“If you had spent time with my friends growing up, you’d know how to open a beer bottle in three seconds flat, too.”
I do my best to look dainty as I take my first sip. I’m not used to drinking very much at all—whether it’s whiskey or beer.
I notice that Edward is already halfway through his beer, whereas I’ve taken only two small sips. I wonder if he burns through girls as fast.
“What are you two whispering about?” India calls from the side of the pool.
“We’re talking smack about you, obviously,” says Edward.
“Good. As long as I’m at the center of all your thoughts,” India says before turning toward a member of staff trying to get her attention. Flossie stands next to her, holding the tray of cupcakes and looking bored. She and I lock eyes for a second before Flossie smiles at me.
“Is it my imagination, or does Flossie keep giving me weird looks?” I ask in a low voice. He starts to crane his neck and I put my hand on his arm to stop him. “No! Too obvious!”
Edward turns his head and makes a quick sweep of the balcony. “Oh, yes, she obviously hates you. Daggers. I’d lock your door tonight if I were you.”
“You’re terrible,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder, which only serves to push us even closer together. “I’ve known her for a couple of years, but I feel like she’s being kind of weird tonight.”
He cocks his head to the side. “I don’t think she’s being especially weird with you—that’s just Floss. But if I had to guess, I’d say she’s jealous.”
“Jealous? Of me?”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Hmm, that’s true. I am pretty amazing.”
He crooks up an eyebrow in amusement. “Humble, too.”
“I’m just joking.”
He shakes his head. “No, you’re not. And that’s why you are amazing.” He looks back at Flossie discreetly. She’s followed India to the far corner of the garden, where India’s holding court with Oliver, Tarquin, and a few people I don’t know. “I’ve known her since we were infants. Our parents are close friends.”
“Did you two ever date? Is that why she’s jealous?”
“Nah,” he says. “We kissed once when we were like twelve, but it was during a game. She’s had a crush on me ever since.”
“Now you’re the humble one.”
He laughs.
“Technically, we’re related,” he says. “Our great-great-great-grand-whatevers were siblings, so I think we’re fourth cousins.”
“You snogged your cousin? Gross!”
For some reason, Edward finds my reaction hilarious. “Not quite that . . . but sure.”
“So, she’s just not your type?”
“Not even a little bit.” His eyes crinkle.
“I see,” I say, taking a sip.
“You didn’t ask me your question.”
“What question?”
“What my type is.”
The edges of my lips curve into my sexiest smile. I look him full in the face, my pulse racing as I say boldly, “Oh, I think I know exactly what your type is.”
I reach out to brush an imaginary something off his shoulder, letting my hand linger a moment too long. Really, I just want another excuse to touch him.
Across the pool, India whips off her flowing white dress to reveal a gold bikini on a body to die for. “Edward, stop chatting up my friend and get over here! You, too, Lotte. It’s time we all got wet.” With that, India dives headfirst into the pool.
“With an invitation like that, how can we resist?” I say.
“After you,” Edward says, offering me a hand. I clean the gravel off my bum and follow him to the pool.
The large, rectangular pool is surrounded by solid beech hedges, which have been cut into pillars and shaped into arcs. I remove my shoes and throw my clothes on a nearby chair. Underneath, I’m wearing my red bikini.
I catch Edward looking at me, but he glances away when he notices me looking. He pulls off his shirt and we stand in front of each other shyly.
“So . . . are you just going to stare at me all night?” I ask.
Edward takes me by the hand, pulls me after him, and the next thing I feel is a blast of cold water as we plunge clumsily into the pool.
As we laugh and splash around in the cold turquoise water, I jump on his back and try to dunk him. We begin grabbing at limbs and climbing all over each other like puppies. He lifts me up slightly and I realize that my cleavage is now at his eye level.
“Not quite so high!” I squeak, feeling a flash of self-consciousness. My bikini top is so ludicrously padded, I might as well have towels stuffed in my bra.
He slides me lower down his torso. Now we’re eye to eye. “Is this better?”
With our bodies pressed together, I can feel his heart racing just like mine.
“Much.”
I close my eyes briefly, willing him to lean in and kiss me.
Instead, he just grins and sinks down to the bottom of the pool, pulling me under with him.
Before I know it, it’s two a.m. and we’re all drunk as farts, running around Huntshire’s expansive grounds in our wet bathing suits. Somebody’s found an old Polaroid, and we all mug for the camera. After a series of silly photos of just the two of us—Edward holding me in his arms, me jumping on his back, the two of us hamming it up with beer bottles—Edward and I play hide-and-seek in the maze, which has over a thousand yew trees and a single path leading to the center. It’s all so romantic I don’t know how this could end with anything but a kiss.
I finally find Edward in the center of the maze, a narrow, enclosed space. Edward leans in, and our faces are mere inches away from each other.
I’m in a maze with a handsome prince.
“I caught you,” he says. He’s so close I can see a faint freckle on his right cheek. I can pick out the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.
“I caught you,” I say, shivering as much from the cold night air as from his steady gaze. I can feel his warm breath, sweet with the faint smell of fermented hops, as he leans forward and rests his lips on mine.
As our lips meet, I feel a frisson of energy and excitement and triumph shimmy down my spine. He leans into me hungrily, and I push my body back into his, acutely aware of the bare skin of my stomach grazing against his.
I’ve been fantasizing about this moment for so long, but I never believed it would actually happen. I mean, who snogs the future king?
I’ve kissed only a handful of boys, but I suspect I’m not a bad kisser. And the way Edward is running his hands over my back right now, not to mention nibbling gently at my tongue, makes me suspect this isn’t the worst five minutes of his life, either.
“God, Charlotte, you’re a hell of a kisser.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
As he leans down again, he starts kissing the side of my neck, sending waves of pleasure through my body. I let out an involuntary little moan, and he grins at me. “Ah, you like that, do you?”
In response, I pull him onto the ground and then roll us over onto his back, so I’m now on top. I saw a woman in one of my dad’s favorite James Bond movies do that once, and it looked so cool.
“And you like this,” I laugh.
“Guilty.”
I feel more comfortable and confident being in control. I’m willing to bet Edward isn’t used to girls taking the lead, either.
I giggle, leaning down and meeting his lips again. As our lips and tongues touch, I try to stop myself from laughing, but a wave of involuntary giggles comes over me. Every time I try to get serious, I succeed for only a few seconds before the giggles rise up again.
“I’m that bad, huh?”
“No!” I laugh. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Happiness. Or nerves.”
“I don’t believe you’ve been nervous a day in your life.”
“I have!” I protest, leaning forward so that my elbows are on either side of his head and my forearms are resting
on his chest. “I get nervous. All the time.”
“I’ll believe that one when I see it.”
“What about you? Surely nothing makes you nervous.”
“Oh, plenty makes me nervous. I just do a good job of hiding it.”
I shift on top of him and suddenly realize that a bulge is poking through his bathing suit.
“Hi there,” I giggle.
He blushes. “See? Nerves.”
“That is not what nerves feel like.”
We both start giggling, and before I know it, we’re kissing again, Edward’s hands running all through my hair, down the length of my back, up the sides of my legs.
Suddenly, the mood shifts from light and sexy to heavy and expectant, and I realize that I’m standing on a precipice. Is this the moment? I’m not sure I’m ready. Scratch that—I know I’m not ready.
I like Edward, but my first time having sex isn’t going to be on the grass in the back of somebody’s garden—prince or no prince.
I put my hand lightly on his chest, sitting up slightly. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time. But I should go to bed.”
He looks concerned, sitting up, too. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m feeling fine. I just . . .”
“I understand,” he says, nodding. “At least, I think I do.” He holds my gaze, blushing a little. “You’re kind of amazing.”
“Oh, go on.” I pause and then say, “No, but seriously, go on.”
He laughs, standing and offering his hand to pick me up.
“You’re not transferring away from Sussex Park, are you?”
“No, why?”
“Good. Then this won’t be the last time I see you.” He gathers my face in his hands, leaning down to give me one single, sweet kiss.
“Should we say good night to everybody?”
“I’m going to stay awake. But I’ll walk you back to your room.”
“No need,” I say. “Let’s say good night here.”
I lean up on my tiptoes to give him one last kiss, then turn on my heel, running out of the maze and back into the house.
I’m not surprised in the least when, on the train back home to West Sussex the next day, I pull my buzzing phone out of my pocket to find a text from Edward waiting for me.
EDWARD: I can’t wait to see you again. Xx
four
Once I get home from Huntshire, I have only three weeks of summer left until school starts. The time crawls by at a snail’s pace. Even though Libby and I spend loads of bonding time together—she’s ecstatic because she finally manages to beat me at tennis—I can’t wait to get back to school so I can see Edward.
I don’t tell Libby that, of course.
On the first day of school, Dad drives Libby and me the fifteen minutes to the Haslemere station, lugging our bags onto the train and then giving us each hugs. Mum’s in London for the day on Soles business.
“Make good choices,” Dad says from the platform. “I’m too young to be a grandfather.” I can’t tell if he’s joking or being serious. Even though I’m convinced my father was born an old man, every once in a while he comes out of left field with a zinger that reminds me he’s a human being. Like Libby, he’s serious but can have a surprisingly wicked sense of humor.
“No promises,” says Libby.
I wave him off. “Tell Mum we love her!”
We ride to the Guildford station, giggling together while watching Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt on my iPad.
When the train arrives at Guildford, Libby and I hop off to transfer. She helps me with my giant suitcases. They were too big for the spaces above my seat—after all, I had to pack enough clothes, accessories, hair products, and makeup to get through the term until Christmas.
“Promise you’ll text me when you get to school,” she says.
“Don’t worry about it, Mum! You text me with the latest about Greene House, okay?”
“Deal. Love you!”
“Love you more!”
Soon, the town of Little Bookham looms through the train window as we pull into the station. I spot a gray, crumbling church spire in the distance, but the rest of the town is hidden under a thick canopy of trees. As the train pulls to a stop, I head to the gangway to retrieve my bags. A shuttle bus is waiting in the car park. Twenty minutes later, the bus drives through the massive wrought-iron Sussex Park gates, and I feel a flurry of excitement in my stomach. Home for another year—and this year is bound to be epic.
After everybody has arrived, checked into their dorms, and unpacked, the whole campus convenes at the chapel in the late afternoon for welcome remarks from Master Kent.
A long, narrow building from the 1700s, the chapel has magnificent Gothic arches, and red, blue, and gold stained-glass windows depicting scenes from the Bible. There’s a tranquil stillness inside, even when the building is packed to capacity with all eight hundred students and one hundred and seventy-five teachers. On each side, there are six graduated rows of pews, divided into sections for each year. The first years sit at the front of the chapel, under the watchful eye of their dormitory heads and prefects. The sixth form gets to file in last, taking up the pews at the very back.
Like students at most of the top boarding schools, we’re required to wear uniforms: navy suits with green-and-white ties for the boys, navy blazers or jumpers and pleated green-and-white tartan skirts for the girls. It’s meant to keep clothing from being a distraction—but, of course, some students look better in the uniform than others. I do my best to make my uniform more fun through the small details: shiny black ballet flats or high-heeled Mary Janes, the tightest jumper I can get away with, and smoky eyes or cool nail art I’ve discovered on YouTube or Viewty.
Even though I already did my hair and makeup at home this morning, I spend another forty-five minutes getting ready before chapel—I want to look extra hot when Edward sees me for the first time. It’s been almost a month of daily contact, and I can’t remember the last time I went to bed without a “good night and I can’t wait to see you” text from Edward loaded with Xs.
But once we see each other again in person, will the spell be broken?
As Master Kent strides to the lectern in the center of the stage, he flashes his thousand-watt smile at all of us. Donation bait, my mother once termed his Hollywood grin.
“Each year brings with it a sense of promise. It’s not just a new chapter. It’s an entirely new book, with the pages blank. It’s up to you to create your story,” the headmaster booms in his plummy tones. “What will you write this year? What symphony will you conduct? Which opus will you bring to life?”
I scroll through Instagram as the master talks, waiting for the welcome remarks to finish so I can meet up with India. Flossie has posted one of her yoga photos, so I like it, commenting: OMG! You’re so flexible!!
“Hi!” India says when I exit the chapel afterward. She gives me a big hug. “You look bloody fantastic. How was the rest of your summer? Your Snaps from Devon looked brill.”
I’m about to respond when my heart skips a beat. Standing behind India, looking edible, is Edward.
“Hi, Charlotte,” he says shyly. His cheeks have a faint pink tinge to them. Is he blushing?
“Hi, Edward,” I say, my own face feeling hot.
We step toward each other tentatively, embracing awkwardly. I brush my lips against his cheek.
As we stand in front of each other, India looks amused.
“You look great,” Edward murmurs.
“This?” I say in disbelief, gesturing down to my pleated skirt. I’ve tried to hike it up a little to show off my legs—I’m proud of how toned they are from all my sport. “I look like a Mennonite.”
He laughs. “It suits you.”
“Oh, stop playing coy,” India says, sliding her arm through mine and motioning for Edward to follow us. “You look gorgeous in the uniform, and you know it.”
The three of us head to the dining hall for dinner, walking down the long ro
w between all the tables, known as the Catwalk. Two minutes later, the rest of India’s friends have shown up: Flossie, Alice, Tarquin, and Oliver from the party over the summer; their short, pasty friend David, who has a reputation as the sixth-form class clown; and a pretty, delicate-looking American named Georgie.
Prince Edward is in the center of the long wooden table—relaxed, laughing, and holding court. And I’m there on his left, his hand resting on my thigh under the table.
Is this really my life?
India and her friends always sit at the back table, underneath one of the three massive brass chandeliers that dominate the room’s gold ceiling and mahogany walls. I just hope they all still like me after they get to know me better. What’s that phrase? Familiarity breeds contempt.
I get a text from Libby soon after we’ve sat down to eat.
LIBBY: So? How’s it going?
ME: We’re getting married.
LIBBY: Yay! That good?
ME: It’s unreal. I’ll call you tonight after dinner xxx
“So, how was everybody’s break?” India says, leaning forward and clasping her hands together. Her voice imitates a parental tone.
“Amazing,” says Flossie, taking a spoonful of frozen yogurt. “We went all over France. A week in Paris, a week in Saint-Tropez, and some time at Dad’s cousin’s place in Normandy. And then we went back to Denmark, of course, to visit Mummy’s family. We stayed at Amalienborg a few days and then went up to Gråsten for a couple weeks.”
India told me once that Flossie’s mother is basically Danish royalty—her grandfather was the youngest son of a king, or something like that. Whenever Flossie travels to Copenhagen, they stay at one of the palaces—Amalienborg is where the king and queen as well as the crown prince and princess all live. Plus, Flossie’s double trouble: not only is her lineage impeccable, but she’s also from one of the richest families in England. Britain’s archaic succession laws mean, as an only child, her father’s title will go to her uncle. But even with the succession bypassing her, Flossie will still inherit millions.
“Girl, that sounds incredible,” I say.
“Thanks! It was.”
“What was the total?” Tarquin asks Flossie.
Romancing the Throne Page 4
