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

by Melanie Summers

“What? Me? No.” I’m joking around, but on the inside my chest feels tight.

  Tabitha runs up to us and gives Tessa a vigorous hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Auntie Tessa!”

  “You’re welcome, little peanut. I’m so happy to see you.” She plants a kiss on top of her niece’s head, and I can’t help but think how sweet she is. “You remember Prince Arthur.”

  Tabitha pulls away from Tessa and grins up at me. “Hi! Thanks for letting my class come. I’m pretty sure I’m the most popular girl in fifth year now.”

  “What? I’m shocked that you weren’t the most popular girl before. A beautiful, smart thing like you.” She steps forward and gives me a big hug. I’m a bit taken aback for a second, but then I realize it’s kind of nice to be on the receiving end of a hug from an ankle-biter. Besides, she doesn’t look like the nose-picking type, anyway.

  I give Tabitha my hand, then walk over to greet the rest of the class.

  Isa hurries over to introduce me to the teacher, Mrs. Glassbottom, an older woman with red glasses and a fluffy orange scarf around her neck. She does a slightly awkward looking curtsy, then turns to the students, claps her hands twice, and says, “Yoohoo!”

  The kids give a long drawn out, “Yeeesss?”

  “Now, I know you all know who Prince Arthur is, but I want to remind you again to address him as Your Highness, and this is your last warning—I mean you, Kyle—you must be on your very best behaviour during the entire tour, or I shall have to bring you back to the bus. No running, shouting, touching anything, and no second chances.”

  I can’t help but feel amused at this warning. It takes me back to my own school days, and I’m afraid I may have been the Kyle of my class. “Hello, everyone. It’s a pleasure to meet you all and take you for a look around my house. Mrs. Glassbottom has given you some wonderfully clear instructions, but who can remember one more rule?”

  Hands shoot up high in the air from each student. What a rush of power. Now I know why people bother to become teachers in the first place. “The last rule is to have fun.”

  Predictable, I know, but also effective. The kids cheer, and I gesture for them to follow me. “Who here has ever met a pig before?”

  The next hour is akin to herding puppies on speed. I feel like I’m constantly riding a line of having them learn a little something and losing their interest completely. There’s an art to this—knowing how long to talk and when to get them moving again—and unfortunately, I do not have this mastered yet. Kyle and two other boys disappear from the group somewhere between the Grande Hall and the library.

  “Not to worry, I’ll have the security team find them.” I wink at the kids, then nod at Ollie who rolls his eyes at me—discretely, of course—and sets off in the direction we came.

  “We’ll be in the throne room!” I call to him, which earns an ‘ooooh’ from the class.

  We make our way down the wide hall, and I call out names of my dead relatives as we pass by each painting. I give the odd tidbit of what I hope will be interesting information, things like, ‘she was beheaded on her twenty-fourth birthday,’ or ‘died in a fire’, or ‘the King of Spain tried to have him murdered in his bed, but his wire fox terrier, Bones, saved his life.’ The adults in the group seem a little unsettled, but the children love it.

  Then we reach the tall double doors at the end of the hall. I turn to them with wide eyes. “This, boys and girls, is a most sacred of places—the throne room.”

  A hush falls over the students as we file in to the enormous church-like hall. It’s hard not to be filled with awe, even for me. The domed glass ceiling sits directly over the single throne, allowing the sun to shine directly on the ornate red and gold chair. A wide, red carpet stretches from the entrance to the steps of the throne itself. I search for Tessa in the group, and find her gazing at the tall, arched walls. Secretly, I’m filled with a smug satisfaction to see that she’s willing to be impressed by it all.

  I lead the group toward the front and stop in front of the red rope that blocks off the throne. “Now, you may think that my father, King Winston, sits here all day and greets people and makes important decisions, but he doesn’t. A long time ago, that would have been the case, but at some point, one of the kings, or more likely a queen—they’re always so sensible—realized that they could get a lot more work done sitting behind a desk. So, most of the time, you’ll find the King in his office instead of here.”

  Kyle, who has now joined us, pipes up. “If you don’t need it, can I take it home then?”

  The class titters with laughter, and Mrs. Glassbottom levels him with a hard look that I know from personal experience. “I’m afraid not, young Kyle. We hold very special ceremonies here, such as the coronation of a new monarch, or official photos on royal wedding days or celebrating the birth of a new member of the family. We also use it when knighthoods are given out, or when we greet government leaders from other parts of the world.”

  “Prince Arthur, when was the last time you used this room?” one of the parents asks.

  “Well, this past fall, actually, when it was time to elect a new prime minister. My father held a ceremony in which he presented the previous prime minister a gift to commemorate his service, and then called the next election.”

  Mrs. Glassbottom cuts in. “That’s right, boys and girls. In fact, no one else in Avonia is allowed to call for an election. It is both the king’s duty and his honour. If he didn’t do it, we would keep the same prime minister for many years.”

  Tabitha’s hand shot up, and her teacher points to her. “Yes, Tabitha?”

  “So, if a king liked a prime minister, he could keep him in power forever?”

  “Theoretically, yes, but that has never happened because the Royal Family believes that people have the right to elect their leaders on a regular basis, which in Avonia, has always been every five years.” I give Tessa a pointed look and smile when she purses her lips and shakes her head at me.

  Thirty minutes later, we stand side-by-side and wave to the students as the bus pulls away.

  “Thank you, Arthur,” she says. “I really appreciate you taking the time to do this.”

  “I was happy to. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, actually.” I look down at her and feel an overwhelming urge to pull her into my arms and kiss her hard on the mouth. But I can’t, because as far as the world knows, we have nothing more than a strange professional relationship.

  There’s a gleam in her eye when she looks up at me. “I thought you did a wonderful job. You know, you could have a bright future as a tour guide if the vote doesn’t go your way...”

  “Could I, now?”

  “Oh, yes. Easily. Maybe even work your way up to a double decker tour bus.” She grins. “If you want, I could give you a good reference.”

  “Really? You would do that?” I ask. God, she’s fun.

  Tessa shrugs. “Maybe. I’ll give you a chance to convince me later.” A slow grin spreads across her face, and it’s all I can do not to pick her up over my shoulder like some caveman and take her back to my room.

  “That’s very generous of you, Ms. Sharpe.”

  “I’m a generous kind of girl.”

  “And here I thought I was the one who just did the favour…”

  “It’s all how you spin it.”

  Twenty-Eight

  The Real Media Is in the House

  Tessa

  It’s after two in the morning, and I’m pretty sure there is no way I’m going to fall to sleep. I can’t shake this nagging feeling that something is wrong, but I can’t figure out what. I mean, I know there is a lot wrong with what I’m doing, but there’s something else that I can’t put my finger on.

  The tour today was a terrific success—well, other than losing those boys, but Ollie did find them safe and sound, dismantling a suit of armor. For once, I was able to feel like a hero in front of Tabitha and Isa. I had a very nice day overall, in fact, and this evening, well, let’s just say what started
out as me thanking Arthur for giving the tour, ended with him thanking me twice. Thoroughly.

  I should be sound asleep. But there’s something I’m forgetting, or maybe I’m supposed to do, but I can’t think of what it is. I slip out of bed, careful not to wake Arthur, then make my way over to the window and stare out at the moonlit meadow. After a few minutes of coming up blank, I decide it must be because the ball is coming up, and I’m getting very nervous. That, or maybe it’s because my time here at the palace will soon come to an end, and I know that will also mean the end of my time with Arthur. I look over at him, and my heart twists at the sight of him lying there.

  I’ve never felt this close to anyone in my entire life. He’s not only fun and sexy and, well, completely perfect, really, he also gets me in a way no one else does. For the first time, I feel like someone understands me, and not only that, he likes me for who I am, quirks and all.

  I watch him turn over in his sleep, and it hits me like a ton of bricks. I’m going to be an absolute mess when I have to give him up.

  It’s the week-long build up to the ball, and King Winston has made good on his promise to bring in the big guns. ‘Approved members of the press’ (which includes my old colleagues from The Daily Times) seem to be everywhere. It’s like high school all over again. I’m surrounded by the cool kids, wishing I could be one of them while they pretend I don’t exist.

  The worst of it was earlier today when Veronica Platt interviewed the entire Royal Family. They set up in the solarium, and I sat in, hoping to get a little networking. Turned out it was a horrible idea because no one from ABNC had any interest whatsoever in even looking at me, let alone talking to me.

  Veronica is not only more gorgeous in real life than she is on the telly, but she very clearly fancies Arthur. I could only stand about five minutes of her making eyes at him before I decided to sneak out. Only the door made a loud creaking sound when I opened it, and I heard the director yell, “Cut. Sorry, Your Majesty, we’ll just have to wait until the Shock Jogger blogger’s gone.”

  The sound of snickering followed me out as the door swung shut and caught the back of my ankle. Not only was I humiliated, I also lost a few layers of skin in the process, so now I’m limping around with my ankle bandaged up.

  Later, they filmed a segment in which Veronica spent an hour with the head accountant, who opened up the books to show where the money comes from and where it goes. Most of their expenses are paid by land holdings, investments and an ancient grant that collects interest in the millions each year. The entire thing was like career torture for me. That was my story to get. Not hers. I should have been the one thoughtfully poring over the records and asking intelligent questions.

  I’m not only considered utterly ridiculous, I’ve become completely redundant around here. Possibly even worse, deep down, I know that I have to make a decision that will deal the death blow to my ‘career’ once and for all. I have to tell the truth about the family and shut down my blog forever. I can’t, in good conscience, continue spewing angry words that have no merit behind them. While I haven’t changed my political views, I can’t bear to leave all those nasty things I’ve written up where they can hurt Arthur. But how does one publicly admit they were so horribly, willfully wrong for so long? The thought makes my stomach ache.

  So, for the past several days since I realized this, I’ve done what I tend to do when faced with a dilemma.

  Nothing.

  Instead of getting on with it, I avoid the entire thing and hope it will go away. I’m about to lose the respect of the only group of people in Avonia who think I have something of value to say—my anti-royal crowd. KingSlayer99 is never going to want to speak to me again, which in an odd way, will be a real loss for me. He’s been the closest thing I’ve had to someone who respects me until I met Arthur. But in the end, I have to disappoint him so I might as well just get it over with rather than sitting with this awful pit in my stomach for weeks before I woman-up and get the job done.

  It’s high time I grow a pair of ovaries already and deal with issues head-on rather than sweeping them under the rug. Yes, that’s it. Starting today, I will no longer ignore problems but will face them head-on, and just get them out of the way immediately, instead of allowing them to block my path to success.

  Ack! My phone is ringing, and it’s Daniel Fitzwilliam from Wellbits. I’ll let that go to voicemail.

  Voicemail from Daniel Fitzwilliam, owner of Wellbits: This is your last warning, Ms. Sharpe. Call me by end of business today, or the next person you hear from will be my lawyer.

  Email from Me to Daniel Fitzwilliam, Owner of Wellbits:

  Mr. Fitzwilliam,

  I have just now received your rather terse message. I have been away from home on assignment since the day after the unfortunate incident (which your product caused). I am deeply disappointed with the way in which Wellbits is handling this matter. I would have thought that a reputable company would offer me some type of compensation for my pain and suffering. Rather, you have decided to lay the blame on me, the victim in this whole thing. I’m the one who was shocked repeatedly. I’m the one who has become an international humiliation, and I demand that you cease and desist all harassment on this matter or you will be hearing from my lawyer.

  Regards,

  Tessa Sharpe

  The ball is in three days’ time, and I am trying very hard to somehow convince my heart that it will survive when this beautiful romantic dream ends, but it’s really of very little use. I can see what’s coming, and it will be a soul-crushing, dignity-stealing event.

  It’s the seemingly insignificant moments like this one right now, that will disappear through my fingers, never to return, but for which I will always long. Arthur and I are in bed. It’s late in the evening, and we are sitting side-by-side, propped up on our pillows, working. I’m on my laptop, editing and uploading a collection of photos of spring flowers with morning dew onto my photography site, and Arthur is working on a speech that he is to give at the anniversary ball. Every once in a while, he tries out a line on me and watches me closely to gauge my reaction. Just now, he managed to bring tears to my eyes with his words.

  “That was just so lovely.” I nod and sniffle.

  “I must be on the right track if I can make the Royal Watchdog cry.” Arthur winks, then reaches over to his nightstand and grabs a tissue and dabs under my eyes.

  “You really are, Arthur.” I give him a quick kiss on the lips. “Can I say, I really feel like you’ve changed since I got here?”

  “You may,” he says in a particularly pompous voice.

  I grin and match his tone. “Oh, well, thank you, kind sir.” I bow my head. “But seriously, think of the words you would have written two months ago.”

  “To be completely honest, I wouldn’t have written this myself. I would have had someone else do it. I might have read it over once before the ball, but more than likely I wouldn’t even have done that much.” He leans in and gives me a slow, sweet kiss on the lips. “You’ve been a very good influence on me, Ms. Sharpe, to help me change my tune in such a short time.”

  “I think we’ve both changed our tune. There’s no way I would have considered helping you two months ago. But now—”

  “Now you want to help me?” His eyes light up.

  I nod, rewarded by the biggest smile I’ve seen from Arthur yet.

  “Really? Are you actually saying I’ve managed to win you over then?” He goes from enthusiastic to cocky in a fraction of a second.

  My pride kicks in, begging me to pretend I haven’t changed my mind. “You haven’t won me over. It was through careful observation that I have come to a new understanding of…”

  He raises one eyebrow, and I stop talking for a second.

  “Oh, God, this is so hard to say out loud… but I was… there are a few areas where… I may have made some assumptions.” I sigh, then let the words tumble out of my mouth. “I was wrong.”

  Holding up one finger, I kee
p talking before he can start to gloat. “Not about all of it—I’ll never change my mind about electing our leaders—but I may have underestimated what your family does for the nation and the other realms. In fact, I made up a list of all the areas in which my facts were… less than accurate. The right thing to do would be to go public with it.”

  Arthur claps his hands together. “And you’re the type who does the right thing.”

  “Not really.” I give him an evil grin. “I’m sleeping with you, aren’t I?”

  “Oh, but you couldn’t help yourself where I’m concerned. You were overpowered by my hotness.”

  “Not really. I’m just using you for your Gord Ramsay perfectly scrambled eggs.”

  Arthur grabs both our laptops and sets them on the night table, then rolls on top of me, causing me to squeal with laughter. “That’s it, Sharpe. Admit it. You want me for my body.”

  “Never! It’s only for the breakfasts.”

  He pins my arms up over my head and says, “Last chance, Sharpe. Admit it.”

  “Okay, I also like the limo rides.”

  “I’ve never heard a lady refer to it as a limo ride, but I’ll gladly take the compliment.”

  We both laugh, which turns into some kissing. After a moment, he lifts his head. “You’re going to help me save the monarchy, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, damn, I think so.”

  Arthur beams down at me and gives me a solid kiss on the lips. “You have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”

  “But this means that no one can find out about us. Because if they do, nothing I say will have any merit.”

  “That’s not a problem. No one here will say a word. They’re all very good at keeping secrets.” He kisses me again. “I can’t believe I’ve convinced you. It’s my oral skills, isn’t it?”

  “No! I mean, as wonderful as they are, it really was seeing what you do and finding out the truth.”

  “But, come on, it has to be a little bit about that thing I do with my tongue when you’re close to the end.”