by Aven Ellis
It was love.
My brain doesn’t even try to fight it. I don’t need to count a certain number of dates or conversations for “love” to be legitimate.
I love him.
And I’m sure this feeling in my heart will only grow deeper with time, but I know him already. I do. As crazy as this is, I know this man. I know how he looks at me, touches me, and admires me.
And that is all my heart needs to know.
Roman reaches for my hand and presses it against his lips. Butterflies dance in my stomach when I see the adoration in his eyes. He lowers my hand and places it over his heart.
“It’s still beating like mad,” he says, a beautiful smile lighting up his face.
I lean over and kiss the bridge of his nose. “And you thought you were out of practice,” I tease him.
The flush appears on his neck. “Lizzie?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve never made love like this before.”
Elation bubbles up within me, pure joy that I made Roman feel this way.
“Me neither.”
“Good.”
I laugh. “So selfish, that you wanted me to have had terrible sex before you.”
“Of course. It makes me seem like a fantastic lover by default.”
“No, no more self-deprecating comments Roman,” I warn. “You are an incredibly gifted lover, if you count the number of orgasms I had.”
He blushes. I ruffle his hair affectionately.
“Come here,” he says, drawing me into his arms and rolling over onto his back so I’m snuggled up against his warm chest. He drops a kiss onto the top of my head. “How am I supposed to go to work in a few hours when all I want to do is lie in bed with you?”
“I know, I would love to spend all day here with you,” I say, running my fingertips along his strong pectoral muscle. I replace my fingertips with my lips and press a kiss onto his hot skin. “But you have… gardening things to do?”
Roman laughs loudly. My stomach tingles as a result. “Yes. Gardening things. Like you have princess things.”
“Oh, yes, I have big princess things today,” I say, rolling over so I’m on top of him. Roman slides his hand up underneath my hair and begins playing with it. “I have tea with Antonia this afternoon. I will be reminded of my place in the family. Which is in white. And in the background.”
Roman frowns. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I can handle her,” I say, with confidence I’m not quite certain of.
“You’re being braver than you feel.”
I flinch. “How did you know?”
“Your eyes tell me everything. You want to be confident when you face her, but you don’t want to jeopardise what you’ve been given.”
“This is kind of scary, you reading my innermost thoughts.”
Roman continues to stroke my hair in a comforting manner. “Don’t let her bully you, Lizzie. You be who you are. Who you want to be. She can’t change your role; you’re protected by Arthur. And the public adores you. Good lord, ask my mum. She’s always raving about how kind and well-spoken you are.”
I feel my face grow warm from the compliment. “It’s nice that your mum thinks that.”
“Wait until I tell her I can vouch for that,” Roman says, grinning at me.
Swoon. I love that he is already thinking of telling his mum about me.
“But back to your aunt. Lizzie, don’t bow down to her,” he says firmly. “You are doing a brilliant job for the monarchy. The only thing driving her is jealousy. You can handle that.”
I think of the horrible things she did to Clementine when she first started dating Christian. She will do the same things to me, I’m sure of it. I simply have to be strong enough to weather the storm until it passes.
And the storm must pass before I even think about going public with Roman. Antonia would use him in her war against me. I know she would.
Fire fills me. I won’t let her hurt him. I won’t.
“You can do this. Don’t doubt yourself,” Roman says, interrupting my thoughts.
“You’re right,” I say, determined to keep him protected while she goes after me with the press. Once she realises I’m not changing for her, and eventually gets the adoration she needs with the upcoming royal wedding, she’ll let it go. She’ll have to, because I’m not backing down. Not now, not ever.
“One more bit of advice,” Roman says.
“Yes?”
“Don’t drink the tea. I’m picturing it poisoned, like Snow White’s apple,” he says wickedly.
I burst out laughing. “That’s good advice.”
“I charge for that, you know,” he tells me suggestively, his hand sliding up underneath the back of my head.
Ooh, I like where this is headed.
“What form of payment do you accept?” I ask.
“A kiss,” Roman says, drawing my mouth towards his.
As we kiss, all of my concerns fall away.
I love this man, and I trust him with my heart.
And that is all that matters.
Chapter 17
Her Majesty Doesn’t Like It
I study my appearance in the mirror before I head over to Buckingham Palace.
The glow of the previous evening is gone, not that I have forgotten anything about making love with Roman.
Now I see a determined woman who will stand up to the person who will make my life hell for daring to draw my own lines instead of colouring in hers.
Ha-ha, colouring. I wish I could do that right now to centre myself before tea time. I wonder what Antonia would think if I brought her a gift of pencils and a colouring book and told her it was to help her unwind, as her rigid posture tells me she’s stressed.
I get an image of every pin shooting out of her crafted chignon as her head explodes with anger.
As amusing as that thought is, I will not be bringing her a present. Sadly, I don’t have time to colour, either. There’s only time to make sure I’m immaculate in my appearance. Once again, I’m using clothing to send a message.
I run my hands over the fitted silhouette of the orange dress, one that Victoria got me for my birthday in an effort to shove me out of my white comfort zone. It has a beautiful cape overlay on the top, flowing to the body-conscious dress, and I feel vibrant in it.
Seriously, Liz, I think. You can be such a twit. You live for pens and pencils and to colour, and you shoved this gorgeous dress in the back of the wardrobe, preferring your blank canvas instead?
I can’t even rationalise that.
Well, except for the fact that I can be a twit when I’m afraid of disappointing people.
I reach into the wardrobe, retrieve a camel-coloured trench coat I bought on sale last year, and slip into it, tying the belt around my waist. The camel is the coordinating colour to the orange, and I carry that through from my stilettos to my LK Bennett clutch.
I study my reflection. I see the fire in my aquamarine eyes. Oh, I know I’m going to pay for what I’m about to do. The next few months will be hell. I will pay for getting more attention than she does. Antonia doesn’t like anyone upstaging her, and while she’s had to settle for Clementine taking that light from her, she will not tolerate her niece—whom she never wanted to be a working royal—taking it, too.
Yet here I am, knowing the wrath I’m going to bring down on myself and doing it anyway.
I slip out of the front door and walk to my Range Rover, the sky dreary and grey above me. Despite the gloomy weather, and the task ahead of me, I’m happy.
A week ago, I wouldn’t have even entertained this idea. I was convinced I had to prove my worth by keeping my head down and projecting I was good and trustworthy with my image. As if my speeches and work didn’t matter—I thought I needed more to become the working royal I had always dreamt of being. But by being one-note, I lost myself. I was subconsciously making myself pleasing to Antonia, when I didn’t have to.
I get inside my car, and as I dri
ve to BP, I marvel at the change in my way of thinking. I can pinpoint it to one moment in time.
Everything changed the second I reconnected with Roman.
I’m amazed at how someone can come into your life and change it within days. It took his perspective—and him fearlessly sharing the truth with me—to make me see I was hiding.
A radiating warmth sweeps through me as I think of him. We’ve spent hours together—whether in person or on the phone—talking, sharing our lives, and growing what was a spark of interest into an all-encompassing desire for each other. Not merely physical, but this desire to share our interests, our fears, our dreams and vulnerabilities—I’ve never given so freely of my mind or my heart to any man in my life. I knew the moment I sat with him in the greenhouse, there was a good chance I’d fall in love with him.
And now I have.
I wrap myself up in thoughts of loving this man, this incredible man who is now mine.
One I suspect is falling in love with me.
My stomach flips upside down at the thought. Roman might not have said the words last night, but I felt his love. I know I did.
And the day he tells me he loves me?
I’ll be the happiest woman in all of England.
I think of Roman during my short drive. We FaceTimed at lunch, and he told me how proud he was of me for standing up for what I wanted. He said he wanted me to text him when it was over and know he was there with me in spirit, holding my hand the entire time. I’m not alone in this.
Nobody has ever said that to me before.
As I’m let through the gates, with the press snapping pictures as I drive in, I visualise his hand on mine, knowing, without a doubt, I’m doing the right thing.
I park my car and glance up at BP, thinking of how it was built in 1705 by the Duke of Buckingham. It was made into a palace in 1820.
I wonder how many dramas have been played out behind its 1,150 doors. Too many to count, I muse as I head towards the entrance.
And today will add one more.
I enter, greeting palace staff as I do, and step into the lift to go up to the private apartments. The doors close, and I draw a breath in and exhale. I have no idea what she will say, but I’m prepared. I’ll be calm and controlled—this is not the time for Angry Liz.
This is time for Toe-to-Toe Liz.
The doors open, and I move along the corridor to the queen’s sitting room. I glance down at my watch. It’s five minutes to five o’clock. Antonia will walk in on the dot, not a second earlier or later.
Talk about not colouring outside the lines.
I step inside the room, all done in cream with little pops of grey and navy. It’s reflective of Antonia—colourless and rigid with no room for experimentation or something new. I slip out of my trench, and one of her maids appears out of nowhere and approaches me.
Good lord, this I cannot get used to. It was weird growing up, and it’s weird now. People popping out of nowhere to assist with anything I need. I wonder where this maid was. Hiding behind the curtains?
Hmm. I wouldn’t put it past Antonia to have someone hiding in there to record me if I were to be dumb enough to use my phone in here.
That sounds paranoid.
Or does it?
“Your Royal Highness, may I take your coat?” the woman asks.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, handing it to her.
“You’re welcome,” she replies, whisking away as quickly as she appeared.
I sink down onto a sofa and peer out at the gardens through the window, which are now prepared for the cold weather. The flower beds are blown by the wind, moving back and forth against the gloomy backdrop of the day. I wonder what Roman would think of them. He would love being able to inspect them up close. I’ll have to br—
With a pang, I realise I can’t bring him here. Not yet. It would get back to Antonia, and she would use him against me. I refuse to let the man I love be a pawn in her game.
As soon as the clock on her mantle strikes five, the doors open, and she sweeps in. I rise so I can curtsy to her.
“Your Majesty,” I say, lowering into a perfect curtsy.
“It’s a pleasure to see you, Elizabeth,” she says crisply, taking her seat on the sofa across from me. “Aren’t you wearing an alarming choice of colour today?”
I sink down into the princess pose, i.e. sitting with my legs pressed together at the perfect slant, and find my position is mirroring hers to a T.
“Indeed,” I say, smiling brightly at her.
Antonia is dressed in her standard sheath, today a navy tweed one, with a matching jacket. Her raven-black hair is pulled tightly back into her signature chignon, and her statement red lipstick is applied with precision. Strands of pearls from the royal jewellery vault adorn her neck.
A tea trolley is brought in, and we remain silent as the household staff begins placing everything on the table in between us. The standard afternoon tea menu is different today, featuring Christmas-inspired items. I see fruitcake—which makes me think of Roman—cranberry-studded scones, finger sandwiches, squash tartlets, mini panettone, and a glorious arrangement of macaroons, ones I bet are all Christmas-inspired flavours.
Antonia thanks the servers when they are finished, and she begins to prepare the tea. She remains silent as she goes about this task, and I watch her, thinking of Roman’s advice to not drink the tea and nearly laughing out loud.
Perhaps I should watch her drink it first, I think wickedly.
“The chef did a Christmas assortment for us today,” Antonia says, putting the silver pot down. “Sandwiches with ham and orange chutney, roast turkey with chestnut stuffing, mincemeat jam, cranberry and orange scones, butternut and sage tartlets, miniature panettones, and gingerbread and spiced orange macaroons. They’re so appropriate, aren’t they?”
And as Benedict Cumberbatch in Sherlock would say, the game is on.
“They are,” I reply, selecting a turkey finger sandwich and placing it on my plate. “Of course, if you would have put something fresh and unexpected on the menu, oh, I don’t know, like a candy floss macaroon, guests might find that intriguing and exciting.”
I see her lips twitch ever so slightly. I take a bite of my sandwich.
“I do believe,” she says with deliberation, “that the hostess sets the tone. The tone is always set from the top, Elizabeth.”
I pretend to mull this over. “Well, yes. When the hostess is hosting her own event. Otherwise, no. The tone is set by the individual. As long as that person is appropriate and doing his or her job to the benefit of the event, then the hostess shouldn’t be threatened by that.”
Zing! Her eyes slightly widen. If she didn’t have so much Botox, I think I’d see a crease in her forehead.
“I see you want to be ugly about this,” she says, “so I shall get to the point. You are not Clementine. If she insists on wearing patterns and going barelegged and being ridiculous and uncouth, she gets a pass—for now—because she’s an American marrying a prince. She is living the movie, and for some reason I cannot fathom, both sides of the pond are eating it up. I will play the part of the adoring future mother-in-law because I have to. I have no such loyalty to you, however. If my husband had listened to me, you would be working in the public sector, my dear niece.”
I reach for a miniature panettone like I’m picking up a chess piece and considering my next move on the board. I set it on my plate and pick up my knife, carefully slicing it in half.
“I have the support of Arthur,” I say, “and the public. I’m here to stay, no matter how much you wish for me to be banished to a normal job.”
I study her. She’s contemplating her next move as she picks up the silver tea strainer and pours the tea.
“Clementine, the unfortunate disaster that she is, is here to stay. A broken engagement isn’t an option now. But the public will turn on her when her golden period is over, and you know that.”
She has no idea that comment has made a direct hit. My
stomach clenches, as this will not only apply to Clementine, but also to me, and down the line, to the man I love.
It’s one thing for an American art curator to enter the House of Chadwick.
But a gardener from Shepherd’s Bush is another.
I place a spoonful of mincemeat jam on the side of my plate as if I don’t have a worry in the world, when the truth is, her words are chilling me. “We all go through those periods with the press,” I say with a confidence I don’t feel. “What would be lovely is if the women of this family could come together and support each other. Not only when there are downs, but in our successes and missions, too.”
Antonia’s face remains expressionless.
“Antonia, why can’t you see me and Clementine as part of your team? Why do you have to see us as threats to your position in the public? You are the queen. We’ll never surpass you in rank.”
She laughs. “You are so naïve, it’s comical.”
“I’m speaking the truth.”
Antonia puts the teapot down. She lifts her cup to her lips, taking a sip, and then focuses her dark brown eyes on me. “I have worked for years to uphold the mystique and standards the public have come to expect from royalty. I will not see it upended by a princess deciding to thumb her nose at tradition and seek all the press she can by wearing ridiculous clothing because she’s young and beautiful.”
“The media adores you,” I say, confused. “How is my press coverage a threat to that?”
“Oh, yes, that article comparing our two appearances on Monday was oh-so-flattering to me,” she says dryly.
Inside, I wince. She gets the chess piece on that one.
“Your grandmother,” Antonia continues, “believes in the tradition of the monarchy. So do I. I refuse to see you, with no possible chance of ever sitting on the throne, thank God, ruin what I have worked so hard to maintain.”
“How am I ruining the monarchy by serving the people? I’m not. This is all about you seeing anything or anyone different from you as a threat. Ones you believe will diminish your popularity with the public.”
The lip twitches again. She’s agitated that I landed a blow with that comment.
