The Princess Affair

by Nell Stark

  “This is your itinerary until Christmas. As you can see, you will be representing the family at several events for which your brother was originally scheduled. When possible, I’ve asked Elizabeth to fill in, but for the most part, she needs to concentrate on her studies.”

  Sasha closed the folder and set it back on the desk. “And I need to concentrate on running my business.”

  He sketched a wave in the air. “Let one of your associates handle that. You have a duty to your family, Alexandra. To your people. To this country.”

  “I also have a duty to the company I founded. Which is doing quite well, no thanks to you.”

  He leaned forward, clearly aggravated. “Did I just hear you compare your inconsequential hobby to your royal responsibilities?”

  “My royal responsibilities?” Sasha gripped the wooden armrests of her chair. “To do what? Dress nicely, behave properly, and parade around in the public eye like a glorified show dog? Your entire office is inconsequential, Father. You’re the only one who doesn’t seem to grasp that.”

  “Enough!” When his fist slammed down on the wooden surface, she felt a surge of satisfaction at having rattled him. “You will do as you’re told, or I’ll freeze the assets of your precious ‘business.’ Are we clear?”

  Sasha’s grip tightened until her knuckles began to ache. He could and would make good on that threat, and he wouldn’t even feel an ounce of remorse. Raising her chin, she met his steely gaze without flinching.

  “I hope you’re happy with the results you get by bullying others. If Mum could see you right now, what would she say?”

  A shutter closed behind his eyes, leeching all emotion from his face. “She would say that I am doing what’s best for our family—which, I might remind you, remains ensconced in this happy position at the whim of the public you seem so eager to disregard. Tomorrow morning, before the car arrives to take you to Oxford, you will see Reginald to go over your remarks for the reception. I expect you to meet with him on a daily basis from now on.”

  Reginald Bloom was the secretary appointed by her father to facilitate his children’s official appearances. He was most accustomed to working with Arthur, and Sasha had no doubt that he was dreading his new assignment even more than she was. Perpetually overworked, Reginald was a skinny, frazzled man with a nervous tick above his left eye. She had only to smile in order to reduce him to stammers. At least he should prove malleable.

  “Did you hear me? Every morning.”

  “I’m dyslexic, Father, not deaf.”

  When he winced at the word, Sasha felt herself rapidly approaching her boiling point. The grating scrape of her chair legs against the wooden floor was wholly in tune with her mood, and she couldn’t help herself from calling him out as she got to her feet.

  “Winston Churchill was too. And he’s a bloody hero.”

  She spun on one heel and headed for the door. One way or another, Buckingham always gave her claustrophobia, and today was no different. She needed to tell Miranda about her father’s threat to their company. She needed to find someone who could take her mind off his tyrannical micromanaging, if only for a few hours. Mostly, she needed an exceedingly strong dirty vodka martini.

  “Churchill knew his duty. See to yours, Alexandra.”

  His words followed her out the door. She could feel the condescending glare of his secretary and the curious stares of the other people now waiting in the anteroom, but she didn’t slacken her pace until she stood before the elevator flanked by two members of the Royal Guard. When both inclined their heads and bid her a good afternoon, she bit back a caustic reply and managed to return the sentiment.

  Only when she was alone in the elevator did she finally let down her guard. Releasing her hair from the bun in which she’d wrapped it before entering the palace, she stared at her flushed reflection and silently vowed not to let him get the best of her.

  “You have all of the virtues I dislike, Father,” she quoted as the car reached the bottom floor, and freedom. “And none of the vices I admire.”

  *

  Kerry woke suddenly to the sight of unfamiliar surroundings. A strong sense of disorientation washed over her, and for one panicked moment, she had no idea where she was. Scrambling into a sitting position, she pressed the heel of her palm over her chest. Her heart was pounding as though it wanted to escape, and as her rational brain kicked into gear, she willed her body to relax. Oxford. She was in her new room at Holywell Manor, where she had accidentally fallen asleep. After checking her watch, she exhaled in relief. She’d slept for less than an hour. It was just past one o’clock, and their dinner wasn’t scheduled until six. Plenty of time.

  She padded into the bathroom and braced both arms on the sink to stare at herself in the mirror. Her mop of hair was tousled with sleep, and she wet her fingers to comb it back into place. In general, she found it difficult to drift off—even at night—and the impromptu nap surprised her. Perhaps she was more worn out from all the recent excitement than she’d thought.

  After splashing some cold water on her face, Kerry wolfed down an energy bar and set about unpacking her suitcase. Within minutes, she had arranged her belongings neatly in the chest of drawers and small closet. Last, she positioned two photographs on the desk—one a picture of her senior-year soccer team after winning the Ivy Championship, and the other a snapshot of her extended family at graduation.

  A moment later, she stuffed that one back into her bag. There was no need to torture herself with the insincere smiles and taut postures of most of the Donovan clan on what should have been a celebratory occasion. Not only did her family not approve of her sexuality, but they also had taken issue with her plan to do graduate work in England. Her hometown of Pearl River was still the top American destination for Irish immigrants, as it had been for well over a century. Every year, its St. Patrick’s Day parade rivaled the one in Manhattan, and every year, plenty of citizens marched waving the “Get England out of Ireland” flag. Anti-English sentiment still ran high, especially in the older generations. While the dyed-in-the-wool Irish nationalists were proud of Kerry for her academic accomplishments, they were innately suspicious of where she was studying. It was a good thing she hadn’t told anyone back home about the guest of honor at tonight’s event. They probably would have wanted her to hand-deliver a list of grievances to Princess Alexandra.

  Once she was pleased with the state of her room, Kerry sank back onto the bed and considered her options. She needed to purchase a few things to make her space truly habitable—a coffee maker, some fruit, and a bottle of good single malt, for starters—but she wasn’t in the mood to do errands right now. In the wake of her nap, she felt restless. Suddenly decisive, she returned to the dresser and pulled out a pair of running shorts and a tank top. After briefly consulting a map of Oxford on the Internet, she pulled on her sneakers and began to stretch.

  Despite never having traveled to this city—not to mention this side of the Atlantic—she didn’t need to worry about getting lost. Thanks to the uncanny sense of direction she’d inherited from her father, she could point out the cardinal directions automatically and had only to glance at a map in order to learn the lay of the land. According to her Intro to Psychology professor, she had a highly evolved spatial intelligence. Kerry often found herself grateful for her natural aptitude—not only because of her chosen career, but also because she’d never had to request directions to anything. Unlike navigation, asking for help with anything did not come naturally.

  A light breeze had risen during her time indoors, and Kerry smiled at the scent of freshly cut grass mingled with lilacs. After slipping out the Manor door, she immediately turned to her left and broke into a jog. If she ran toward the river, she would pass several more of the university’s colleges. Then, she could cut through town by a different road than the one she and Julia had walked, and if she still felt like continuing on, she could investigate some of the parks and residential areas to the north.

  Almost imm
ediately, the road began to slope downward, curving into a long hill framed by stone walls. On a whim, she brushed one wall with her fingertips, wondering how old it was and marveling at the layers of history she could see with each bend in the road. A Roman tower. A Gothic spire. A Tudor façade. Like the rings in a tree trunk, Oxford’s architecture told the story of its long and complex past.

  By the time she reached the bottom of the hill, the slow burn of lactic acid had taken up residence in her quads. She welcomed the minor discomfort, relishing the slap of her sneakers on pavement. While in London, she’d opted to work out in the hotel gym, and it felt so good to run outside again.

  A tour bus lumbered slowly through the intersection in front of her, forcing Kerry to jog in place for a moment. She would never have wanted to see Oxford from a bus, unless she were somehow infirm. And maybe not even then. The passengers peered out the windows, faces pressed to the glass, completely at the whim of the driver. She, on the other hand, could run wherever she liked for as long as she wanted, seeing exactly what she pleased. There was simply no contest.

  She slowed as she passed the gates of Magdalen College, peering through the metal rungs to take in the well-manicured lawns and paths of its central quad. Harris was in residence there, and she wondered whether he was settling in, or off somewhere with Brent. Kerry was glad they weren’t living on opposite sides of town. He would be easy to visit. What’s more, she had read that Magdalen boasted a very fine chapel choir. Perhaps one day, she could convince him to brave a worship service with her.

  After turning onto High Street, she found herself running directly into the heart of town. Buildings marked with the Oxford University seal were interspersed with restaurants, barbershops, bookstores, and high-end boutiques. As she wove between pedestrians, around ornate lampposts, and beneath store awnings, Kerry felt herself transition into her running zone. When the endorphins kicked in, her mind finally quieted. The individual details of the city became sharper—the curved claws of a gargoyle on a parapet overhead, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafting from a nearby bakery—even as her lingering anxiety eased. Relaxing into the rhythm of her pace, Kerry pulled Oxford into her lungs and made it a part of her. In medieval times, she remembered having read, the act of walking the borders of a piece of land had been part of several important legal and religious ceremonies. Centuries later, she was following suit—staking her own claim on Oxford by running its periphery. Her lips curved ever so slightly as she imagined what some of her more cantankerous professors would have thought of that romanticized notion.

  When High Street narrowed, she turned to the right. Up ahead, she noticed a placard of a large eagle clutching a swaddled baby, and the unexpected sight made her stumble even as her smile broke free. The Turf may have been the oldest drinking establishment in the city, but this pub—The Eagle and Child—was probably the most famous. C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and their colleagues had met there each week to discuss their works-in-progress over a few pints. Kerry, who had devoured every book in her family’s home by the time she was eight, couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been enthralled with Narnia and Middle Earth. Silently, she vowed to return soon and pay it a proper pilgrimage.

  Several minutes later, as she waited for a traffic light to change, a black limousine caught her attention. It was idling in front of a nearby coffee shop, and for one crazy moment she entertained stopping inside just to see if she would recognize the VIP. But that was ludicrous; according to her teammates during senior year, she was living in a cultural black hole. Whenever they had discussed actors or musicians, Kerry’s prevailing expression had been one of blankness. While her music tastes were diverse, she couldn’t seem to keep up with the latest trends. And while she loved movies as much as the next person, she found it much easier to remember the names of characters than the real people who played them.

  After one last glance over her shoulder at the limo, she turned to enter the large park to the north of town. Within moments, she felt wholly removed from the cityscape. The gravel path was lined with trees just beginning to change hues, and she took delight in the panoply of color visible from every angle. When the trail forked, she couldn’t resist taking the small spur, despite the fact that it led farther up and not back toward the Manor. After a few twists and turns, the path began to skirt a pond, and Kerry smiled at the antics of the ducks and swans as they squabbled over their territory. A small child stood on the far shore manipulating a remote-control sailboat, and the entire pastoral scene inspired a sudden and rare sense of contentment that spread through her chest like a balm.

  When the path branched again, she reluctantly chose the fork that would lead her back. It was time to take a shower and run those errands—to prepare not only for the exciting evening ahead, but also for the beginning of whole new chapter in her life. The waiting was over. Finally, after months of meetings, paperwork, and orientations, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

  With the surge of anticipation came a welcome rush of adrenaline, and as Kerry turned toward her new home, she picked up her pace.

  Chapter Four

  Sasha slouched in the red vinyl booth farthest from the door, doing her best to casually shield her face from the other patrons who streamed in and out of the coffee shop. It was her favorite in Oxford, and her unofficial endorsement had helped to make it a tourist destination.

  Today, she had dressed in her incognito attire: chunky Doc Martens, olive cargo pants, a black tank top, and black arm warmers. A matching beanie sat low on her forehead over her blond wig. Sasha was always gratified by the results whenever she went with this look. Since she had walked into the shop ten minutes ago, she had been checked out by three different women, none of whom recognized her from Eve.

  The clickity-clack of Miranda’s heels heralded her approach, and Sasha looked up to the sight of her best friend, dressed in a deep blue silk dress with a plunging neckline and carrying two steaming paper cups. She deposited one in front of Sasha before gracefully sinking into the opposite booth.

  “You’re a saint,” Sasha said as she popped the lid off to reveal coffee the color of midnight, swirling with just a splash of skim and a dash of cocoa powder. Perfection.

  “How was your meeting with the weasel this morning?” Miri had bestowed the rather uncharitable nickname on Reginald Bloom during their adolescence, and it had stuck.

  She shrugged. “Long and boring.”

  In fact, the first of her preparatory sessions had been long and humiliating, but Sasha wasn’t about to admit that to anyone. Bloom had handed her a printed copy of the officially sanctioned remarks for the evening’s event. Then, he had made her read it out loud at least a dozen times, until he was satisfied that she had committed enough of it to memory not to flub her performance. The entire time, she’d felt like schoolgirl in remediation.

  At several points, she had tried to convince him to let her deliver her remarks off the cuff, but he had rejected the idea out of hand. She didn’t need a script. Whenever she stood before a crowd, she could sense its prevailing desire. If they wanted her, she flirted with them. If they required persuasion, she summoned a clever anecdote that would help to prove her point. If they craved reassurance, she channeled the memory of her mother and comforted them. Pulling their energy into herself, she magnified it and reflected it back.

  Reading in public, on the other hand, was a nightmare. Letters unhinged from their proper order and rearranged themselves willy-nilly. The page blurred and swirled like a river, engendering nausea and headaches. At such times, the expectation of the crowd didn’t serve to inspire her confidence, but to destroy it. Sasha couldn’t escape the feeling that despite having practiced her bland speech repeatedly this morning, she would still trip up when she delivered it. That meant more humiliation, this time in front of a crowd of intellectuals and their new, snobby protégés.

  If only she could convince Bloom of where her true talent lay. She was brilliant at extemporaneous public sp
eaking in a way her siblings weren’t, and yet she was rarely called upon to do it in any official capacity. Part of that was her own fault, of course—having embarrassed her father several times, she had lost his trust. But had he been more tolerant of her as a child, she wouldn’t have wanted to act out. A vicious circle.

  Miri reached for her purse. “I have some news that might cheer you up.”

  “Oh?”

  “The bloke who owns The Box is opening a club here as well.” She passed a gold-embossed postcard across the table. “It’s called Summa, and we’re on the guest list.”

  Sasha turned the card over in her hands and perused it carefully. The words shivered once and then were still. The club’s grand opening involved a reception catered by one of the most exclusive restaurants in London, a private concert by the hottest new boy band, and an open bar all night long. For the first time since she’d woken this morning, Sasha felt a rush of anticipation. A night of dancing was the perfect remedy for the funk she’d been in since leaving Clarence House yesterday.

  “You’re more than a saint, Miri, you’re a goddess. I’ll leave the bloody event as soon as I possibly can.”

  When Miranda cocked her head, the delicate sharpness of her features gave her a birdlike appearance. Gold teardrop earrings tipped with diamonds framed her jawline, winking in the dusky light of the shop. She had that mischievous, almost predatory look about her that always signaled trouble.

  “Why not just skip it? Tell them you’re ill.”

  “This thought just occurred to you now?”

  “No, it occurred to me last night when you called. But you seemed so rattled that I didn’t think you would be sympathetic.”

  “Are you trying to taunt me into doing this?”

  “Taunt you?” Miri squeezed her forearm lightly. “Of course not. I’m just trying to help you get out of a situation that’s clearly making you unhappy.”