“Total?”
“Number of guys you snogged?”
She looks offended, taking two more bites before swallowing and answering. “None of your business.”
“Aww, c’mon, Floss. Give us the dirt—we want a bit of juicy gossip. We know you had some fun.”
Edward takes his hand off my knee and picks up a piece of bread, throwing it at Tarquin. It bounces off his freckled nose and falls on the black-and-white checkered floor. “Hey. Knobhead. You’re being a prat.”
Flossie brightens while Tarquin’s pale skin turns red.
“What about you, Oliver?” India asks, ignoring Tarquin’s wounded look. “I saw some great Snaps from you over the summer.”
“Oh, yeah!” Oliver says, his cheeks dimpling. “Mum has this major conference every year in San Fran, so we talked Dad into letting me go with her. I hit up the Mission, smoked a ton of ganja in the Haight, made friends with this old hippie dude who was in Vietnam. It was major.”
The idea of Oliver, the son of an army general, smoking weed in a park with an old hippie makes me giggle.
“You were in the Haight?” Georgie says in her flat California drawl.
“Yeah? Why?”
“I mean, isn’t it obvious?” she says, gesturing to the way he’s sitting. His back is ramrod straight, perfect posture, no doubt drilled into him by his stiff father. “You look like you’ve got a stick jammed up your ass.”
Surprisingly, he doesn’t look offended.
I laugh. “Looks like the American can say things the rest of us can’t.”
“It’s the only reason they keep me around,” she says. “I’m Georgie, by the way.”
“I’m Charlotte.” I look her up and down. Georgie’s face is open, her smile easy. I decide I like her. “Where are you from?”
“America. Or the States, as you Brits like to say.”
“Yes, but where in the States?”
She grins at my exaggerated voice. “LA.”
“From Hollywood,” says Alice, looking impressed. “Her dad is Omar Rogers.”
“Like, the film director?”
“Guilty,” Georgie says.
“Wow. That’s cool!” I hope I’m not too effusive—but it is cool. Omar Rogers has two Academy Awards, one for Best Screenplay and one for Best Director. Georgie’s mum must be Prudie Phillips—they look like twins, with the same creamy mocha skin and high cheekbones. Her on-again, off-again romance with Omar has been in all the tabloids for decades.
“Georgie’s dad and my mum are old friends,” says Edward. “We’ve known each other for years.”
“‘Old friends,’ is that what we’re calling them?” Georgie quips.
Pink spots appear on Edward’s cheeks. “Okay, they dated. Before Mum met Dad.”
“Madeline—Queen Madeline, whatever you call her now—was always the one that got away, Dad says.” Georgie mimes sticking a finger down her throat. “Believe me, you do not want to hear your sixty-five-year-old father waxing poetic about the glory days of his sexual prime—especially not with somebody who’s now queen. Gross.” Everybody laughs, even Edward.
“He dodged a bullet,” Edward says. “Mum’s a handful.” I’ve never heard Edward talk about his family before. “And what about you?” Edward says, turning to me.
“I spent all summer in Midhurst. Hippies in the Haight would have been a major improvement.”
“We did some damage together in London, though,” India says. “Especially at Selfridges.”
“Yeah, my dad wasn’t too pleased about that. He had a fit when he got the credit card bill.” Mum had to convince him that my six new dresses and several tops were “necessary” for school.
“Why?” says Flossie. “It’s not like he can’t afford it.”
“Um, right. But my dad is a bit old-fashioned. He’s proud of his background, wants us to understand the value of a pound—all that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Parents are so weird.”
“I don’t think that’s weird,” Edward says. “I understand wanting to instill values in your children. It’s nice, really.” He smiles at me and puts his hand back on my knee, squeezing it.
“If you say so,” Flossie says, looking glum.
The kitchen staff comes around to clear our tables, and Edward turns to me. “Want to go for a walk?”
I nod eagerly. He slips his fingers through mine and helps me stand up.
“Okay, guys. See you all later,” he says.
As he leads me through the dining hall, walking down the center aisle between the rows of tables, heads swivel. I haven’t been invisible to the Sussex Park campus, but walking hand in hand with Prince Edward at the height of the dining hall rush hour might as well be a coming out party.
On the way out of the dorm, a tall brown-haired guy I recognize from one of my classes last year smiles at us. “Hi, Edward. Hi, Charlotte,” he says in a northern accent.
“Hi!” I say, embarrassed I don’t remember his name. I read somewhere that people like you more when you say their name—it makes them feel recognized. I hope he doesn’t notice that I haven’t remembered his.
“Hey, Robert,” Edward says, as if reading my mind.
He’s cute. Not as cute as Edward, though—and his accent is a dead giveaway that he probably didn’t grow up playing polo and taking ski holidays in Switzerland.
“See you back at Stuart,” Robert says, giving us a wave as we exit.
“Friend of yours?” I ask.
“He’s the Stuart Hall prefect. Really decent guy. I like him a lot.”
We walk hand in hand through campus, the lampposts lighting our way as we cut around the back of the chapel and tread over the grassy hill sloping down to the hockey field. It’s warm for a September evening. The campus is always at its quietest during mealtime, and it’s easy to pretend we have the whole place to ourselves.
“My home away from home,” I joke as we walk across the hockey field.
My heart pounds as I realize we’re walking to the Oaks: the most remote, private, and dimly lit area of campus. Also known as Snog Point.
“So you’re really into hockey, huh?”
“I love it. I’ve played it since I was a kid.”
“Are you any good?”
I could go one of two ways: false modesty or confidence. Something tells me Edward’s secure enough to appreciate the latter.
“I’m the best player on the team.”
He breaks into a wide grin. “I love how you just say the truth, no hiding it.”
“It gets me in trouble sometimes,” I confess.
“Like when?”
“Like when I’m angry.”
“I’d better not make you angry, then.”
“You’d better not,” I tease.
We settle on a large boulder next to a strapping oak tree. In the distance, barely visible in the darkness, I see Edward’s personal protection officer, Simon, lurking discreetly. He’s so good at blending into the background that I forget he’s there 99 percent of the time.
“I must admit, I wouldn’t have pegged you as a hockey player.”
“No? Why not?”
“Look at you—you’re like a supermodel!”
“Oh, stop,” I say lightly, my pulse quickening.
“You know it, too. You’re gorgeous and sporty—it’s like the total package.”
“Even after I got into makeup and clothes, I never stopped loving hockey. It’s a great workout—but more importantly, it’s just fun.”
“Tell me more. Why do you love hockey so much?”
“It’s nonstop,” I say. “It’s hard to score, so each goal actually means something. It’s not like lacrosse, where the score can be a zillion to a zillion. I love how when you’re racing across the field, you have the destiny of the entire team in your hands. Even if you’re good on your own, you’re still dependent on everybody else.” I shrug. “I joined a team for the first time when I was ten, and I was hooked. My dad set up a net
in the back garden and played goalie while I tried to score on him for hours at a time.” I poke around in the grass, plucking out a dandelion weed and running my finger over the white spores, suddenly feeling shy.
He puts his arm around me, pulling me close to him. “I love hearing you talk about it. There’s so much passion in your voice. It’s really cute. I like it.”
“Cute?” I ask, looking up at him through my lashes and frowning. “Puppies are cute. Toddlers are cute.”
“Not cute. Sexy. Very, very sexy.”
He tips my chin up with his finger and brings my mouth to his. Kissing him again is just as electric as I remembered. As we kiss, I can feel the steam rising up around the two of us and curling around our bodies. I fit perfectly into the crook of Edward’s arm. We melt into each other.
I don’t make it back to Colvin Hall for two hours.
Outside Colvin, Edward and I grin at each other, our fingers locked as we lob good-bye kisses back and forth. Finally, I break away.
“I really need to go! I’ll get into trouble!”
He looks at his watch, our fingers still entwined. “It’s only nine fifty-five.”
“Yeah, and curfew is in five minutes. I already missed tonight’s dorm meeting in the common room.” Suddenly, I realize I forgot to call Libby. Whatever, I’ll call her tomorrow. It’s not like we won’t be texting fifteen times a day.
“But you have McGuire. She’s probably not even doing bed checks.”
I laugh. “Is that going to be the theme of this year? I have McGuire, so I can get away with anything?” Old Mistress McGuire is the dorm head, and she’s been practically blind and deaf since the nineties, so Colvin Hall is the dormitory of choice for sixth-form students.
“Yep. That—and me, being addicted to you.” He cups his hands around my face, kissing me again. “Your cheeks are hot.”
We kiss for another five minutes before I finally manage to tear myself away, running inside and letting the main door of Colvin slam behind me. I turn around to peek before I run up the steps, and I can see Edward through the double doors, still standing there, grinning at me.
Once I’m back in my room, sneaking past McGuire’s closed door, I give myself a long stare in the mirror. I look an absolute mess—my makeup is smeared, my lips are swollen, and my nose is bright red from a serious make-out session—but I can’t remember ever feeling prettier.
It’s literally the happiest I’ve been in my entire life.
five
Two days later, I’m on the hockey field, about to start practice. As the team run their drills, I realize I’ve left my mouth guard in my bag and I race to the sidelines as Coach Wilkinson blows her whistle at me.
“Come on, Weston!” she bellows at me in her American accent. “We don’t have all day!”
I run over to my bag, rummaging through it while looking for my zipper pouch with the mouth guard.
My iPhone vibrates and I reflexively pick it up, hoping it’s Edward. It’s Mum calling.
I press divert. I’ll call her back later.
I’m still rooting around the bottom of my bag when the phone vibrates again. Now Libby is calling. Why is my family being so needy all of a sudden?
“Libs?” I whisper into the phone, trying to angle my body so that Coach Wilkinson can’t see me. She’ll have a total meltdown if she sees me chatting on the phone while the rest of the team waits. “What’s up?”
“Are you busy? I have something to tell you!”
My heart starts pounding. “Are you okay? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s more than all right—it’s the most amazing news. I’m transferring to Sussex Park!”
“Okay, the coast is clear,” I say. “Make a run for it!”
I grab Edward by the hand and together the two of us sprint up the stairs of Colvin, turning down the hallway and trying to keep from laughing as we burst into my room. I close the door behind us, grinning at him. My chest is rising and falling heavily, as much from running as from the excitement of not getting caught by Arabella Whiteley, our head of house, or McGuire.
The group had a long and leisurely dinner together, everybody still enjoying the temporary novelty of being back at school and surrounded by friends 24/7. It felt like ages before Edward and I could sneak off together without getting called out for being party poopers.
He looks around my room. I’ve finally finished decorating it, with white fairy lights strung up on one wall, a blue-and-white tapestry laid at the foot of my bed over the cream-colored comforter, and mismatched frames covering the wall opposite my bed, full of photos of my family and friends. I’ve neatly organized all my clothes by color and category in the wardrobe by the door, but I know better than to expect my system to last. It’ll be a cluttered disaster by the end of the month, like always.
Whatever—it’s the intention that counts, right?
“So, this is where the magic happens, huh?” Edward says.
“You’d better believe it.” I put my iPhone onto my music dock, pulling up Spotify and opening my favorite nighttime playlist.
“Who’s this?” he asks.
I look at him as if he has two heads. “Are you serious?”
“Um, yeah.”
“It’s Tegan and Sara.”
“Oh, okay. I’m not really into EDM.”
I start laughing. “They’re not EDM! What do you like?”
He looks embarrassed. “I don’t want to tell you.”
“Well, now I have to know. Celine Dion? Barry Manilow? ABBA? What’s your dirty little secret?”
“ABBA does have some good songs,” he says. “But I kind of like . . . um—” He mutters something under his breath I can barely hear.
“What?”
“Katy Perry.”
I groan. “Katy Perry? That’s so cheesy. I don’t know if I can be seen with you now.”
“C’mon! Her songs are awesome!”
“You’re worse than my dad.”
“Don’t hold it against me.”
“Oh, I definitely will,” I say, grinning at him. “Is this better?” I change the music to a poppy sixties French playlist: lots of Françoise Hardy and Serge Gainsbourg. Perfect make-out music.
“I don’t know it, but I like it.”
I gesture to my bed, and he plops down on it. “Wine? It’s cheap, I promise.”
“Sure,” he says, laughing.
I unscrew a bottle of Chianti that I bought from the Tesco on the high street—they never ask for ID.
“Here,” he says. “Let me, please.”
“Ooh, you’re so chivalrous,” I say, teasing. He pours us two small glasses in Sussex Park coffee mugs. I look down at the inch of wine, frowning. “Are you this stingy with everybody? My ten-year-old cousin drinks more wine than that.”
He laughs. “Okay, alkie.”
“Hardly. Gotta make sure you’re liquored up. How else are we going to tolerate each other’s horrible company?” We both take sips, grinning at each other.
“I don’t know—I think we could find something to do,” he says, standing up, touching my hand with his, and pulling me toward him. We start kissing, and even though his lips are soft and his hands are roaming all over my back and I should totally be losing myself in this moment, I can’t stop thinking:
OH MY GOD, EDWARD AND I ARE KISSING.
At some point, we tumble onto the bed together, and eventually I lose myself in the feeling of his lips and fingers on my skin. It feels like ages before we break apart. His nose and cheeks are red, and I’m sure my hair is a tangled rat’s mess.
“You look like a disaster,” I say.
“Totally worth it.”
I pull out my phone to take a selfie of the two of us, but Edward puts his hand on my arm gently.
“No photos, okay?”
“Huh?” I put the phone down.
“I don’t like . . . it’s just . . . I know it sounds weird, but I don’t like taking selfies, okay?”
&n
bsp; I feel stung. “Okay.”
“It’s not personal,” he says, all in a rush. “It’s just that—you know how the press is, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Hackers have gotten really good. They can break into your iCloud storage. They can steal your photos and download your voice mails. I just don’t like too much private information about me floating around.” His voice is shaky but his gaze is firm.
“It’s not information, it’s just a silly photo,” I say in what I hope is a light voice. “I’m not going to post it to Instagram.”
“I get that—but I’d still rather maintain my privacy, if it’s all right with you.” He sounds a little icier than I’m used to.
“Okay, that’s cool. No worries. Um. So . . .” I put the phone away, changing gears. “Oh, how crazy is this? My sister Libby is transferring to Sussex Park tomorrow.”
He looks grateful for the diversion. “Oh, yeah? After the year’s already started? Why?”
I explain last week’s phone call with Libby. The day after she started back at Greene House, the board discovered proof that the headmaster had definitely been taking bribes, and they ousted him. Word spread like wildfire through Greene House that the headmaster had been sleeping with one of the parents, too, although I haven’t seen that tidbit hit the papers yet. Once the writing was on the wall, Libby knew she couldn’t risk staying and ruining her university chances. Mum and Dad have already put the wheels in motion, and Libby should be here tomorrow morning. I’m beyond excited.
“That’s awful,” he says. “I’m surprised more people aren’t talking about that.”
I look at him weirdly. “Everybody’s talking about it. It’s in all the papers.”
“I don’t really read the papers.”
“Ah. Right. Of course.”
We look at each other awkwardly. Somehow, the night has gone from fabulous to flat in an instant.
He looks at his watch. “Well, you’ll probably want to get a good night’s sleep if your sister will be here tomorrow. It’s getting late anyway.”
I peek at my phone. It’s already way past midnight. “Holy shit, it is late.” We spent about three hours kissing and three minutes talking. “Get out!” I say, shooing him toward the door as we both laugh.
Romancing the Throne Page 5
