Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  “That’s nice,” I say distractedly. “What did you talk about?”

  “Oh, everything. Honestly, it was kind of awkward at first: there was a lot of small talk about classes. He’s really having issues in maths, so I told him I’d help tutor him.”

  “That’s cool. He’ll appreciate that.”

  “Eventually, I talked about how we grew up in Guildford, he talked about going back and forth between Cedar Hall and Kensington Palace as a kid, we both talked about how scared we were to go away for boarding school. But at one point I brought up Dad and how he’s freaking out about my going to university, and that got him talking about his dad and university, and then the floodgates opened. He’s stressing about all that Firm business. It seems like a lot for somebody our age to deal with alone.”

  This is news to me. “Firm business?”

  “The Firm? Hasn’t he said anything?”

  “Um, no. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s what they call the royal family. King Henry coined it.”

  “Huh. Can’t say he’s mentioned it.”

  Libby looks chastened. “I’m sorry, I thought you two had talked about it. I know this sounds silly, Lotte, but I’d better not say anything else. I don’t want to betray his confidence.”

  “Are you serious?” I can feel my face getting red. “Libby, you’ve known him for like a week. I’m dating him.”

  “I know. It’s just . . . if he hasn’t told you, I don’t want him thinking I blabbed. You know how I feel about discretion.” Libby is like a vault when it comes to keeping secrets, which I’ve always admired—plus, it has served me well with our parents. But I don’t care about any of that now. I’m annoyed.

  “You’re my sister!”

  “Charlotte, I’m sorry. It just doesn’t feel right. Wouldn’t you feel bad if you told me something in confidence and then I blabbed it to Edward?”

  “No,” I say sullenly. “Plus, that’s different. You should have loyalty to me over some guy.”

  “Now he’s suddenly just some guy?” she says, smiling a little, as if she expects me to joke with her. I won’t take the bait.

  “I don’t think it’s right for my sister and my boyfriend to have secrets,” I say, sitting up straight in bed and crossing my arms over my chest. “That’s lame.”

  Libby sighs, her smile fading. “I’m sorry, Lotte. I’m not trying to be lame, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings. But it has nothing to do with you or me. It’s not my secret to share. Please understand.”

  “I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeats.

  “Stop saying that! I don’t accept your apology.”

  She sits up on the bed. “I should probably go. It’s late.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  She moves toward the door, beginning to close it and then peeking out from behind it. “Should I keep it open?”

  I shrug. “Do what you want.”

  “Breakfast tomorrow morning?” she asks hopefully.

  But I don’t respond, not turning around until I hear her footsteps echoing down the hall.

  It’s been awkward since Libby wouldn’t tell me what Edward said. I don’t believe in holding grudges, but I sulk for a couple of days to let her know that her behavior was unacceptable.

  “Want to get lunch?” she asks, stopping by my bedroom on Saturday for the second day in a row.

  “No, thanks,” I say, flipping through my maths textbook.

  She stands there until I look up.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you still mad at me? Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little bit?”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Charlotte, come on. You’re being silly.”

  “Did you only stop by to insult me, or was there another reason, too? Do you want to tell me all about how terrible I am at maths while you’re at it?”

  Libby scratches her head and sighs. “I don’t know why you’re punishing me. He’s the one you’re dating. He’s the one you should be annoyed at.”

  “And you’re my sister.”

  “Charlotte, how many times do I have to say I’m sorry? You know how I feel about sharing other people’s secrets. I would keep yours from anybody, no questions asked.”

  “Can’t you just tell me a little bit of what he said?”

  Libby groans. “You’re insufferable. It’s been four days. Haven’t you talked to him about this yet?”

  “No.” In truth, I haven’t even seen Edward since his dinner with Libby. Apparently, he’s been skipping classes, and none of us has seen him for any meals. His mind is clearly somewhere else. And if I’m being honest, I haven’t really been seeking him out, either. Libby’s right—I’m upset with him for revealing something to her that he won’t talk about with me.

  “Why not? The hallmark of a good relationship is communication.”

  “What, because you know so much about relationships from the hundreds of boyfriends you’ve had? Have you ever even kissed a boy?”

  Libby’s face falls. “You’re being mean. I’ll see you later.”

  “Libby, wait.” I push myself up off the bed. She’s already halfway down the hall, walking quickly. “Libby. Libby!” I chase her in my bare feet. “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes are wet. “It’s not fair to drag me into the middle of this. I didn’t ask to have dinner with him. You suggested it.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I didn’t want to leave Greene House—I liked it there.”

  “Of course.” I’m surprised that she’s bringing this up now.

  “Having to switch schools in my last year was awful. I miss my friends, I miss feeling like I fit in, but at least I’m trying. It’s not my fault that Edward is keeping secrets from you, but now you’re punishing me for it instead of talking to him about it. Please don’t put your relationship issues on me.”

  “Absolutely,” I say soothingly. “You’re right. Let me run back to my room and put some shoes on and we’ll go down to lunch.”

  As we walk to the dining hall, Libby is quiet. Finally, she says, “I am sorry. I hate keeping secrets. Why can’t you just talk to him about it? I’m sure he’d be happy to have your support.”

  “I will,” I say, even though I’d rather swallow knives than ask Edward why he felt comfortable confiding in my sister but not in me.

  “I haven’t, you know,” she says. Her voice is quiet as we walk outside onto the quad.

  “You haven’t what?”

  “Kissed a boy. Not yet.”

  “Shut the front door—what? Libby, are you serious? I was only joking! How have you never kissed a boy?”

  “Greene House . . . the opportunity never presented itself,” she says, mumbling.

  “Well, we’re going to have to rectify that immediately. I’ll organize a game of Truth or Dare this weekend. You can practice on . . . damn. None of our guy friends are that appealing. I mean, Oliver’s super cute, but I think he and Georgie are hooking up now. So that just leaves David and Tarquin.”

  She starts laughing. “Pass. But thanks, Lotte. It’ll happen someday. Just waiting for the right guy, I guess.”

  “Prince Charming is around the corner. I know it.” I look at her sidelong. “You look really nice today.” She’s wearing a pair of fitted jeans, a soft cream-colored jumper, and buttery black flats. It’s a much more low-key outfit than I’d wear, but it looks both comfortable and stylish. Thank God for weekends, when we don’t have to wear the uniform.

  “Thank you. I’ve been working my way through back issues of Elle and saw a similar outfit. I spent twenty minutes trying to mimic it.”

  This practically breaks my heart. I change the subject.

  “So, my birthday’s in a fortnight,” I say. “On a Saturday this time—finally.”

  “Come on, who are you talking to?” she says, poking me with her elbow. “Like I’d forget your birthday! Should I make plans for everybody?
A Justin Bieber theme?” she teases, humming “Baby.”

  I shoot her a look. “That song was like a billion years ago.”

  She laughs. “I’m just messing with you. We all know your musical taste is way better than mine. Even if you secretly still like Justin Bieber.”

  “Ignoring you now. I can’t remember the last time we spent my birthday together.” Libby’s birthday is in the spring, which means sometimes it falls over break. Last year, we both went back to Wisteria to celebrate with our family, and Libby brought a few friends home from Greene House with her. Since my birthday is in November, however, I’ve been stuck the last three years celebrating it at school. For my sixteenth birthday, I got a cupcake and candle from my lacrosse teammates in the dining hall. Lame.

  “Flossie’s offered to throw me something. It’s going to be epic.” Her parents have a country home near campus: a two-story farmhouse with huge polo fields that are perfect for an outdoor party.

  “That should be fun!”

  “I’m beyond excited.” We enter the dining hall. It’s early in the lunch hour so it hasn’t started to fill up yet. “India says she goes all out for parties. Plus, it makes me feel like I’m finally a part of the group.”

  “Part of the group? Why wouldn’t you be? You’re besties with India. You’re dating Edward. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  I snort. “Not with this crowd.”

  Libby looks apprehensive.

  “I’m not taking anything for granted—but I think Flossie throwing me a party is kind of a big deal. It’s like she accepts me for real.”

  “Friend politics are so weird,” says Libby, nodding. I think back to my mother’s comment about how things have always been harder for Libby socially. I didn’t realize she was missing her friends from Greene House so much. Poor Libby. She’s trying so hard.

  “Tell me about it,” I say.

  We sit down at the table and say our hellos.

  “Is that a new jumper?” Flossie asks Libby. “It looks gorge on you.”

  Libby looks pleased. “It is! Thank you!”

  “Although you always look amazing in the uniform, too.”

  She flushes. “That’s so kind. Thank you, Flossie. I like your hair like that.” Flossie has arranged her long brown hair into braids and wrapped it around the crown of her head.

  “Thanks.”

  “Should we leave you two alone?” Tarquin says. Flossie shoots him a dirty look.

  “You do look very nice, Libby,” says India. “Speaking of clothes, have you all decided what you’re wearing to Charlotte’s party in a couple weeks?”

  “It’s a fancy-dress party,” I say, turning back toward Libby. “I think I forgot to mention that.”

  “That’s a great idea!” Libby says, nodding. “My friend Savannah loved throwing those. I have the perfect costume at home—I’ll call Mum and ask her to send it.”

  “What’s your costume?” Alice asks.

  “Ginger Spice,” Libby says, grinning. “From the Spice Girls.”

  “What? I can’t picture that at all,” says Flossie.

  “That’s why it’s fun!” I say. Although, in truth, I can’t picture it, either.

  “It’s a throwback,” says India, nodding. “I like it.”

  “What are you all going to wear?” Libby asks.

  “I plan on going as a moon goddess,” says India, as if that explains everything.

  “I’m going as a clown,” Tarquin says as he sits down.

  Libby and I both look up in alarm. “No!” we say in unison.

  “Jesus,” says Flossie. “What’s that all about?”

  “We hate clowns,” I say.

  “Ever since that awful movie It,” says Libby.

  “Our babysitter let us watch it once when we were little and . . .” I shudder at the memory. “You can’t go as a clown.”

  “Please,” says Libby, looking at him.

  “Okay, okay, jeez. No clowns,” says Tarquin, rolling his eyes. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

  Libby and I exchange relieved looks.

  “Oh, by the way, David,” Libby says. “It took some time, but I found that article on the history of Robben Island I was talking about. I thought it might help with your history paper. If you still want it, I can email it to you later tonight.”

  “You’re the best!”

  At the other end of the table, Georgie and Oliver are murmuring to each other and laughing softly, clearly in their own little world.

  “What are you wearing, Oliver?” I ask. He looks at me, startled. I notice that he seems to be growing his hair out—it must be Georgie’s influence.

  “Sorry to distract you away from the missus,” I say.

  Georgie giggles as Oliver smiles.

  Finally, Edward shows up. His hair is wet and his fair cheeks are flushed red. “Hey, everybody. Rugby practice went long.” He and David slap high fives. “Hiya,” he says, planting a quick kiss on my lips. He smells like soap.

  We haven’t seen each other in four days—not since Libby and Edward had dinner together. I’ve been so irritated at Libby that I’ve barely thought about Edward—and she’s right. He’s the one I should be frustrated with.

  “Hi, stranger. How was it?” I ask.

  “It was fine.” He pops a bit of bread roll in his mouth, holding up a taped finger and making an exaggerated frowny face. “Digby went hard on me again. He couldn’t care less about the ball. He prefers trying to tackle me.”

  “Oh my God, that looks bad,” Libby says. “Have you gone to the infirmary?”

  “Nah. Nothing a little spit won’t fix.”

  “It could be broken. You should probably go so they can at least look at it. They may need to set it.”

  “He said he’s fine, Libs,” I say.

  She flushes. “Sorry. I was just trying to help. I took a first aid course a few summers ago. It never hurts to be prepared.”

  I smile at her. “I know. But Edward’s tough,” I say, slapping him on the back. “He can handle whatever’s thrown at him.” For some reason, I suddenly feel more like a teammate than a girlfriend.

  As Libby eats her lunch, laughing at everybody’s jokes, giving Edward study advice, and piping up here and there with supportive comments, my heart melts. She really is trying.

  I resolve to put the Edward situation behind me. I’ll be mature if it kills me.

  ten

  As promised, Edward takes Libby and me to a polo match in Windsor Great Park the next week. It’s the annual Chairman’s Cup, marking the end of the polo season, and Edward is playing.

  “Where’d he say to meet him?” I frown, looking around anxiously as we drive up the long gravel driveway through the woods toward Guards Polo Club. Libby told me that she and Edward discussed it in maths class and so I left the planning to her.

  It’s been a full week since Edward and Libby had dinner together, and things haven’t been sitting right for me ever since. I know I should probably gather up the courage and talk about it with Edward, but something’s holding me back. Shouldn’t he confide in me? Should I have to drag secrets out of him? Maybe I’m overthinking it, but all these little details are adding up to make me feel like Edward and I aren’t a good fit. He and I barely see each other and always want to do different things when we are hanging out.

  Right now, a tiny part of me doesn’t even know why we’re still dating.

  I mean, he’s hot. And he’s a prince. And he’s sweet most of the time . . . at least, when I actually see him. But is that enough? I’m not sure.

  Libby scrolls through her phone. “He says to drive to the end and then turn left. There’s a car park by the grandstands, and we’re supposed to show the people our badges to get through. Are you wearing your badge?” She looks down at my lapel, continuing. “Okay, good. Then he says he’s at the northeast end of the field, by the giant maroon-and-white tent.”

  Our taxi driver drops us off, and we tentatively make our way
past the gates.

  “Are you sure we’re not underdressed? Shouldn’t we be wearing dresses and hats?” I’m wearing a pair of skinny jeans, a flowy top, black leather booties, an oversized scarf, and a leather jacket to help combat the early November chill.

  “We should be fine. Apparently, you’re only supposed to get dressed up for the Gold Cup and the Queen’s Cup—and that’s mostly just for spectators. We’re with Edward, so . . .” She’s wearing her new skinny jeans and knee-high brown boots with a chunky knit jumper and her army jacket. She looks like she’s about to go fishing at Balmoral, not watch polo at the most elite club in England.

  “Are we allowed to walk on the field before the game?” I ask, looking around anxiously.

  “I think so, yes.”

  We step onto the lush, manicured lawn, looking back and forth as if we’re expecting security to come drag us away. Nobody does anything, so we keep walking. I look across the field and see a few other random people streaming across the field confidently.

  “Edward’s over there,” Libby says, pointing to a maroon-and-white-striped awning. “By the giant D.”

  I feel out of place, but remind myself that it’s important to act confident. If you fake social graces, even if you don’t feel them, it puts other people at ease. Everybody’s usually too busy focusing on how awkward they feel to notice your own discomfort. My mother sat me down and taught me that once my old friends ditched me—a lesson that’s served me well at Sussex Park.

  As we get closer, I wave toward Edward and call out, “Hi, babe!”

  But he doesn’t seem to hear me.

  “He must be distracted,” Libby says. “It’s probably stressful right before a game.”

  “He’s always distracted,” I say, walking up to Edward and patting his bum. “Hey.”

  “Jesus, Charlotte! You scared me.” He turns around, looking slightly irritated.

  “I called out to you,” I say, feeling rejected.

  “Sorry,” he says. He hugs me with one arm. He looks dead sexy in his polo uniform: a white polo shirt with a maroon stripe emblazoned on the front, white breeches, and dark brown riding boots. On his sleeve, there’s a maroon “4,” and the word “Doha” is on his chest in white, down the stripe.