The Royal Treatment: A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy, Book 1

by Melanie Summers

  I do my best imitation of a curtsy and stumble on my words. “Your Highness, a very good pleasure to smeet you.” Dammit. “Seet you.” Shit. “Meet you.”

  She steps forward and holds out her hands to me. I reach out, not sure what she’s going to do, but then she takes hold of my fingers and holds my arms out to the sides. “Let me look at you, dear.”

  “Uh, okay.” Yup, this seems normal. An elderly princess is slowly looking me up and down. She squints her eyes and peers up at my face. She has the same colour eyes as her grandson, icy blue that almost seem to glow against all the diamonds around her neck. And she’s so tiny. I had no idea she was this small. I almost want to pick her up.

  She turns and nods at Arthur. “Excellent choice, Arthur. Very lovely, good birthing hips. She’s got those long legs you admire, too.”

  Did that just happen? I’m not sure whose face is redder now—mine or Arthur’s. Wait, no, it’s mine.

  “It’s not like that, Grandmum. We’re just old friends.”

  “Don’t play me for the fool, Arthur. I can tell by the way you walked in.” She winks at him, then pats my hand. “From what I’ve heard, you’d do well to invite him back to your room.”

  “Grandmum!” Arabella gasps.

  “Oh, what? You think I don’t know what goes on? Nobody would stay single so long as they do these days if they weren’t engaging in a little pre-marital you-know-what.”

  A waiter brings a tray holding flutes of champagne. Arthur takes two, handing one to me.

  “I might need them both,” I say under my breath.

  “You’ll have to fight me for it,” Arthur murmurs as he lifts the glass to his lips.

  “So, Tessa, Arthur tells me you work in the fitness industry? Testing out equipment?” Arabella grins triumphantly as I turn bright red. She’s seen the Shock Jogger video. For sure.

  “Yes, that’s right.” My mind spins desperately, trying to think of a change of topic.

  “That’s a strange job,” Princess Dowager Florence remarks.

  Arthur says, “She reviews products, Grandmum. She rates them on a scale of one to five and gives details as to the usefulness, cost value, that type of thing.”

  The Princess Dowager looks over at me. “How many stars would you give our Arthur here?”

  “I don’t know.” I give her a conspiratorial smile. “I’ve never tested him out.”

  She laughs and rests her hand on my arm. “Well, let me know when the reviews are in. If it’s anything less than five stars, I can sit him down and give him some tips.”

  Arthur pipes up. “Okay! I think we should eat.”

  Nine

  Not So Divine Dining

  Arthur

  This is quite possibly the most uncomfortable dinner I’ve ever had—and that’s saying something. I once sat next to the wife of the prime minister of Malaysia, who spent the entire meal—from the amuse-bouche through dessert—trying to get her hand on my crown jewels, while her husband sat across from us, blissfully unaware, chatting with me about the Euro. If you’ve never tried to hold up your end of a serious, high-level financial conversation with a world leader while simultaneously fending off the attempts of a very gropey older woman… well, then, I’m happy for you. Because it sucked.

  But I’d gladly be back there right now because tonight is much worse. I knew my sister wasn’t going to make this easy for me, and she hasn’t disappointed. She was against this entire thing from the start, which was only yesterday, but still. Arabella can be a real hard-ass when she wants to be. She’s doing her best to make Tessa feel very much unwelcome, whilst my grandmother continues to comment on Tessa’s excellent potential for carrying my child.

  It’s not that Arabella doesn’t grasp the concept of what I’m trying to do here. She’d already heard the whole ‘keep your enemies closer’ thing when I brought it up with her this morning. She’s just not a very good liar. Wears her heart on her sleeve, like our mother, which is one reason that being a princess has been particularly rough for her. No matter what, she’s never mastered the art of hiding her feelings and putting on a phony smile, which has been her undoing time and again with the public and the press. It’s the main reason she rarely appears in an official capacity. Children’s hospital—wept openly. Veteran’s hospital—wept openly. Any time she’s faced with a hard-hitting reporter, she freezes up and her answers become short, making her seem very rude.

  I can tell that she’s spent a good part of the day reading Tessa’s blog and internalizing every attack. She would see each remark as nothing short of unforgivable. Having familiarized myself with Ms. Sharpe’s work, I can tell you that I’ve never read anything as offensive as page after page of her scornful opinion on my family.

  For me, though, each reproach holds a thrilling challenge—to change her mind. There’s an excitement in being presented with the extraordinary opportunity to come face to face with an intelligent adversary. I’m not accustomed to having anyone challenge me—other than my father—and for me, it’s like I’ve found the best new game to play, one in which lies the fun of verbal sparring and strategizing. It’s like a high-stakes, grownup version of Stratego. And I intend to win.

  But in order for me to emerge victorious, I need backup from the rest of my family, which neither my sister nor my grandmother are providing at this moment. I carefully watch Tessa’s reactions to each of them. Will she wither or stand tall? Become argumentative or remain gracious as she has done so far this evening? She seems amused by my grandmum, rather than offended, and I find myself increasingly glad for the distraction the Princess Dowager is providing, no matter how awkward her comments make me feel. Her attempts to prove how ‘hip she is to us young folk getting it on’ are definitely taking some of the focus off of my sister’s veiled insinuations and snide remarks.

  Although, the way my grandmother is going on about how amazing I am is actually making me seem like I’m desperately seeking a wife, which could not be further from the truth. Ms. Sharpe is going to think I’m some pathetic loser who lives in his parents’ basement and needs an eighty-four-year-old woman to help him score.

  Is that…? Yes, I have a trickle of sweat coming down my forehead now. Oh, for Christ’s sake.

  Tessa is the only one in the room who seems to be conducting herself with any sense of decorum. She’s struggling a little with which fork to use when, but other than that, she’s very polite and asks surprisingly thoughtful questions. Arabella just knocked back her fourth Moscow Mule and is openly glaring, wrinkling up her nose and shaking her head at Tessa as she sways in her seat. I’m sweating like Dexter that time I decided to bring him with me to the Spanish Riviera. And now, my grandmother is telling Tessa to come for tea tomorrow so she can show her my baby pictures.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen some in magazines and on the telly and all that, but only I have the photos of him naked as a jay bird.” Grandmum, who also has been sucking back cocktails, seems to be taking to Tessa like a Malaysian first lady to my junk.

  Dear Lord, why did I do this?

  Ten

  More importantly, where does she get her hair done?

  Tessa

  Well, that was quite possibly the most awkward meal of my life—and that’s saying something. One down, fifty-nine days left. I wish I could call Nikki, but she’s on a ‘phone date’ with Doctor Perfect. So, I’m lying stretched out across the massive bed in my room, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

  I’ve been sized up and groped by a tiny princess dowager and sneered at by her granddaughter. On the plus side, that was the best food I’ve ever eaten. But still not worth it.

  My phone rings, and my mum’s face fills the screen.

  “Hello, Mum.”

  “Finally! Tessa Adelaide Sharpe, you’ve been ignoring me for two days.”

  I cross the room and plunk myself down on a window seat. “I’m sorry. It’s been the strangest forty-eight hours of my life.”

  “Which is precise
ly why you should have called me.” She huffs. “You have no idea what it’s been like for me, having to find out everything via the telly! The phone’s been ringing off the hook, and all I can say is what everyone already knows. It’s been horrible for me.”

  “Sorry. I know, I just didn’t know what to even think, let alone say.”

  “Are you there now?”

  “Yes. I got here this afternoon. We just had dinner.” This ought to distract her. She’ll want to know all about the meal.

  “What did you eat?”

  “Foie gras, salad, little red potatoes with a light dill sauce, and some tiramisu.”

  “Oh, my God! My daughter had little potatoes at the palace.” She laughs, seeming to have forgotten she’s mad at me. “Who did you eat with?”

  “The Princess Dowager, Princess Arabella, and Prince Arthur.”

  “Tell me everything. What are they like?”

  I have to be careful what I say because it will most definitely be broadcast all over Abbott Lane by lunch time tomorrow. “They’re very… gracious hosts.”

  “Really? Even the dowager? Everyone says she’s absolutely awful.”

  “She actually was very welcoming. And funny.” The only reason is because she thinks she’s buttering me up to be her granddaughter-in-law, but I won’t mention that.

  “I always knew she was full of spunk, that one!”

  “You could say that.”

  “And Arabella? Is she as beautiful in person?”

  “Yes. She’s very pretty.” Nasty as hell, though. I stare out the window at the moonlit garden below. My stomach tightens thinking about Arabella’s scowl, and I find myself wishing I were home again.

  “And what about Arthur?”

  “What about him?”

  “What’s he like?” The toilet flushes, and I cringe. I hate it when she calls me from the bathroom.

  “It’s hard to put it into words, really. He’s not exactly what I was expecting...”

  “In what way?”

  “In a way that I can’t quite sort out. He’s been kind, but of course, it’s all for show.”

  “Pish! He’s a wonderful man. You know my cousin Rose met him once at a charity luncheon, and she said he was an absolute charmer.”

  “Yes, she told me.” Several times. “But being charming and being a good person aren’t exactly the same thing.”

  “What are you talking about? He’s involved with literally hundreds of charities.”

  “He mentioned that,” I say in a flat tone.

  “You’re not even going to give them a chance, are you?”

  “It’s not about them, Mum. It’s the concept of a monarchy that I don’t agree with.”

  “But, maybe now that you’re living with them, you’ll see things in a different light?” Her voice rises on each word.

  “Doubt it. Getting to know them as people won’t change the facts. There is no place for a monarchy in a modern society.”

  “Then, why are you there?”

  “Honestly? I’m hoping this will be my way to get back on at a newspaper, or maybe I’ll get a book deal so I can buy my own place.”

  “Oh.” Her tone drops two octaves.

  “Mum, whatever you were imagining would come from this, you need to stop now. I’m here to observe them for two months—like Dian Fossey with the gorillas. Then I’ll go home, hopefully get another shot at one of the big papers, or maybe even a news channel.”

  “So, you won’t even let us meet them?”

  “I can’t invite you over. This isn’t a holiday. I’m here for work.” My tone is more curt than I intend.

  “Oh, of course. Silly me.” She sounds so embarrassed that I now feel like a very bad daughter in the vein of Lizzie Borden.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can bring you in for a tour of the palace in a few weeks,” I say. “If they’ll allow it.”

  “Only if it won’t be too much trouble.” She’s playing the martyr now. Pile on the guilt.

  “Never too much trouble, Mum. It just may not be possible. I’m not exactly an honoured guest.”

  “All right. I should let you go. You probably have work to do.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Are you coming over next Sunday to celebrate Geoffrey and Joshie’s birthday?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That usually means no.”

  “It means I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Fine. I guess that’s all a mother can hope for once her kids are grown and gone. That they’ll answer the phone once in a while and pop over a few times a year to let you look at them.”

  “Mum, I promise I’ll do my best to be there.”

  “Excellent. Good night, Twinkle! Have a great first sleep in the palace!” Her voice has gone back up to dog-whistle high. “Can you believe it? My daughter, sleeping in the royal palace of all places!”

  We talk for another ten minutes. Well, in actual fact, she peppers me with questions about the room I’m staying in, the linens, closet-size, etc. while my father pipes up every couple of minutes needing to find out about the brand of faucets in the bathrooms (Perrin and Rowe, in case you also are wondering), or if I’ve seen the lawn tractors they use on the grounds yet. Apparently, he has a bet with his friend, Hal, down at the pub, that they use John Deere, and if I don’t find out, he’ll be made to look a fool at The Frog and Keg.

  So, by the time I get off the phone, I have a surprisingly long list of very important facts to uncover for the men at the pub, as well as a mission to find out who does Arabella’s hair (because Nina and Isa simply have to know). Well, as a former-journalist-turned-blogger, I should at least be able to manage that. Although, I can’t imagine asking Arabella anything at this point, let alone that.

  “So, who does your hair? It’s quite fetching.”

  “Feck off.”

  “Right-o.”

  Blog Post – March 11 – My First Day at the Palace & a Special Announcement

  Tessa here, live from my home for the next two months. I’ve been given an apartment at the palace that faces the meadow and woods behind the castle. It is exactly as you would expect—an enormous space that has only the most lavish of furnishings. An en suite the size of the living room in my flat, all in marble with white, heated floors. The bed is of course a king, with sheets so soft, I wouldn’t doubt they’re made from actual babies’ bottoms. Just kidding about the baby’s bottom thing. Probably spun from the fur of a two-day-old Karakul lamb.

  Dinner likely cost the taxpayers in the thousands when you add up the outrageously expensive wine, the organically-sourced food, the chefs, the servers, and the clothing/jewels worn by Princess Arabella and the Princess Dowager.

  Earlier when I arrived, Prince Arthur made a rather transparent attempt to bring in my luggage, proving only that he has never handled a suitcase before. He then showed me to the library, a two-storey room filled with first editions and hundred-year-old books for the exclusive use of the Royal Family and guests. If I had to guess, I’d say he was hoping for a Beauty and the Beast moment, but in all honesty, the hoarding of such treasures is, of course, offensive to me, as it should be to us all.

  I met Dexter the pig, and I have to say, he rather won me over. That is, until he licked inside my mouth. I won’t hold it against him, though. He is a pig, after all, and I was chewing gum, so I suspect he wanted a taste.

  Now to the special announcement:

  I’ve managed to secure an “Ask Me Anything” each week with the Royal Family (and perhaps some senior staff members, if there’s interest).

  So, send your best, most hard-hitting questions to the Reddit forum (link below). And make sure to vote on your favourites, as the five most upvoted questions will be used in an interview! I’ll be conducting live interviews every Thursday at ten am. This is your chance to finally put their royal feet to the fire, so make sure to be tough!

  It’s now well after midnight, and there is no way I’m going to fa
ll asleep. Ever. I spent two hours making notes on my first day at the palace, and by the time I finished, I was so wound up, I think I could give the Shock Jogger another whirl without getting ‘gently reminded’ to hurry up. I know what’s keeping me awake, even though I will never admit it out loud, even to Nikki, or Chester, who will keep all of my secrets until he goes to his watery grave.

  Deep down, in a place I don’t even want to know exists, I am disgustingly attracted to Arthur. Of course, this is to be expected, I suppose. He’s gorgeous and charming and a complete arse. He wouldn’t be the first powerful flame to which I’ve played the part of the moth. There was my former boss at The Daily Times, Barrett Richfield, Avonia’s most eligible young mogul who took over most of the publishing industry here and in Belgium about ten years ago. The moment Barrett laid eyes on me, I fell for him. Hard. After ten glorious shag-filled months, he announced his engagement to ABNC’s evening weathergirl at the time, Helena Jones. I was quietly let go the next day, with the head of HR hinting strongly that trying to sue for sexual harassment would result in public humiliation for me. Not him. Not fair, but such is life. The powerful can do as they please, while the little people must do what will please them.

  But not anymore. No matter how high Prince Arthur turns up the charm, I am keeping a respectable distance.

  After tossing and turning for a good hour, I throw off the covers. I won’t get a moment’s rest until I have something salty. Maybe followed by something sweet. I really won’t know until I’m eating. Unfortunately for me, there is nothing but a fridge filled with water bottles and a cart of various types of liquor in my room. And that simply won’t do when a woman is trying very hard not to be attracted to a certain someone who is sleeping ten doors down the hall. Yes, ten. He pointed out which apartment was his when he walked me back to my room. And I can tell you, knowing where he is sleeping is so much worse than not knowing, because my salt- and sex-deprived self is hitting that late-night booty call hour, and there is a very hot man so nearby I can smell the pheromones he’s giving off.