by Aven Ellis
I bolt upright. I have a million things I need to do. I need to pick out my outfit, soak in a long, hot bath with rose oil, and take care to apply my makeup. I want to turn up some music and dance around my bathroom and embrace every wonderful, exhilarating feeling that is sweeping through me because of Roman.
But first, I want to tell a few people, ones in the circle of trust. Normally, this would include my cousins Christian and Xander, who are like brothers to me, but this is going to be strictly girl business right now.
I pop up and move back across the oriental carpet to the hallway where I dropped my yoga bag. I tug on the zip, remove my phone, and before I can even send a single message, I see I have a slew of texts to read.
I head back into the living room and sink down on the sofa again, grabbing the thick, soft throw across the back and tucking it over my lap. I review the texts I need to answer:
Amelia
Clementine
Mum
Bella
I wrinkle my nose. Mum’s texts are never good. Usually, she texts me when she needs to vent about my father, the Duke of York. I hate that I am in the middle of their marital drama. The drama that I have been dragged into by accident and now has each of them trying to play me against the other.
What truly hurts is that they don’t care that they are hurting me. They don’t care that I’ve been sick to my stomach worrying about this secret, shedding tears over them for fear of what would happen if anyone were to know.
I frown. I wish I didn’t know anything. I’m envious of my sisters, Isabella and Victoria, who are off at university and unaware of what I stumbled upon this summer at St. James’s Palace.
In a moment of self-care—another cause I would like to encourage in my position—I put a stop to all the bad feelings. Today is my day to be excited and happy. Mum and Dad are not going to ruin this for me. I won’t let them.
Instead, I read the text from Amelia:
OMG OMG. There is a picture of Xander holding hands with a girl in Windsor on the Dishing Weekly website. And it’s INDIA ROTHSCHILD. Her Majesty must be OVERJOYED.
What? India?
I quickly go to the website of that heinous rag—the worst for gossiping and spreading horrible, nasty, mean-spirited stories about my family. This time, I assume, they must have reached a new low with some made-up story, including split side-by-side photos of Xander and India to make it look real, because there is no way he’d be with her.
Xander is in the army, serving in the Household Calvary at Windsor, and will be retiring in January to focus on his royal duties. The media will start applying pressure, along with Antonia, that it’s time for the clubbing to end and the search for a wife to ensue. I roll my eyes at that perfectly archaic way of thinking.
But Xander with India? I nearly snort-laugh at the thought.
Actually, it’s hard to picture Xander with anyone. He loves the ladies, but he’s like me for a different reason. He keeps his space to keep his freedom, I keep mine because I don’t want to be disappointed, but we both throw up bars around ourselves for—
My brain comes to a screeching halt as soon as Dishing Weekly finishes loading on my phone. Sure enough, there is a picture of Xander walking in Windsor this morning and holding hands with Lady India Rothschild.
I gasp. India is gazing up at him with starry eyes, while Xander is smiling and staring straight ahead.
What fresh hell is this?
I zero in on India, who is the daughter of a duke and duchess and the socialite on the London scene. She does absolutely nothing but shop and attend specific charity events that she deems worthy. She is a fixture in the chicest clubs in Mayfair and always places herself in Xander’s sight if he happens to show up. She’s beautiful, of course, with silky blonde hair and a body built by Pilates and a militant diet she makes known to anyone who eats in front of her, but her personality is horrid. She’s stuck up, elitist, and has no ambition in life other than to spend her inheritance.
And be the Queen Consort when Xander becomes king in the future.
I immediately call Amelia. She is also a lady—as her father is the tenth earl of Westbrook—and my kindred spirit. She is down to earth, loves to give back to her causes—one of her big ones is supporting aspiring youth in fashion design in the United Kingdom—and, like me, prefers to keep her socialising out of the trendy nightclubs, opting instead to hang out with groups of friends and have dinner parties at home.
She answers as I head up the stairs to my room. “Hello?” she asks.
“Amelia! What is Xander doing? Has he lost his mind? When did this come out?” I say rapidly, needing more facts, and not the ones provided by the idiot crack journalists at Dishing Weekly.
“I nearly spat out my coffee when I saw it,” Amelia exclaims. “Apparently, they went out for a coffee and a stroll around Windsor.”
“I don’t get this,” I say, reaching the top of the stairs and move across the landing, passing by the portraits Arthur was nice enough to loan me from his personal art collection.
I pause at my favourite one: my role model, a young Princess Helene, my great aunt. She has given her entire life to promoting the monarchy and used her position to do as much as she could, but she is one of the few who realise the monarchy is getting stagnant. She is strongly against the elitist, archaic ideas my grandmother, the dowager queen, as well as Antonia want to hold on to. Over cups of tea, which I take weekly in Apartment 1A here at the palace, she has said the future lies with me, my sisters, and my cousins. She has encouraged us to find new paths to serve.
I study her younger face. She will not be pleased about this India development, as Helene has called her a wannabe queen, as real as cling film. Helene took back the comment, citing it as an insult to cling film.
“I don’t understand it either,” Amelia says, interrupting my thoughts. “Xander has never shown any interest in her at the functions or parties I’ve seen them at.”
“No, and he’s never talked about her. Ever. Nor has she been on the list of girls that he’s flirted with or gone out with,” I add.
“You don’t think he’s going to do the old idea of ‘get on with marriage’ now that he’s going to retire from the army, do you?” Amelia asks.
I blink. I never thought of that. But God only knows how much pressure he will get from not only the media, but also from Antonia, to find a suitable wife.
Then it hits me. I wonder if she is pushing this on Xander because Clementine, an American with no wealthy background or aristocratic lineage, is her worst nightmare as a future member of the family.
I gasp. “She thinks India is the antidote to the popularity of Clem!”
“Liz, what are you talking about?” Amelia asks.
“But why would Xander do this? He’s always stood up to Antonia,” I say, continuing my thought process out loud.
My phone beeps. I see it’s Clementine. Maybe she knows the real scoop.
“Amelia, it’s Clem. Let me see if she knows what is going on, and I’ll call you back.”
“Believe me, if you don’t, I shall ring you incessantly until you pick up,” she declares.
I hang up with her and take Clem’s phone call.
“Clementine! What the hell is going on with Xander?” I blurt out, continuing to my room and pacing across the shining hardwood floor.
“I know, Liz. It’s crazy. Christian is freaked out. He called Xander as soon as the picture went viral across social media. He asked Xander if he pulled this stunt to deflect from my first walkabout on Tuesday. Which I still want to puke about, by the way.”
Oh, I hadn’t thought about that. Maybe this wasn’t an Antonia stunt but a clever one by Xander to take some publicity pressure off Clementine and Christian. Relief fills me, and I sink down onto the edge of my duvet. “So that’s why he did it,” I say, nodding.
“No!” Clementine says sharply. “He told Christian it’s time to grow up and get serious with someone.”
I bolt right back up to standi
ng. “What is he doing? He picked India because she fit the role? He’s never found her interesting!”
“Christian is as baffled as you are. If anything, he thought he’d pick someone the opposite of India because his mom adores her.”
We both fall silent for a moment, as Xander being with anyone—and now choosing boring, stuffy, snotty India—is truly baffling. I need to get out my colouring book while I work this out in my head.
“I’ll talk to him later,” I say. “There has to be more to this.”
“I don’t know. Xander was clear to Christian that this was something he wanted to do.”
“Ew, but India? Does he not see that she is Antonia two point oh?”
“She is,” Clementine agrees. “But for reasons we don’t know, right now, she’s his choice for romance.”
I resist the urge to throw up at that visual.
“Well, tea with Helene will be even more lively than usual next week,” I say.
“Forget that. We need Jillian to come over and mix up gin and tonics to sort this one out.”
I smile. That would be fun. Maybe I’ll suggest that to Helene.
“Now we,” I say, shifting away from Xander drama for a moment, “are going to go over everything you need for your public appearance this week. I’m sharing all my secrets, including how you must exit the car on the photographer side so they can get good pictures of you. You need to pose for a few seconds so they can do their job. They will love you if you do that.”
“I’ll make sure to turn the droopy side of my face towards the Dishing Weekly guys,” Clementine quips.
I grin. She has handled being thrust into our world amazingly well, and when Dishing Weekly exposed her facial paralysis from her brain tumour surgery, she ended up finding one of her new causes—helping people with permanent illnesses—and sharing her own journey with the world.
“You will be amazing, and people will love you. For this week, at least,” I half-tease.
One thing I will do is always be honest with Clementine. Right now they all love her for being a breath of fresh air in the monarchy, but I’ve also prepared her for when they will come after her with pitchforks for wearing the wrong shoes, or not curtsying deep enough to Arthur.
“You are so right about that,” Clementine laughs. “I can’t wait for them to start watching my stomach for a baby. It wouldn’t be proper protocol to yell out, ‘It’s a sandwich!’, right?”
I giggle. “A sandwich can’t give you a baby belly.”
“Speak for yourself. I bloat with grain.”
I clear my throat. “So, Clem, I have something to tell you. I don’t want you to get all excited or anything, but I have a date tonight.”
Clem is silent.
Hmm. Maybe, on the heels of Xander dating, this is too much. If I hear a thud, I’ll know that she has passed out and hit the floor, as both developments are equally shocking.
“What?” she finally asks. “A date? Are you joking?”
I smile as Roman comes to the forefront of my mind instead of Xander and Ms. Cling Film.
“I’m serious. I’m having dinner with a gorgeous, sweet man. And his name is Roman Lawler.”
Dead silence.
“Clementine?”
“No,” she gasps. “No way! Roman? My friend Roman from Cheltham House?”
I grin. “That is indeed the same Roman Lawler.”
I hear a happy shriek on the phone, then her dogs, Bear and Lucy, barking, and then Christian’s voice in the background.
“Christian! Liz has a date with Roman!” she yells out gleefully.
I blush as I hear the excitement in her voice. So much for keeping this in the girl circle of trust.
“Liz, how? How did you connect? How did this happen? I have so many questions, but they don’t matter because he is wonderful. I’m so happy! Wait, I’ll come over. You can tell me in person because, unlike Ms. Cling Film, this is news to be celebrated, and I need all the glorious details.”
I put the last pin in my messy bun, which is loose at the nape of my neck, and study my reflection in the full-length mirror in my dressing room. The chandelier light flickers softly overhead, and I’m surrounded in the large walk-in space by my clothing, shoes, hats, and bags, all organised by colour and style. Each handbag has a place, as well as each pair of shoes and every hat box. In the centre of my room, there is a long glass cabinet that holds my jewellery, gloves, and other accessories. My clothing diary is kept on a tablet in the top drawer so I know what I’ve worn to events and appearances and when.
But I don’t need a designer gown tonight, or a smart clutch.
I’m dressed for a casual night in.
A first date.
With one Roman Lawler.
I study my reflection in amazement because I’ve never seen this glow on my skin before. I’m excited and nervous and filled with joy about tonight.
After Clementine came over and we reverted to sixteen-year-old school girls talking, as Clem said, about “all the Roman things,” we came upstairs to my dressing room. We spent another hour sorting through my wardrobe to find the perfect casual outfit for tonight, and I ended up selecting a pair of Rag & Bone jeans and a cream V-neck cashmere jumper. But then, to surprise Roman, I picked a Burberry wool check scarf in rose, which adds a pop of colour next to my ivory skin. A simple pair of antique pearl studs, given to me by Helene from her private collection, complete my outfit.
I study myself again. I spent the rest of the afternoon getting ready and thinking about how I was more excited to dress for this date than I have been for any formal party I’ve attended at Buckingham Palace. I pick up my black leather motorcycle jacket, slip into it, and then move over to my vanity. I reach for my signature scent, Shay & Blue Black Tulip, and spray the beautiful floral perfume on my wrists and the base of my neck. I close my eyes, remembering Roman’s fingertips over my wrist and how he felt my pulse.
Will he feel my pulse racing for him this evening, too?
My heart does that zigzag inside my chest as I head down the stairs to wait for him. I alerted security that he would be here to see me this evening and to allow him in at the gate.
I draw a nervous breath as I try to anticipate opening the door to him, seeing his handsome face, and sitting next to him in the car. I wonder if his hand will reach for mine.
I tug on my tall, black boots and try to tamp down the butterflies fluttering within me. My mind skips ahead. What will our dinner be like? What’s his flat like? Will our conversation be as natural as it was this morning?
I wrap my arms around myself, willing him to get here as soon as possible. I want to know what it’s like to see him working in his kitchen. I want to sit across the table and see him reward me with that beautiful smile for something I’ve said.
The sound of a car cuts through my thoughts. Roman. I know it is.
I allow myself to pause at the window as the sound comes closer. A small Land Rover slows in front of Wren House and pulls up to the curb. I watch as he steps out of the car, and my heart comes alive when I see him rake his fingertips through his hair, smoothing it so it looks good for me.
I hurry away from the window and wait for him to ring the doorbell. I can’t believe this is happening. After months of thinking about him, I got my chance. I can’t believe the chemistry and connection I felt sitting in the greenhouse with him. Now we’ll see what the evening brings us.
The doorbell rings.
My heart beats rapidly against my chest. I breathe in deeply. I don’t even think colouring could calm the emotions I’m feeling right now. Nor do I want them to, because they are all magnificent. Wonderful. Real.
I open the door and stifle a gasp as Roman stands before me. He’s ruggedly handsome in a black leather jacket, jeans, and brown boots. I shiver, not from the cold December wind that whips across us but from the way his eyes are lingering over my face. He hasn’t even glanced at my outfit. Roman’s hazel eyes are simply staring into mine, almost disbel
ieving that he’s gazing at me.
“You’re actually standing in front of me,” he says, his deep voice low. “This is going to happen, isn’t it?”
The chemistry from his words is palpable. I can feel it between us without even touching him.
“I’m here, hardly believing I’m looking at you. I wondered for months if I was crazy to keep thinking of you after that brief moment right over there,” I say, gesturing towards Christian and Clementine’s cottage. “Did I make it more than it was? Di—”
“No,” Roman interrupts, “you did not.”
My heart is pounding in my ears.
He turns and takes in his surroundings. Then he faces me again, a mystified expression on his handsome face. “I’m at Kensington Palace. With you. How am I not dreaming? How does this make sense? How am I here, in my beat-up car, to take you to my small flat? It can’t be real.”
“Because this is my home,” I remind him, not wanting Roman to be skittish because of my situation. “You’re picking me up here, like you’d pick me up if I lived in a flat in any other neighbourhood. You’re taking me in the car you own to the place you live to make me dinner. My situation is unique, with my family and what I do and where I live. I know that. But I’m still the same girl as the one in the greenhouse, Roman.”
He remains silent as he stares down at me. “Which I’m glad about.”
Ooh!
His mouth curves up into a gentle smile. “Are you ready?”
I nod, thinking he’d never ask. I take a moment to lock the door and drop the key into my Anna Walker cross-body bag.
Roman smiles down at me, and it illuminates my heart.
“Shall I take you to flat number five, Liz?”
Then he offers me his arm.
I’m shaking as I wrap my hand over it. I glance up at him, wanting to remember this moment and the way the moonlight is dancing across his face, the way I smell the leather from his jacket, and the way he’s smiling down at me, only seeing me as Liz.
