The Princess Pose (The Modern Royals Series Book 2)

by Aven Ellis

  “You think you know everything because you are young, but you know nothing. I have lived my life to uphold these standards. Your side of the family, if the truth were to come out about your cheating father and pathetic, clinging, crying, hysterical mother, would be a bombshell to the monarchy. Who’s to say you aren’t going to dirty things up like they have? Why do you think I wanted you to take a nice job in an art gallery and merely be seen going to clubs in Mayfair? You are a threat, my darling niece. One I will not take lightly.”

  My face is burning in white-hot anger at her for dragging my parents into this, and for being right about the public’s reaction to their marital drama, which is nobody’s business but theirs.

  “This is about me,” I say, using every power I have to control my voice. “Not them.”

  “But does the apple fall far from the tree?” she says, taking another sip of tea.

  “In the case of your sons, thank God it landed at the feet of Arthur and not you.”

  BAM! Her face cracks. I’ve infuriated her by giving her husband all the credit for how my amazing cousins turned out, and Her Majesty doesn’t like it.

  She sets down her cup with a clack—an unrefined, un-Antonia show of emotion.

  “If you think you can bully me, you’ve underestimated me,” I continue, blotting my lips with a linen napkin and placing it on my plate. I pick up my clutch, rise from my seat, and give her one last look. “I’m proud of who I am and what I do. I have chosen to wear colour, I have chosen to be me after months of being afraid to, and it’s up to you to embrace who I am or not.”

  “I see,” she says slowly. “Then you have chosen to embrace all the things that are going to come out in the press this month?”

  My heart pounds in my ears. “You will leave my parents out of this,” I warn.

  “Oh, lord no. That would pull down the monarchy. Their stupidity is to be concealed. Yet you,” she says, her eyes narrowing, “are ripe to be kicked off your golden girl pedestal, aren’t you?”

  I know what this means. She will start leaking rubbish to the press about me. My God, if she knew about Roman, she would destroy him.

  “Hmm, I believe this troubles you,” she continues, perfectly reading my expression.

  The maid who took my coat earlier reappears with it.

  “Yes, I’m troubled. By how pathetic it is that other women are seen as threats and rivals when we could be your biggest assets to ensuring the monarchy is standing long after we’re gone. You’re the one losing here, not me.”

  I turn and begin to walk out.

  “What I’m most curious about,” she says, causing me to turn and face her as she rises slowly from her seat, “is what has brought about this sudden, abrupt change in your wardrobe. Could it be a man?”

  I go cold.

  She smiles. “Oh, the fear in your eyes tells me this might be true. If that is the case, I will find out. Something tells me he’s not as lovely as India, the appropriate woman Xander has chosen, or we’d know about him.”

  “Like most modern women, I am independent. I make these decisions on my own. However, I understand you making that leap, as a woman who is stuck in time and refusing to modernise with the times.”

  Her nostrils flare. We are indeed going toe-to-toe.

  “Good afternoon, my dearest Elizabeth. Do enjoy the positive press coverage today, while it lasts.”

  I stride out of her apartment, forcing myself to walk confidently despite how my legs are shaking. I reach the lift and press the down button. As I step inside, I know she will be leaking horrible stories to the press that are designed to hurt me or force Arthur to remove me from my position. I also know my cousins and Arthur will not allow that to happen. I will survive.

  Until she finds out about Roman.

  She will humiliate him and make his life hell. Tears prick my eyes as I visualise the headlines that will reveal him to the world in the tabloids. He has no idea what will come his way now. It would have been hard enough before, but with her leakers at work against him, I can’t even imagine what they will say.

  The lift reaches the ground floor, and I step out, wrapping my arms around me as I walk, my brain whirling with how to prepare him for what is to come. I know he’ll say he can handle it, but can he? I merely thought my life would be a challenge before, but in the fight to be true to myself, I made his transition that much harder.

  I blink back tears as I exit the palace. I reach my car, and as I put my hand on the door handle, I remember what Roman told me.

  I’m right there with you, holding your hand.

  I close my eyes and feel his fingers entwining with mine. I visualise the way he gazed into my eyes, the way he made love to me.

  No. This love can withstand anything, I know it can.

  Including a war launched by Antonia.

  Chapter 18

  Canvas and Paint

  As I walk through Belgravia, the cold rain pelting down on my umbrella as it falls from the gloomy sky, I can’t get Antonia’s threats out of my head. I shiver inside my coat, not from the chilly air but from the fear that has been wedged in my heart since I left BP. This tea has made it clear I’ve started a war, and my brain is laying out how I will survive the incoming rain of bombs.

  The most logical thing to do is to go to Xander and Christian. If they knew what she said, they would put a stop to it. Xander has the most power over her. He is not afraid to go to the media with counter stories about his mum. When Clementine was first attacked by her, he even threatened to step aside from the throne to protect her and Christian if that’s what it took. Antonia backed down. Xander is a man of his word, and she wouldn’t dare have that turmoil brought to the monarchy she has worked so hard to maintain.

  While I might be his cousin by blood, we are siblings of the heart. I know he would protect me, as would Christian, but I refuse to put them in that position. I exhale, realising I was holding my breath anxiously. I don’t want to be the woman running to her cousins for protection. I am strong. I am capable. I can find a way to solve this without their help.

  More importantly, Antonia is their mother. I know from the past that she wasn’t always this way. When Arthur met her, she was a young aristocrat from a wealthy English family. It was a love match, and when they were first married, she and Arthur were happy. She was not the controlling, insecure woman she is now but a duchess content to learn to uphold the monarchy the best way she knew.

  Power and fame, however, can change people. While Arthur was off in the army for long periods of time, she carried out her work flawlessly. Nobody has ever said this, but looking at it objectively, I think this was when the dynamic changed. She received more attention. She realised her own power, and when she ascended to the role of queen, the monarchy mattered more than her family. My guess is, during Arthur’s time away, the love faded, and she received everything she needed from the public and the press. While James hasn’t accepted the reality of the family, I know Christian and Xander have. They know the truth.

  And I won’t rip open that painful wound.

  I will handle this myself, I think, determination replacing the fear.

  I round the corner, and for a moment, the sights ahead of me interrupt my thoughts. The beauty of Belgravia makes me pause. This posh neighbourhood has always been one of my favourite places in London. I love the stucco buildings, cobbled mews, elegant townhouses, immaculate streets, and beautiful window displays of the chic shops and boutiques.

  I eye Elizabeth Street, all decorated for Christmas. Lights twinkle above the shop fronts. Chandeliers strung up by wire hang over the streets. The shops have gone all out with elaborate displays in the windows, welcoming the festive season and inviting customers to come inside and partake of it.

  I remember my focus on self-care and realise I have been giving Antonia power over me by worrying. I can’t control what she does. By obsessing over it, I would let her rob me of moments like this, taking in this beautiful sight and living the magi
c of the Christmas season.

  No more, I vow as I resume my stroll. I’m going to think about how lucky I am to be able to head down this path to The Biscuit Cutter to get my surprise for Roman tonight.

  My thoughts shift to him, the man I love, and our date this evening. I block out the people taking my picture in front of me and smile, wrapped up in how magical it is to be in love. Roman makes me braver. I feel like I can take on anything, knowing he cares about me.

  My heart feels lighter as I think of him. What we have is different. For him to open up to me like he has, when he’s been so guarded for so long, tells me he cares about me in a deep way. I can’t say if it’s love for him, but I don’t need that affirmation from him now. I know I fell ridiculously fast, and not everyone does so, but even though my heart has never had these emotions before, I know my feelings are real.

  While the next few months will be hard, I also know we can survive it. My faith in his feelings is that strong. When he gazed into my eyes while we made love, I knew.

  This is a man who cares about me more than anyone ever has.

  And that is more than enough.

  I continue on, heading towards The Biscuit Cutter. I’m going to pick up something special for this evening, and I can’t wait to surprise Roman with it. It’s one way I can show him how I feel without saying the words he’s not ready to hear.

  Finally, the bakery comes into my view. It’s a small shop, charmingly decorated for Christmas with fresh greenery and decorations around the doorway and Christmas trees in the windows. The café tables and chairs are vacant outside due to the weather, but inside, the shop is full of people.

  I close my umbrella as I reach the entrance and shake it out. I pop open the door, with bells jingling against it as I do, and if I had any worries left, they are washed away by the scene in front of me.

  The shop is magical. I move across the hardwood floor, the scent of cinnamon and sugar wafting through the air. I see rows and rows of exquisite iced biscuits, offering more selections than I had online when I ordered the basket for Clementine. Display tables are stacked with treats ready to take away, including thick, fudgy brownies and huge chocolate chip cookies. Another round table has gingerbread houses and iced biscuits in the shapes of Christmas trees, stars, and angels. Decorations hang down from the ceiling, and shoppers happily study the rows of cakes and cupcakes available under the glass while waiting in the queue to place their order.

  Along another wall of the café, cosy booths and tables are full of people sipping hot chocolates and tucking into thick slices of Christmas cake. As I detect the sound of The Nutcracker playing, pure happiness takes over. I’m back in the now.

  And not even Antonia can take me out of it.

  As I study the shop, I think of what an Instagramable place this is. I could totally envisage taking a quick video tour of the shop for an Insta story or Connectivity Story Share. I remember my earlier vow to approach Arthur about being the first royal to have a public Instagram or Connectivity Story Share account.

  I take a video of the shop, zooming in on the lemon bars and Christmas cakes and every delicious seasonal goodie I love. I think of how it could connect people to me on a more personal level, even if it’s something as small as sharing my love of lemon bars. My passion to make this happen takes over. I will show Arthur that this is a way of showcasing a personal side to the monarchy and connecting us with people globally, too.

  I finish my video and take my place in the queue, hoping I can get what I want. I inhale the delectable scent of baked goods, wondering if I can restrict myself to getting the one thing I came for. I glance back at the lemon bars; I decide no, that is a feat for a person much stronger than me.

  As I wait, my thoughts go back to Roman. I called him from the car park at BP and got his voicemail, as I knew I would. When he’s working, his hands are full, and he’s often dirty and not accessible for calls. I told him tea with Antonia was what I thought it would be, but I was okay. I ended the call by saying I was looking forward to dinner with him at my place this evening.

  And surprising him with something special for dessert.

  Finally, it’s my turn. I step up to the till, and the young woman standing behind it recognises me. I can tell because when people do, their faces reflect surprise over seeing me in public. I’m sure they’re used to famous clients in Belgravia, and she doesn’t act any different.“Hello, how may I help you?” she says cheerfully.

  “I have a special request,” I tell her. “I’d like to buy a Christmas cake, but I’d like to be able to ice it and decorate it myself. So I want a cake and the icing separate; is that possible?”

  “Hmm,” the woman says, wrinkling her nose in thought. “You want the fondant and marzipan on the side?”

  “Yes. And I’d love to buy some icing that you could, you know, write with?”

  “All right, I’ll have to ask,” she says.

  Another woman approaches, and the girl at the till speaks to her. “Charlotte, Princes—I mean, this lady would like to buy a Christmas cake to decorate herself. With extra icings. Can she do that?”

  The woman nods at me. “I think we can make that happen. I’m Charlotte, the manager. If you can move to the side, over here,” she says, briskly walking towards a spot where there is a sign for special orders, “I’ll have Poppy come up and talk to you. She’s a biscuit artist here, and our master decorator, and I’m sure we can get this sorted for you.”

  “Thank you so much,” I say, nodding at her.

  I take off my gloves and stuff them into the pockets of my trench coat as I wait. Before long, a beautiful woman around my age walks towards me. Her hair is thick and dark brown, with caramel highlights. It’s glossy and gorgeous. I can’t help but stare at it.

  She smiles as she greets me. “Hello, I’m Poppy,” she says brightly. “I understand you want to decorate your own Christmas cake?”

  My ears immediately detect a Welsh accent.

  “Hello, I’m Liz,” I say, smiling warmly at her. “And I do. Is it possible to get one that you haven’t decorated so beautifully? Which seems wrong, by the way, as mine will look nothing like yours once it is complete.”

  Her dark brown eyes shine back at me. “Thank you. I consider cakes and biscuits my canvas, and my paint is icing. And I’m confident you will make your own beautiful creation, too. Which means you will need a naked cake.”

  “Yes.”

  She takes out a pad from her lilac apron, one that is covered in flour, and retrieves a pen from the cup on the counter. “Do you need everything, such as marzipan, marmalade, fondant?”

  “I have marmalade,” I say. “I do need marzipan and fondant. I also need the icing bags and decorations. And I saw some tiny gingerbread biscuits on display, so perhaps some of those.”

  “We don’t sell piping bags and tips, but I think I can gift you some,” Poppy says.

  “Oh, no, I don’t want to take yours. Perhaps I could return them?”

  She smiles. “I assure you, I have plenty.”

  “Like a painter with paintbrushes?” I ask.

  “Yes, exactly,” she says. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get all your things boxed up.”

  “You have no idea how much I appreciate this,” I say.

  “It’s not a problem. I like seeing people enjoy the art of baking.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “Even if they don’t bake the cake?”

  “Even if they don’t bake the cake. It’s about the joy,” she says as she goes to the back.

  Hmm. I wonder if she has watched Tidying Up with Marie Kondo. She’s all about finding joy. Except Marie’s idea of joy would have me throw out ten pairs of yoga pants and reduce my collection of fountain pens. I choose to ignore her on that point, as I can firmly attest that each fountain pen brings me a specific joy. And the joy of not having to wash yoga pants all the time? That’s not only joyful but efficient.

  I turn around and study the beautiful Christmas cakes in the case to my
left, perfectly decorated from the icing to the “Happy Christmas” script and the snowflakes adorning the top. I smile as I peer down at them.

  This was Roman’s joy. Having his grandmother lovingly decorate a cake for them to all share. I know I can’t replace those memories for him, but I don’t want to. I want to give him this joy back, in a new tradition.

  Decorating one with me.

  And I can’t wait to give him this gift tonight.

  Chapter 19

  Port for Three

  “You promise me you will dress down this evening?” Roman asks. “I’m about to leave, and I’m in a checked shirt and jeans.”

  I smile as I finish tying the ribbon on the box with the cake and decorating supplies tucked inside. “I could wear nothing,” I tease. “Would that be casual enough for you?”

  There’s silence for a moment. I know without a doubt there’s a deep red flush climbing up that delicious neck of his.

  “No,” he says, his voice deep, “although I plan to see you in nothing later. For hours.”

  Now I’m the one who is flushed.

  “Get over here,” I say. “It’s been too long since I’ve felt your lips on mine.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Roman says before hanging up.

  I place my phone next to the box. I straighten the ribbon, happy that I will be in his arms soon. I need those strong arms today. The ones that make me feel as if I’m the only woman he’s ever held so lovingly or protectively.

  I know Roman was in love before me. These feelings that I’m having, so bright and beautiful and new, are not foreign to him. But I know our time last night opened his heart to love again. There was no mistaking what was in his eyes. His touch. His kiss. Warmth fills me. I know he will fall in love with me, too.

  My ringtone interrupts my thoughts. I glance down and see it’s Mum. I sigh as the mobile continues to ring. For a split-second, I consider letting it go to voicemail. Then guilt for being a horrible daughter takes over, and I answer.