A Royal Shade of Blue (Modern Royals Series Book 1)

by Aven Ellis

  “What about you teaching?” I ask, curious to see if he would.

  Roman throws his hand up. “Oh, God, no. I’m great with plants. With people, not so much. Grandfather is a much better option, believe me.”

  “I think you are pretty good with people, Roman.”

  “I’d rather be knee-deep in dirt than at a party,” Roman says, winking at me.

  “Well, I love Clive,” I say, referring to his grandfather, “so I’ll happily have him teach, but I think you underestimate yourself.”

  “No, I know myself,” Roman corrects.

  “Okay, no more talk of that,” I say. “Will you ask Clive? If he’s okay with the idea, I’ll go to Felicity with it.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Roman says. He reaches up and picks at a dead bloom on the vine. Then he clears his throat. “So, how is Liz?”

  Ooh! He hasn’t asked me about Liz since the day he met her. I’m intrigued by this change in conversation.

  “She’s good,” I say. “I’m having dinner with her tonight, as a matter of fact. She’s keeping me company while Christian is out of town.” Then I decide to do something completely off the cuff. “Would you care to join us?”

  Roman blinks. I can tell my invitation has caught him off guard.

  “No, thank you. I have plans,” he says, putting his sunglasses back on. “Besides, the private club restaurant scene Liz fancies isn’t my world.”

  “Hmm, that’s too bad. Because Liz and I are going to grab pizza and pints in Notting Hill. Her idea, by the way. But have a good weekend. I’ll see you Monday.”

  I don’t need to see behind his sunglasses to know his eyes now reflect surprise. I plant that seed and walk away, wondering if something could grow between Liz and Roman. She’s asked about him several times, including last week when I was her guest at Wimbledon.

  I head back up the walk, as I know Jillian is waiting for me. She started her evasive driving course and said it’s been the biggest thrill of her life. As I walk, my phone rings inside my bag. I reach inside and pluck it out, glancing down at the ID. I don’t recognize the number, so I wait for it to go to voicemail. The caller leaves a message, and I replay it.

  As soon as I hear the voice, I stop walking:

  “Clementine, this is Queen Antonia. Please call me at once.”

  Oh, my God. Why is she calling me? Has something happened to Christian? That would be the only reason she would ever call me, right? In a panic, I call her back. She picks up on the second ring.

  “Hello, Clementine. Thank you for returning my phone call so promptly. I have a matter I’d like to discuss with you, and time is of the utmost importance.”

  I freeze at the sound of her clipped, formal tone, but I’m relieved nothing has happened to Christian.

  “Good evening, Your Royal Highness,” I say, somehow remembering to speak amidst my profound shock.

  “I would like to have you come to the palace tomorrow for tea at five o’clock,” Queen Antonia says, getting straight to the point. “I believe we have some pressing issues to converse about. I also anticipate you will keep this date between us, unless you feel you need Christian’s approval and protection to accept a tea invitation from me.”

  My heart roars in my ears. If we were playing that old game Battleship, she would have scored a direct hit on me with that line.

  She is implying if I tell Christian about this tea, there will be ramifications to pay.

  I’ll look weak, unable to stand up for myself, and she’ll use that to her advantage.

  It’s a real life Real Housewives.

  “I’ll be there,” I say. “And I can keep it private.”

  “Don’t be late. I hate tardiness, among other things.”

  Then she hangs up.

  I stare down at the phone in my hand. I have a feeling we’ve each made a move in our game of Battleship.

  And I pray that I’m not sunk by the time the teapot is emptied.

  I’m brimming with anxiety as I follow Queen Antonia’s lady-in-waiting to her sitting room at a quarter to five. Her Majesty sent a blacked-out Range Rover to retrieve me and bring me to Buckingham Palace. Then I was escorted to a private elevator, and now a woman named Lena is leading me into the room where I’ll take tea with the queen.

  Or the lion’s den.

  Probably the latter.

  “Her Royal Highness will be in at five,” Lena informs me.

  “Thank you,” I say, sinking down onto one of the pale cream sofas. The room, which is on the first floor, overlooks the gardens, where there is more color than in this entire space. The whole room is cream, from the sofas to the carpeting, with the only pops of color being gray and navy in the pillows and curtains.

  The room is like her wardrobe, I think. Very defined. Rigid. No room for something outside the lines.

  Like me.

  I smooth my hands over the hem of my dress and move my legs into the princess slant, angled, knees together. I chose a V-neck, banded dress, color-blocked with a bright cobalt blue top and black bottom. I slipped on a pair of navy pumps as another nod to color, and to break the taboo of no black and navy together. I did acquiesce and put on a pair of sheer pantyhose, even though it’s July and hot and it’s a private tea between the Queen and me.

  I continue to trace the hem of my skirt, which hits right below the knee, wondering what her agenda is today. When I talked to Christian last night, it killed me to keep this tea a secret from him. But when he talked about how his mother had called him to say he was doing an admirable job on the tour, and after hearing his genuine surprise at the compliment, I knew I couldn’t tell him. What if this tea is a disaster, and I have to shatter the few illusions that remain of her? He’d tell Xander, and he’d be furious.

  And James is the most vulnerable of all because he doesn’t know he was born as a PR stunt. He genuinely believes in his mother, and it would destroy him to know the truth. If she’s awful to me today, it will create more hurt for him than anyone else.

  Maybe I’m overdramatizing. Perhaps tea will be pleasant. Queen Antonia will recognize that I’m not a fleeting romance, and we’ll embark on building a friendship.

  Ha-ha. I almost laugh out loud at that idea, which is about as likely to happen as I am to suddenly crave fish and beg Christian to take me out for fried cod and chips upon his return.

  The door opens, and Queen Antonia strides into the room, wearing a cream-colored sheath and pumps. If it weren’t for her jet-black hair and olive coloring, she’d blend into the walls.

  I stand up to greet her, and I dip into a curtsy. “Thank you for inviting me today, Your Royal Highness.”

  Queen Antonia stares at me, her eyes moving over my outfit, her face remaining expressionless.

  “Are you aware that your shoes are navy instead of black?” she asks coolly.

  So much for a tea to set the foundation for friendship.

  “Yes, I am. I planned it that way,” I say.

  Servers come in with a trolley, smoothly heading to the coffee table and setting up the elaborate preparation for tea.

  Queen Antonia stares at me. “I don’t like mismatched outfits. The public expects more from us, Clementine. Please, have a seat.”

  I grit my teeth and sit down, reminding myself this is for Christian. I must make an inroad with her on some level, and if it means matching my damn shoes to my dress, I’ll do it.

  Queen Antonia sits on the sofa across from me, going into the same princess pose that I’m using.

  Which is super uncomfortable.

  Especially with stupid pantyhose on.

  “I assume you like tea,” Queen Antonia says, breaking through my thoughts. “It’s an important tradition in the House of Chadwick. Not that you’d know that, of course.”

  She might as well put an asterisk next to my name and a footnote: the House of Chadwick, which said inappropriate American shall never be a part of.

  I hate tea.

  It’s right up there with fish a
s far as I’m concerned.

  But I’ll be damned if Her Majesty will ever know that.

  “Yes, that would be lovely,” I say, watching as Queen Antonia lifts a silver teapot that is sitting over a small burner.

  I watch in fascination as she pours some water into a teapot, swirls it around, and then pours the water into another bowl, which a nearby server immediately dispenses of. Then I watch as she measures tea leaves into the pot and sets it aside to steep.

  No words are said. The only sound in the room is the ticking of a clock on her mantle.

  I clear my throat. “Thank you for inviting me to tea,” I say, extending an olive branch. “I’ve never had a formal tea before.”

  Queen Antonia lets a wisp of a sigh escape her immaculate red lips. “Of course not.”

  Tick.

  Tick.

  I think I’m going to have an anxiety attack. I need something to do, something to talk about.

  “These cakes look lovely,” I say, staring at a glossy ganache creation.

  Queen Antonia stares at me. “I always offer cake to my visitors. I myself won’t indulge in the calories.”

  Visitors. That’s what I am to her. Not a guest. Not soon-to-be family.

  Boy, her hate for me is practically radiating throughout the room, it’s that hot and intense.

  She reaches for the teapot and pours me a strained cup.

  “Thank you,” I say, and I fight the urge to wrinkle my nose at the horrible scent.

  “How do you take it?” Queen Antonia asks, picking up a tiny sandwich off the elaborate tray of buttery scones, cookies, and immaculately cut finger sandwiches.

  “I can handle tartness,” I say, throwing my own shot across the bow. “So, with lemon,” I continue, selecting a slice of lemon with silver tongs. But instead of getting it to my saucer, I drop it in the middle of my teacup, sending a splash of the dark brew across the white tablecloth and leaving a puddle.

  Dammit!

  Heat flames my face as a young man swoops out of nowhere, cleaning up the mess while Queen Antonia raises her over-tweezed eyebrow at me.

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I sputter, wishing I could dive under the table and eat all the scones in misery.

  She doesn’t say a word as another page brings a new cup, and Queen Antonia pours again.

  “Please, have a finger sandwich,” Queen Antonia urges. “They’re salmon, perfect for those of us trying to watch our weight.”

  What? Is she implying I need to lose weight? Okay, I’ll never be a size four, but I’m rather happy with my body and how I look.

  I want to cut a huge wedge of that gorgeous chocolate cake to spite her, but instead, I reach for a fish sandwich and shove down the icky feeling growing in my stomach from looking at it.

  I decide to forgo the acid in my new cup of tea and make myself take a sip. Gag, gag, gag! Ugh, why do the British people have to love this so much?

  I quickly set it down and try to steel myself to take a bite of the salmon sandwich, which is taunting me next.

  “I think I shall get right to the point, Clementine,” Queen Antonia says, giving me a long, dramatic pause while she takes a sip of her tea. “Christian is my shining star. He’s bright. He’s handsome. He has an air of mystery, which is exactly what the monarchy must maintain to survive. We can’t be like everyone else. Being a royal means having mystique and an air of glamour. It sets us apart from others. Christian needs someone who adds her own allure and sophistication to the role. I’m sorry to say that is not you, Clementine. You are not what the House of Chadwick needs to cement our legacy and make sure it continues to grow.”

  Her words sicken me, not for myself, but for the son, who despite all her shit, loves her as his mother.

  “Christian is your son, not a star,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I would hope that your love for him as a human being, as your child, would be your priority as his mother, as it is with King Arthur.”

  Boom! Her face finally cracks.

  Direct hit.

  “I don’t need to spell out my love for my son to you,” she says, collecting her face into her Queen Antonia signature look of emotionless balance again. “You are getting favorable press now, as people love a good victim story, but you don’t have the elegance or sophistication to be a part of our family. Christian has all the potential in the world if he chooses the right wife. Do you want to be responsible for changing the face of the monarchy?”

  My skin prickles with anger. A hot flush climbs up my neck.

  “I’m not right because people connect with me? Find me to be a breath of fresh air? Because I’m an American? Because I hold a normal job? Or wear prints? I fail to see how this would bring down the House of Chadwick.”

  “Ordinary is not what we want,” Queen Antonia continues. “The public thinks they want us to be ordinary, but they don’t. Why do they turn out to see us walk to Christmas service at Sandringham? Trooping the Colour? Taking carriages to Ascot? They love us for being different, for carrying on the traditions that this country holds close to its heart. They don’t turn out for ordinary, Clementine. They turn out for magic, which you have none of.”

  I sit still for a moment. I hold my head high and, after a moment, speak very deliberately.

  “I am the woman who loves your son. I might not be what you envisioned for Christian, and I might not be in the mold of the current House of Chadwick, but I’m a good person. I’m a hard worker, and I’m capable of doing great things when given a chance. Christian has a vision for his future, to help the causes that are close to his heart and not select ones that make for a perfect photo op.”

  Her eyes flicker angrily, and I know I went too far with that last comment, but I can’t help myself.

  I take my linen napkin and place it over my uneaten sandwich.

  “I will be leaving now, and I will pretend, for the sake of your son, this conversation never happened.”

  Queen Antonia doesn’t move. I think she’s used to people being afraid of her rather than walking out in a fury.

  “Clementine, think carefully. This is your last chance to make a graceful exit from our lives.”

  I stare at her, feeling nothing but pity for the woman who wants this life, this monarchy, more than she wants her husband or her incredible boys.

  “I will do no such thing. I love Christian. We are planning a future together, and I only hope you choose to be a part of it.”

  “Oh, you can very well plan for one. But sometimes the best-laid plans go to waste, don’t they?”

  My blood goes cold.

  Queen Antonia has issued me a warning.

  I turn and exit her sitting room and head toward the private elevator. I’m shaking violently as I punch the button. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to control my physical reaction to her words.

  I know she will do everything in her power to get me out of Christian’s life.

  But I also know we are strong enough to survive it.

  I only pray that Christian will be able to recover when the truth about his mother, that she is a horrible narcissist who only cares about herself, is revealed. It’s one thing to have thoughts of it, like he does now, but it’s another thing to discover all the awful details and realize the truth is worse than you ever dreamed.

  The day will come; I can feel it in my gut.

  And when it does, I only hope it won’t send Christian retreating back from the world like he used to do.

  Chapter 32

  A Bit of a Mess Up

  I can’t shake the bad feeling that is swirling through me this Friday night.

  I stare back at my reflection in the bathroom mirror at Ivy Cottage. King Arthur and Queen Antonia have invited Christian and me to dinner to celebrate Christian’s well-received trip to Australia and New Zealand, which he returned from on Monday. James will join us, along with Prince Henry and Arabella, but Xander is back with the army, so he will be missing. The Dowager Queen will also be in attendance, along with
her nemesis, Princess Helene. Isabella and Victoria are on holiday in New York, so Liz is the only cousin in attendance tonight.

  I’ve decided to play Queen Antonia’s game and send a message with my outfit for the evening. I found a floor-length, ivory satin gown with a boatneck and capped sleeves. There’s nothing wrong with this dress. It’s pretty and demure and fits the bill for a dinner at Buckingham Palace.

  But it’s not me.

  Which is exactly the point. I want to prove to Queen Antonia that if she wants me to blend in on royal occasions, I can. I don’t want to, but I will do it to make Christian’s life easier, even if he doesn’t know it. This is nothing more than a uniform that Queen Antonia expects me to wear.

  Guilt surges through me. Christian knows nothing of my tea with Queen Antonia, and I swear I will take this secret to my grave to protect him and his brothers. They know enough. I refuse to pile on further hurt and disappointment by revealing what she said over cups of tea.

  I step back into the bedroom, where I find Christian standing in front of a mirror, tying his tie. I sneak up from behind and slide my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek to the back of his dress shirt.

  “I shouldn’t do this, I’ll get makeup on your shirt, but it feels too good,” I murmur into his strong back.

  He chuckles, and the sound reverberates sexily against my cheek.

  “A bit of a mess up is always good in my book,” Christian declares. “It keeps life real. And a trace of you on my shirt? What’s more real and sexy than that?”

  He turns around, but as soon as he sees my dress, his brow furrows.

  “What?” I ask, knowing damn well what his look is for.

  “This dress doesn’t look like you,” he says quietly. Christian’s tone isn’t accusatory but flat.

  Which is almost worse.

  “I want to have a few pieces that are appropriate for BP occasions,” I say, referring to Buckingham Palace. “Don’t worry, all my prints and colors are safely in my closet back at my flat.”