King Size: A Royal Bad Boy Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  I laugh. “Right,” I say. “We’re still royals. It’s a long list, even pared down to a fraction.”

  Norah and I are in my library, going over drawings and reports left for us by the architect and renovation group hired to oversee the reworking of our apartments, when my mother, as good as her word, turns up with an odd little man in a black barrister’s smock, wearing a white powdered wig and an expression of abject terror. He’s clutching a black leather folio between his hands, his eyes downcast.

  “Justice of the Peace Jones, this is His Royal Highness Crown Prince Owen, Duke of Brynterion and Cymrea, Acting King of Anglesey,” Mother announces, listing a fraction of my formal titles, but more than she ought to.

  The little man bows, taking a knee.

  “Rise and put yourself at ease,” I say, offering my hand.

  He’s trembling. His handshake is as weak as a fish. “Your Royal Highness, I am so honored…”

  “Yes, yes. You’re so honored,” my mother interrupts. “Justice, this is Miss Norah Ballantyne, the Prince’s fiancée.”

  He gives Norah a small bow, saving his knees for higher dignitaries at a later date, no doubt.

  “Let’s get to it,” Mother says, “You two come stand over here.”

  Mother arranges us all exactly where she wants us. When I look up, I see Duncan in the library doorway, holding up his phone, recording us.

  Mother is covering her bases from every angle. She’s clever, and suspicious, and I’d hate to be her adversary.

  The legal marriage ceremony takes less than five minutes. The justice of the peace signs the paperwork, which is witnessed by Mother and Duncan. He hands me a copy, then folds the second copy, sliding it into his folio. “I will file this with the registrar after 2:00 PM tomorrow, as you have instructed,” he says. “And I do hope if I can be of further service, ma’am, you won’t hesitate to call.”

  “Thank you,” Mother says, nodding dismissively.

  The man lingers, looking at Mother with deep inquiry darkening his eyes. She lowers a brow. “Our business is concluded, Mr. Jones. Walk away.”

  And just like that, it’s done: Norah and I are legally married.

  “Tomorrow morning at eleven sharp we’re sitting down with the Telegraph,” Mother says. “They’re coming here for an exclusive interview with the two of you. You’ll announce your engagement and you’ll both be casual, engaging, down-to-earth. I’ll have the interview questions by breakfast time. We’ll practice until it’s time to do the taping. You’ll both stick to the talking points. No surprises. Understood?”

  We nod. She works fast.

  “What’s all this?” Mother asks, looking down at the piles of architectural drawings and renderings of room designs and décor produced for our renovation project.

  “We’re going to redo the apartments,” I say. “Add a kitchen, modernize Norah’s end. Open things up so we’re not so separated.”

  Mother rolls her eyes, shifting on her spiky heels, hip pointed out. “Owen, you should have brought this up with me. These people have done a great deal of work for nothing.”

  I don’t understand. Norah slumps, disappointment deflating her posture.

  “You two will be moving upstairs into the king’s chambers. You’re not staying here. This is the spare’s quarters. It’s almost the worst apartment in the residence.”

  “But…” I hesitate, “if we move up there, where will you go?”

  Mother smiles. “Darling, I’m very much looking forward to your coronation so I can move on with my life. I’m moving out. It’s your turn now—yours and Norah’s, and your children’s. You don’t need me lurking the halls, casting shadows. I’ll always be available for advice, but I won’t be the hovering dowager that my mother-in-law was. Plus, I’m still relatively young, still considered a beautiful woman. I’ve got time to sow a few wild oats yet.”

  What?! “You’re leaving Beaumaris?” I ask, astonished. “Where are you going?”

  Mother shrugs. “Probably to the west country,” she says. “There’s a certain duke I’ve known since I was sixteen years old who always captivated me. His wife recently left him for a twenty-three-year-old rugby player. He friended me on Facebook, and we’ve been chatting. He breeds horses. We have a few things in common like that. It’s a start.”

  I’m astonished, but happy for her if that’s what she wants. My mother was miserable while married to my father; her children were her only refuge, and she dedicated herself to us. She’s long overdue for taking some time for herself.

  “Have you seen this duke?” I ask. “Recently, I mean.”

  Mother nods. “We’ve met several times over the last few months. Discreetly.”

  I smile. “I’d like to invite him to our wedding as my particular guest,” I say. “And I’d like to shake his hand.”

  Mother smiles at me. It’s a genuine smile, not one of her Cheshire Cat, knowing grins. “Are you sure?” she asks. “It could cause another scandal. The Queen Mother in company with a divorced man.”

  “Mother,” I say, “we’re re-writing all the rules with this generation. Tell your duke to break out his best suit. I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  “That was a really sweet thing you did with your mother,” Norah says as we’re snuggling down to go to bed. “Not many sons would be so magnanimous about welcoming their mother’s boyfriend into the family fold. Especially this family.”

  I nuzzle her fragrant hair, enjoying her warmth against me. Her skin is as soft as a whisper. “My mother deserves any happiness she can carve out for herself. My father treated her horribly. He only saw her as a producer of heirs. He never saw her intelligence or her savvy. I hope this man sees it all. If he does, he’s got all my support.”

  “You’re a good son.”

  There’s a hasty rap on the bedroom door, causing Norah and me both to jump. I pull up the sheets to cover her, then pull on my pajama bottoms to answer the door.

  It’s Duncan, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, in bare feet, looking frazzled. “They picked him up, sir. We’ve got him.”

  “Where?” I ask.

  “At police station number three, about four blocks from the main gate of the palace. He was observed reconnoitering the palace boundaries, presumably looking for a weak spot to gain entrance. He was picked up by the city police.”

  “I’m getting dressed,” I say. “I want to see him. And have my secretary call the American ambassador—I want him there, too. Get dressed. We’re going to the police station.”

  I close the door and go to Norah. “Get some rest. I won’t be long. I promise.”

  “Don’t go,” she asks. “Come back to bed. I can’t sleep without you.”

  “I have to,” I say. “I need to deal with this personally. I won’t be long.”

  Police station three is a typical 19th-century edifice updated to reflect the standards of mid-20th century modernity. In short, it’s a cracking crumble of stone overlaid with drywall and more layers of blistered paint than is altogether acceptable. I need to increase the city police’s budget.

  Eric Wembley is being held in a cell reserved for “special cases:” foreigners, tourists, the insane, and royals or nobles gone astray. I don’t do jail cells, so I ask that he’s brought to an interview room for our tête-à-tête. A police captain delivers him to me still handcuffed, wearing a jailhouse-issued lime green jumpsuit and a smirk on his face that makes me want to punch him.

  “I must really be somebody to get your royal ass out of bed at this hour,” he boasts. “How’s your not-quite-so-royal piece of ass doing? She putting out proper?”

  He’s shorter than I recall. He seemed taller before, or maybe that’s just my mind playing tricks on me.

  “Are there cameras in this room?” I ask the captain.

  He nods. “Yes, Your Highness,” he says. “Afraid so.”

  “Lucky for you,” I say to Wembley. “You know what I did for fun in the Navy? I beat the shit out of guys who
wanted to intimidate the royal brat. I was taught to fight by an IRA soldier-turned-Catholic priest who lost his faith. Do you have any idea how much anger that man held? He taught me to punch until bones broke and teeth fell out. I had to fight every day like that.”

  As Wembley blanches, I turn back to the captain. “Can you find us a room?”

  “Sir, that would not be a good idea. The American ambassador is on his way.”

  I offer Wembley a cruel smile. “I called him,” I say. “I summoned him here. I didn’t trust myself. I could have kept you awhile on my own terms, put you in the dungeon at Beaumaris. But I knew your ambassador would be displeased if I returned his subject to him in less than working order.”

  “You’re a posturing prick,” Wembley spits.

  Am I?

  A stunning, unexpected right hook to his jaw drops him in a heap on the floor. “You forget where you are, sir. This is Anglesey. I do what I please and that is the law.”

  The captain, standing beside me, does nothing to impede me.

  “Get him up,” I instruct.

  The captain goes to the floor, lifting Wembley to his feet with great exertion. Wembley doesn’t look any worse for wear except for the bleary expression on his face.

  “What was that?” I ask. “You were saying something about my wife?”

  Wembley spits a wad of fresh, crimson blood on the floor. “Your whore,” he says.

  I deliver another right, this one a powerful, straight-on punch to his face. I feel the bones of his nose crunch, collapsing on impact. He reels backward, once again falling to his knees in a heap.

  “Get him up,” I say.

  “Sir, the ambassador has arrived,” the captain says. “He’ll be here in three minutes.”

  “Get him up,” I repeat.

  Once more the captain lifts Wembley on unsteady legs.

  My hand stings from the blows I’ve landed on the flesh of this piece of trash. “You were saying?” I ask.

  “Don’t,” Wembley begs, his nose spewing blood, his eyes unfocused. “Please don’t.”

  That’s what I thought: a garden-variety bully with the pain tolerance of a newly-minted nun. I launch without drawing, landing a powerful upper-cut against his jaw, sending his cranium rocking backward at velocity. Wembley drops like a sack of potatoes onto the floor, out cold.

  “Tell the American ambassador I said to get this bag of garbage out of my country and never let it near my borders again. If I see him here after this, I reserve the right to wind his bowels around the street signs at the head of Old Town and mount his severed head on a pole in Cathedral Square.”

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” the captain responds, his voice quavering.

  I pass the American ambassador coming in as I’m leaving. He pauses for salutations, but I offer him none. All I offer is, “Get that trash out of my country before I declare war on his home state.” I say this as I breeze by, only pausing for Duncan to open the door of my limo.

  I have no idea what the fallout will be from my premeditated violent actions, nor do I care. That creature stalked my home, threatened my family, and disturbed my peace. In my own country—a country I rule—I’m well within my rights to dispense justice as I see fit.

  On the way back to the palace, I call my newly-hired personal secretary to deliver an unvarnished account of my meeting with Eric Wembley, with instructions to release it, along with all the texts and videos he sent, should the press get wind of my visit to the police station.

  “If the Americans lodge any sort of protest or objection, tell them to respectfully piss off,” I instruct. “Anglesey existed six hundred years without an American embassy on our soil. We’ve got the EU, the UK, and the East Asian Alliance. Tell the Americans I don’t appreciate their criminals coming into my country under false papers, threatening my family.”

  I lay my phone down on the seat, lifting my bruised hand to my lips, sucking fresh blood from open cuts on my knuckles.

  “The American ambassador has taken custody of Wembley,” Duncan informs me from the front seat of the limo. “They’re taking him directly to the airport and putting him on a diplomatic charter flight to New York.”

  “Thank you,” I say. Finally I’m rid of him. Finally we can return to things as they were. He’s gone.

  Norah is sound asleep when I slip naked into bed beside her. She doesn’t need to know what Eric Wembley said about her, or what I did in response. All she needs, right now, is the security of a safe roof over her head, good food for our babies, and the knowledge that I will break international treaties of centuries-long standing to protect her.

  I slip my arms around her, pulling her small body to my embrace. I nuzzle her hair, breathing in her scent. I fall into sleep knowing I’ve done my duty to defend my family against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

  19

  Norah

  I open my eyes to an early sunrise beautifying my window view. Traces of pink light wash the sky, and misty fog clings low to the treetops in the park in front of the palace. Blinking away sleep, I feel Owen’s breath against my neck. He’s wrapped himself up in me, in a tangle of arms, legs, and sheets. He’s warm.

  I unwind myself from his embrace and turn to face him. He usually rises before I do, so I rarely have an opportunity to study him like this. Sleeping, his face is relaxed, unmarred with the concerns that often plough his brow and narrow his eyes. Right now, he looks ten years younger: full lips, smooth, boyish skin, and impossibly long, thick eyelashes. I hope our children look like him. If they do, they’ll be beautiful.

  Owen adjusts his position, raising his hand up to his chest. It’s then I see the bruises and cuts, the smears of dried blood across his torn knuckles. It looks like he put his fist through a concrete wall—twice. The cuts are ragged and pink, slightly swollen.

  I rise and pull on a robe, then ring the bell for Sally. She appears, surprised I’m awake this early. She’s more surprised when I ask for a first aid kit to accompany our morning coffee. “Is everything alright, ma’am?”

  “Yes, I think so. Owen has just hurt his hand somehow. I need to tend to it.”

  Ten minutes later, while Owen sips his coffee, reading the morning papers, I clean his wounded knuckles with peroxide and cotton balls. “How did you do this?” I ask for the third time.

  He sighs again, leveling me with his Prince Pompous gaze, then turns Today’s Mail around so I can see the front-page. “King of Pain? HRH Crowned Prince Owen Goes Gloveless Against Handcuffed Stalker in Police Custody.”

  Below the headline there’s a photograph of a bruised and bloodied Eric being hauled out of a police station by two tall men in business attire.

  “The man on the right is the American ambassador,” Owen says. “The one on the left is my Secretary of State. It seems I’ve created a bit of an international incident.”

  Something tells me Eric had it coming. I only wish Owen had seen fit to rise above it.

  “Did it make you feel better?” I ask him while dabbing antibiotic ointment on his cuts.

  “Immensely,” he replies, setting the paper down. “Are you angry with me?”

  “No. I’m not angry. Disappointed maybe.”

  “That’s worse,” he sighs. “That’ll take a while to recover from. Longer than the skinned knuckles.”

  I bandage Owen’s hand with cotton pads, then wrap it with a self-adhering medical tape. When I’m done, it occurs to me that we’re going to be taped for an interview in just a few hours, the bandage is impossible to miss, and the headlines can’t be avoided.

  As if he’s reading my mind, Owen says, “I’ve already issued a formal apology with a detailed accounting of what happened, and why. My press secretary and security director have sent the ambassador and the press the complete log of messages, videos, and emails Wembley sent to you. The security footage from the police station is being released to the press. I’m not proud of any of it, but I’m not running away from it either. That asshole got a fraction of
what he deserved. Every man and half the women in this country will support me once they’ve seen the full story.”

  “You had time to do all that, but not wash the blood off your hand?” I ask, repressing a smile.

  “Priorities,” Owen quips. “I wanted to get back to you in bed.”

  We spend breakfast and two hours afterward rehearsing the Q&A Princess Dalia prepared for our interview. She’s put together an excellent spin on our situation, painting us as too hopelessly in love to spend another second alive in this world without being bound together in matrimonial bliss.

  We’re to reveal that we’ve already been legally married, which was Owen’s decision; he was concerned if something happened to him before we were married I would lose my royal status, leaving me vulnerable to stalkers like Eric without the financial resources to protect myself. We’re then to announce the date for a formal wedding ceremony, which will be a small affair of close family and friends, rather than the anticipated state wedding everyone was expecting. The date is set just a week before Owen’s coronation.

  If the reporter goes off-script and asks if there are any other reasons for moving the marriage up, Owen and I are instructed to both remain silently smiling, creating an awkward silence the reporter will want to fill by moving along to something else. Princess Dalia admits the silence may be interpreted as an admission, but she’s confident that when the announcement about the pregnancy comes, most people will be happy rather than scandalized.

  “Half the couples in Anglesey with small children are unmarried. Regular people don’t care about the paperwork or the church blessings. This will make you two appear much more like regular people.”

  To put a fine point on that distinction, Owen’s wearing jeans and an open-collared shirt, and I’m dressed in a sleeveless, cotton sundress for the taping. We’re instructed to behave as easy-going and down-to-earth as possible, and to hold hands.

  Princess Dalia stands behind the cameras during the whole thing, arms crossed, silently watching her production take shape. Everything goes just as choreographed, none of us deviating from the scripted questions or answers until the very end, when the interviewer takes a chance at raising the ire of the Princess.