the opening scenes of the first episode. Before that, Penny has an interview, a wardrobe consultation, and a cocktail hour meet-and-greet with the other ladies in the castle.

  I give my sister a hug before Miss Herald guides her away.

  "Have fun, Pen."<
br />
  Her soft brown eyes dance up at me. "You too. If you spot any ghosts in this old place, try to get a photo!"

  When they walk off, I step slowly through the castle, taking it all in, gazing at the ceilings and the walls and everything in between. I think about the people who have stood where I am right now, whose footsteps I could be retracing--grand lords and ladies, powerful soldiers and warriors, mighty kings and commanding queens.

  It's humbling and thrilling at the same time. Like their energy and spirit is in the stone itself, speaking to me, showing me--guiding my way. Before I know it, I'm in the corner of the east wing on the third floor. It's quiet here, a bit far from the commotion of the main filming areas. The door creaks when I open it, stepping inside the bedroom.

  And my breath catches.

  Oh. Hell. Yes. I've found my room. Because for me, this one is perfect--absolutely perfect.

  Later, when the sun hangs low in the sky but there are still a few hours until sunset, the full cast of ladies and crew are down in front of the castle. Vanessa Steele, the executive producer, announced that all assistants and non-cast members must remain indoors or off set. Since it's an outdoor shoot, she doesn't want to chance any of us getting caught in the shot.

  I've found the perfect spot to watch the taping--on the forested side of the castle, up a hill, near a tree for cover, just in case. I have a stellar view of the castle entrance down below, and in the meantime, I have my book for company. Sitting back against the tree, I sigh with contentment. This is going to be lovely. Then I open my book . . . and practically jump out of my skin when a cough sounds from behind me.

  I didn't see anyone when I first walked up here.

  Closing my book, I look out from behind the trunk cautiously. Just far enough . . . to see the unmistakable sight of His Royal Highness, Prince Henry, standing a few yards away.

  With a gasp, I duck back behind the tree.

  I grew up inundated with news stories of the royal family and posters of our handsome princes pinned to my bedroom walls--every girl in Wessco did. Nicholas was the serious one, staid and well-spoken, honorable--just like Mr. Darcy. Henry always seemed more like Fiyero Tigelaar from Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West--fun-loving, passionate, and thoughtless, focused only on the next party and his own pleasure.

  I stand up and peep back out from behind my tree for another glimpse.