by Aven Ellis
As we head toward the State Dining Room, my arm wrapped around Christian’s while we walk, new worries take root in me. I know what knives and forks to use, but I still don’t use them in the way Christian does. I’ll make a joke about it if anyone stares at me, I decide.
If I think of jokes for every possible pitfall, I’ll be set.
And have enough material to host my own comedy special on HBO.
“You’re doing brilliantly, Ace,” Christian leans over and whispers in my ear. “I’m proud to have you on my arm tonight.”
I practically radiate joy from his words. I won’t be perfect.
But Christian doesn’t expect me to be.
I just have to be my normal self.
We enter the State Dining Room of the castle, and my jaw drops as I take in the opulent surroundings. It’s another room where time has stood still, done in rich reds and gilt. The long rosewood table is surrounded by crimson-striped gilt chairs, each perfectly placed apart from each other. Candelabras illuminate the place settings, and fresh spring flowers are artfully interspersed between them. Massive red drapes frame the windows, and a huge portrait of Queen Victoria is hanging over the fireplace. Two rosewood side tables flank the fireplace, and I know those pieces are from the early 1800s.
Guests begin moving toward their seats, and I realize this isn’t going to be like my family graduation dinner, where I was able to sit next to Christian and hold his hand under the table while my disbelieving parents peppered him with questions.
I’m going to be on my own for dinner.
“Let’s see where you will be dining tonight, Ace,” he says.
I’m guessing Queen Antonia has made sure I’m at the farthest end of the table.
With Christian placed next to her at the other end.
Sure enough, we keep walking down the long table.
And walking.
And walking.
And at the very last seat, I see my name on a place card. I feel Christian once again stiffen beside me. He’s pissed.
“I suppose you are at the other end?” I say.
“This will be addressed later,” he says firmly.
“I’ll be fine.”
Christian pulls out my chair for me, and as I sit down, I feel a pop and hear a loud ripping sound across my crotch.
Oh shit, my pantyhose have ripped!
“What was that?” Christian asks.
“My stomach,” I blurt out.
“What?” he asks again, chuckling. “I’ve never heard your stomach sound like that.”
“I’m really hungry,” I lie, praying I’m not turning beet red.
Okay. I have a long dress. Even if it creates a hideous run, nobody can see it.
“By the sounds of that, I think your stomach split in half.”
“Go sit down,” I say, shooing him off.
Christian grins and heads off to the other end of the earth to eat. A couple across from me sits down, friends of Queen Antonia’s. I glance at the place card to my right: Princess Victoria of York. Oh, perfect, Victoria is someone I can talk to.
I see there is a menu card placed in front of me, and I eagerly pick it up to read.
Except I can’t because it’s all in French.
I study it, picking out two items I recognize: salade and fruits de desserts.
Fabulous. Mystery dining.
I notice there are five wines listed. There are also five wine glasses at my place setting.
Holy shit, I have to drink five wines? Is it rude if I don’t drink them all? I’ll be shit-faced if I do. Hell, even taking sips of all these different wines could get me buzzed.
Victoria walks toward me in that fabulous sequined jumpsuit, and a staff person immediately appears and pulls out her chair.
Seriously, are they hiding behind the drapes? Do they have earpieces telling them when to leap into action?
“Thank you,” she says, sinking down in her seat. Then she turns to me, her blue eyes twinkling, and lowers her head toward mine so she can speak in my ear. “I’m always banished to the end of the table. But with you here, it won’t be dull this evening.”
Then she sits, back upright, picks up her elaborately folded napkin, and flicks it open, placing it in her lap.
I smile.
Being at the end of the table might not be so bad. Without fear, I look forward to five wines, a mystery menu, and getting to know Princess Victoria.
And reuniting with Christian as soon as this dinner is over.
Servers begin pouring champagne, and as I watch the bubbles appear in my glass, I can’t help but think this evening will end in celebration after all.
Chapter 26
Place Your Bets
I’m buzzed.
I’m still managing to walk upright with Christian, so I’m not drunk. But my brain is a tad fuzzy, and I would absolutely get lost trying to find my own way back to my room. I’d probably end up trapped in the Queen’s Guard Chamber or something.
I snort. I bet Queen Antonia would love that.
“What’s so funny?” Christian asks as we walk what seems like our forty-fifth mile.
“Your mother was probably hoping I’d get lost coming back, and she’d have her men in black lock me up in one of these rooms for the rest of my life, or until you lost interest, whichever would come first. No. Not men in black, that’s a movie. Men in suits. Not the server men in suits, those are more like weird uniforms from the eighteenth century, but her henchmen. Yes. They would lock me up. But at least I like antiques, so I wouldn’t be bored being locked up, except I’d get hungry, and I’d miss you so much. I love you. I’d want to have sex with you, and that I can’t do by myself. Well, if I had a phone, we could have phone sex, but that’s not the same as sexy sex you know?”
Oh, crap, I’m really buzzed.
Christian chuckles, and oh, damn, he’s hot when he gives me that deep, reverberating laugh.
“Your laugh is sexy,” I continue, unable to find my internal off button.
“You’re sexy when you’re drunk,” Christian says.
“Not drink. Drunk. Not drunk. Tipsy, yes. I’m aware I’m rambling, but I can’t stop. I love you,” I say, feeling exceptionally lovey toward him in my state.
“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you drunk. You’re irresistible when you drunk ramble.”
“I promise I said nothing bad at the table,” I blurt out.
I lengthen my stride, and rip! I feel the pantyhose tearing down the side of my leg.
“Fiona. That is not your stomach. What is going on?”
“Pantyhose! I hate them,” I blurt out. “They are tearing, and they have been since before that awful fish thing was served for the first course.”
“If you hate them, why are you wearing them?”
“I read that’s a rule. Your mother wants ladies in pantyhose,” I say.
Christian moves around and brings me to a stop. Even in my buzzed state, I can see he’s not happy.
“Wait. You put on tights to follow monarchy rules?” Christian asks, his brow furrowed.
I gulp. Shit.
“I wanted to give the best first impression.”
He turns and looks at the wall. Some household staff members walk by, and he remains silent until they pass us in the never-ending corridor. Then he turns back to me, a worried expression on his face.
“Please don’t do that,” Christian says. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to be one of us.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? If we get married someday, which I plan on, I will be one of you, and I will have to follow the rules.”
“No!” Christian snaps, with an intensity that takes me by surprise. “You will dress how you see fit. I don’t want you to lose yourself to them. I won’t let this happen.”
“Christian. They’re pantyhose. Don’t get your knickers in a twist about it.”
Oh, from the anger that flashes across his face I know that was not the right thing to say.
“You admitted you hate them,” he says, his voice low. “So, what’s next? Going to start wearing Mum’s style of dress? Put your hair in a twist every day? Then start pretending and leave who you are behind? Then we will go off the bloody rails, and I won’t lose you to them. I won’t.”
Pretending? Lose me to them? My brain can’t connect the dots in this state, but he is definitely overreacting. I thought we put this issue to bed, so why is he bringing it back up?
“You know what, Christian? I don’t know what is going on in your head, and I’m not in the state to be able to figure it out, because I’m operating on a varied assortment of wine, but I can assure you I’m a full-grown adult who can make her own fashion decisions, and if pantyhose are part of the scene, I can tolerate them for a few hours without becoming Queen Antonia two point oh. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take the oh-so-altering garment off, and when you can talk to me without being pissed, we’ll talk.”
Then I begin to walk down the hall, leaving him standing there. I can feel the air swoosh up from my dress to my ripped open crotch as I take big steps to move away.
Shit. I have no idea how to get to my room by myself.
Why can’t royal household members appear when I truly need them?
“Clementine, wait,” Christian says, catching up to me. He puts his hand on my arm and draws me to a stop. “I’m sorry.”
“What was that really about, Christian?” I ask.
Christian rakes a hand through his hair and exhales. “My past.”
The sadness returns to his eyes, and I’d do anything to take it away. I want to talk to him about this, but tonight is not the night. I know it needs to take place when he’s calm and not reacting to a trigger.
I’d also like to be able to respond without tripping over my words and rambling.
“Please forgive me.”
“I was never mad,” I say honestly. “Confused, but not mad. Besides, I could never stay mad at you for long.”
“Promise?” Christian asks.
“Only if you promise the same for me.”
Christian smiles at me. “I can promise that forever.”
“Then so can I.”
We continue our never-ending walk, and finally, finally, we arrive back at my room. I retrieve my key, and Christian unlocks the door. The second I get inside, I kick off my heels. The light flickers on, and as I’m about to go into the bathroom to rip the stupid pantyhose off, I spy a large, flat box on the center of my bed.
“What’s that?” I ask, nearly tripping over my shoes as I move forward.
“Open it.”
I sink down on the bed and lift the lid on the box. To my surprise, I find a huge, heart-shaped sugar cookie with these words written on it:
Masterly We Oh Hi
An anagram.
I begin to laugh. “I can’t figure these out without having sampled five different wines.”
Christian sits down beside me. He takes his index finger and traces the shape of a heart with it on my chest.
“My heart is whole,” he says softly, “now that you are beside me again.”
Christian blurs through the tears in my eyes. “You are worth every fish appetizer I’ll ever have to eat,” I say.
He chuckles, that wonderful throaty chuckle that makes me want to rip his clothes off and have my way with him.
“I do love how romantic you are,” he says dryly. “Thank you for thinking I’m worth eating salmon mousse for.”
I begin unbuttoning his luxurious dress shirt, letting my fingers trail slowly down his skin as I do. His mouth finds mine. I kiss him deeply, my tongue tangling with his, and he lowers me back on the bed, his lips moving rapidly against mine.
I instinctively draw one leg up, and Christian pushes up my dress, his hand skimming over my calf and up to my thigh, toward my panties. His fingers stop at the gaping hole in my pantyhose.
Christian pushes himself up and bursts out laughing. “Good God, Ace, that hole is the size of Liverpool!”
I begin laughing so hard tears spring to my eyes, and he falls down beside me, collapsing in his own fit of laughter. Once we compose ourselves, I turn to face him.
“I love you,” I say, reaching up and playing with his hair.
“I love you more,” Christian says.
As he presses his lips to mine, I know we’ll be up all night, laughing, talking, and making love. I’ll be dead for Ascot tomorrow.
And I won’t regret any of it.
I gaze out at the spectators that fill the Ascot stands around the lush, green racetrack, a sea of amazing hats on ladies and morning suits on gentlemen. There’s a spirit of fun in the air, of people drinking cocktails and laughing and discussing the fashions and races to come. I might have a wee bit of a headache, and I had hardly any sleep, but I’m wide-eyed and excited for experiencing everything Ascot has to offer.
“Worth all the running back and forth this morning?” Christian asks, putting a cocktail in my hand.
“Yes,” I say, grinning happily at my gorgeous man, who is dressed in a morning suit and top hat and looking oh-so-British. “Worth every step.”
Running is exactly what we did all morning. The royal family has a tight schedule on Ascot days. I’ve already changed twice. First, I wore a day dress for breakfast. Then I went back upstairs to put on my Ascot outfit for lunch. I feel like I’ve already had a full day, and it’s only afternoon. Christian rode in a carriage with his brothers as part of the royal procession from the Great Park, a tradition since 1825.
Again, the weight of the history Christian carries hits me. He was born into this life, and whether he likes it or not, he must do these things. But when I saw the people lining the route, smiling and cheering for the procession, I understood the importance of these traditions. It’s part of the fabric of this country, and while the monarchy has its detractors who think it should be eliminated, there are also many people who hold it dear in their hearts and believe in keeping these traditions alive.
So, while the royal family, along with exclusive guests, rode in the carriage procession, I joined Lady Felicity and Lord John in the SUVs carrying the rest of the royal guests to Ascot.
When we arrived, cameras began clicking, both the media’s and the spectators’. I tried to act as normal as I could, talking and laughing with Isabella and Victoria. I was feeling wonderfully feminine and beautiful in my pink dress and fantastic hat, but I also felt awkward from the immense attention I was receiving.
Victoria was getting her own media buzz thanks to the outfit she chose for today: an ’80s style, deep ruby-red satin, wide-legged jumpsuit, complete with cowl neck. She’s wearing a statement black hat with a massive swirled bow on it. Nobody has to tell me Victoria is the fashion rebel of the Chadwick family, who will push the rules to the limit, stretching and bending them but not to the point of breaking them.
I take a sip of my pink cocktail—The Royal Blush, a glorious gin, rhubarb syrup, and lemonade blend—and glance around the royal box. Liz, who is engrossed in a conversation with her father, is dressed in all white, from her lace dress to her hat. Isabella is placing a bet, looking very chic in a crisp navy and white combo, with a navy hat with netting. I see Felicity and John talking with King Arthur, and Felicity is wearing a smart, icy-blue suit and matching hat. The Duchess of York is chatting with another guest, and she is dressed in peach, with a floral peach hat to match.
Hmm. I don’t see Queen Antonia, not that it matters. After her royal blue comment to me before dinner last night, she hasn’t said a word to me. Neither has the Dowager Queen, who is sipping a drink and talking to James.
“Let’s study the racing form,” Christian says, picking one up off the table behind us. “Who shall we bet on, love? Best odds or best name?”
“Best name, absolutely.”
Christian doesn’t lift his eyes from the form but smiles at my comment, which makes my heart dance.
“All right, best name it is,” h
e says.
I lean into him, scanning the list of names for the first race.
I stop reading. I’ve found our horse.
“I see one that is perfect; do you see it?” I ask.
Christian stops reading and turns his attention toward me. “Wait no More?”
“Wait no More,” I say, smiling at him.
“I’ll go place our bet,” he says.
“Before you place your bets,” Queen Antonia’s voice interrupts from behind, “I’d like to re-introduce you to someone, Christian.”
We turn around to see Queen Antonia dressed in a white sheath dress, a fine millinery hat perched atop her glossy black hair, which, of course, is pulled back in her signature chignon.
Standing next to her is a young woman who appears to be the same age as Christian and me. She’s a stunning brunette, wearing a blush-colored dress that accents her small waist and a high hat with swirly-type strips extending up from it.
“Christian, you remember Lady Penelope Winthrop-Armstrong, I’m sure,” Queen Antonia says with a knowing tone in her voice. “Of course, first loves are always hard to forget, aren’t they?”
What?
Christian told me he has never been in love before me. I was under the impression I’m the only woman he has said those words to. So, who is this? He said he had girlfriends before, but from the way Lady Penelope is staring at Christian, I know this relationship was more than casual.
So why didn’t Christian tell me about her?
I glance at Christian, who has a stunned expression on his face.
“It’s been two years,” Lady Penelope says in a beautiful, posh-sounding accent. “While I’m sure many things have changed, some have not.”
My stomach drops out. I know exactly what she means by this.
Her feelings for Christian are still there.
“Excuse me,” Xander says, interrupting us. “May I borrow you for a moment, Clementine? I need your expert opinion on something.”
The last thing I want is to leave this conversation, but I can’t very well refuse the Prince of Wales in front of the queen, can I?
