Not Your Cinderella: a Royal Wedding Romance (Royal Weddings Book 1)

by Kate Johnson

  “Yes, and with me it was my teenage years in Botswana,” said Annemarie. “My father works in the diamond trade,” she added, and Clodagh’s eyes dropped to the gigantic rock still on the third finger of her left hand.

  Victoria had a ring of similar magnitude, and the Princess of Wales wore a cluster of rubies that had once belonged to Queen Victoria.

  Oh Christ, I’ll be getting one of those, she thought hysterically. I’ll have to do hand-strenthening exercises. What if Jamie chooses something incredibly ugly?

  She managed to smile and chat politely, until the Prince and Princess of Wales departed and Annemarie said she needed to go back to the children and Victoria excused herself with an appointment.

  The whole conversation had lasted about five minutes. The inference was clear: once the Queen goes, we clear out. The room they were in was apparently a private audience chamber, not part of the State Apartments, but it was stuffed to the gills with grand features, paintings and little statues and finely carved fireplaces. The furniture was so fancy Clodagh was glad she’d only been seated for a minute or two.

  Jamie held her back until everyone else had gone, which she supposed was a precedence thing, and then as the footman held the door open he led her out, down a corridor and to an antechamber at the top of a staircase, where he turned to her with his eyes shining.

  “You,” he said, “were bloody magnificent.”

  “I was?” Adrenaline seemed to drain from her. Clodagh felt herself tremble as Jamie took her in his arms.

  “I am so in love with you,” he said, and kissed her long and deep. Clodagh worried that there might be a footman or a butler or whoever wandering around the place watching, but Jamie had that way of kissing her that made the entire world go away.

  Eventually someone cleared their throat, and Clodagh felt her face burn as Jamie glanced away from her without letting go.

  “Sir, your car is ready.”

  He rested his forehead against Clodagh’s and groaned. “I suppose it is. Come on, then. I have to go and see Peaseman and relate all this and get his people to talk to Granny’s people and all that.”

  Clodagh should have been flushed with jubilation when she got back into the car, but instead she trembled in the throes of an adrenaline crash. Jamie glanced over and, wordless, got an energy drink and a chocolate bar from a cooler hidden in the centre console.

  “There. Listen, when I’m done with Peaseman do you want to go back to Derbyshire? Cottage is ours for the week. Or home? Back to Cambridge?”

  Home. Clodagh still couldn’t quite take in the magnitude of what she’d let herself in for. Home would mean living with Jamie, which was fine except for Jamie was a prince. And living with him meant that she’d be announcing their engagement soon, which would be a big thing except that it would actually be a huge thing, because he was a prince. And then there would be the wedding, which would be a huge thing except that it would be a ginormous thing, because he was a prince.

  Edward and Annemarie’s wedding had been televised from the moment Annemarie left Kensington Palace, all through the ceremony, the kiss on the balcony of Buckingham Palace, right up to their final drive away from the palace to spend their first night together as a married couple. Coverage of Victoria and Nicholas’s wedding had hardly been less excitable, with cameras following the first Princess to be married in the twenty-first century from the second she emerged that day.

  Every detail had been pored over by glossy magazines and trashy ones, by respectful BBC commentators and American talk show hosts, by people in fashionable circles and people in the pub. Bookies placed bets on the dress designer, the colour of the bridesmaids’ frocks, who would cry. Clodagh had been upset enough by the coverage of Edward’s funeral. How was she going to cope when it was herself in the spotlight?

  “Clo?”

  “Um.” She brought herself back to the present. “Derbyshire, I think. I’d like to… have some downtime.”

  “Downtime it is. I’ll get someone to fetch some things from home… do you need anything? Where are you staying, anyway?”

  “Staying? I live with a couple of friends in Cherry Hinton.”

  “I beg your pardon. Would you consider,” he took her hand, “moving back in with me? Since we’re going to be spending the rest of our lives together and all that.”

  Clodagh pretended to think about it. Truth was, that little house cloistered away in Cambridge seemed like a wonderful haven right now.

  “I probably could, yeah,” she said, and he grinned and called Peaseman. Then he got out his tablet and called up a few images.

  “Okay, not that I’ve been thinking about this or anything,” he gave her a sheepish look, “but let’s talk about engagement rings.”

  Warmth spread throughout Clodagh. Generations of social conditioning, she told herself, but still couldn’t help getting madly excited about the prospect of a giant sparkler.

  “There will be a lot of focus on it, so it needs to be something you’re really happy with. Take it off because you don’t like it, and be prepared for the country to have declared us practically divorced already. Now. Stop me and buy one,” he said, and began scrolling through images.

  Oh God.

  Clusters of yellow diamonds, coloured metals, spiky square things, something that looked like a skin disease...

  Jamie stifled a giggle.

  “You just Googled ‘ugliest engagement rings’, didn’t you?” she said, relief pouring through her. She bashed his arm.

  “Some people love these!”

  Clodagh peered in fascination. “Yeah, well, I am not walking around with a Star Fleet badge on my finger, even if it is made out of...what even is niobium?”

  “Hypo-allergenic,” Jamie said helpfully. He gave her a contrite look, then opened some new images. Oh yes. Art Deco sapphires, emeralds and diamonds, yellow and white gold, clean simple designs that showed off the magnitude of the stones they contained.

  “Anything?” he said, as she scrolled on.

  “Well, all of them, obviously. Would it be unacceptable to have a coloured stone?”

  Jamie looked nonplussed. “Well, so long as it’s not one of those hideous chocolate diamonds then I think you can have anything you want. This is literally the only time it’s acceptable to go as big and sparkly as you like. Bling it up. Get whatever you want.”

  Clodagh stared longingly at an emerald and diamond ring. “I’d be afraid of losing it.”

  “Trust me, there’d be enough eyes on you to stop that happening. We can go to the royal vaults, if you like, and look for something there? Or would you like something new? The family owns plenty of rocks. I could have one of them made. Or something entirely new. Go to Annemarie’s mine and buy something. Anything you want.”

  Clodagh gazed at the emerald. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”

  “I mean it though.” He took her hand and smiled. “From here on out, Clo. Anything you want at all.”

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “All right. We’re down to two. The blue, or the cream.”

  Ugh, when had she ever been excited about this? Clodagh stared unseeing at the two dresses hanging on the rail. Lately, life was one endless round of questions and orders. Questions about stuff she really didn’t care about—like which of these two dresses to wear, or which lipstick she should choose, or which presenter should do the engagement interview—and orders about stuff she’d rather have a say in, such as when and where and how she was going to marry Jamie.

  “Blue,” she said. “And the red shoes.” Not because they looked any better than the others, but because they were the most comfortable she’d tried on. Apparently, there was only so long you could milk a broken ankle.

  “But—” began the stylist.

  “Blue and red,” Clodagh said firmly. “Next?”

  “Jewellery. Now. The focus should of course be on the ring, so nothing too bold. We have this, and this…”

  An
endless progression of gold necklaces was parades before her. They were all discreet and elegant and there was little to tell them apart. Clodagh picked one at random, then spent ten minutes pretending to listen to the stylist persuade her that another was better.

  “Okay, that one. Next?”

  “Earrings, ma’am.” The stylist hesitated and glanced at the jeweller.

  “Hope you brought a lot.” Clodagh gave them a merciless smile. “There’s more hole than lobe in my ears. Come on. Tiny row of studs. I’ll even go nuts and have a diamond in the first hole.”

  Pretty much every stylist and dresser and random hanger-on—and there had been a lot—Clodagh had met since she’d first been brought to the Palace had tried to persuade her to lose the earrings. She’d agreed to the manicures and facials and the personal trainer, whom she hated with a vicious passion, and to the heels and the laser hair treatment and the specially selected controlling underwear.

  She’d been introduced to a skinny white guy who was supposed to be her hairdresser, and laughed for ten minutes straight before they got the message and sent for a black girl instead.

  “No offence, but the only white hands coming near this are Jamie’s,” she said as the skinny guy departed in a huff.

  When she appeared at official events she had weights sewn into the hems of her skirts so the wind didn’t blow them up and reveal her Spanx to the world. Her clothes had been carefully chosen to progress from black to dark colours, through to subtle, conservative shades but nothing too bright, which was irritating in summer. She’d been handed over to a bunch of very posh women who taught her how to talk elegantly, and sit elegantly, and get in and out of a car elegantly. Her curtsey had been branded a disaster and she’d had daily lessons until she’d flatly refused any more.

  “Here’s the thing,” she said. “The earrings stay.”

  “But—”

  “Do you want me to call the prince? Because I’ll call him,” Clodagh threatened, getting her phone out.

  “But, ma’am, it’s not… traditional… to have so many piercings.”

  “I look like a traditional royal bride to you? If he wanted traditional he’d be marrying Olivia.” Clodagh picked up her phone. “Siri, call J—”

  “All right, the earrings stay,” said the stylist, and Clodagh grinned, because she’d switched off voice recognition on her phone anyway, after an unfortunate event when she’d been in bed with Jamie and her phone had fallen under the pillow and, well, it turned out that “Oh Jamie” sounded a lot like “Call Jamie” and his calls were being diverted to Peaseman…

  Clodagh allowed them to choose more plain gold studs to replace the ones she was already wearing, and endured a debate about whether the main earring should be an emerald stud or an emerald drop.

  Everything had to match her ring for the big day. Clodagh stretched out her manicured hand and admired the large green stone. She’d let Jamie choose, and he’d chosen well, noting her Art Deco preferences and having royal emeralds and diamonds set into a simple design. Simple, but still huge, heavy, and surprisingly flashy compared to the ‘understated elegance’ she was supposed to be radiating at all times.

  “Are you kidding? Have you seen the Crown Jewels?” Jamie laughed when she put this to him. “Granny had to do neck-strengthening exercises to keep the crown on. She said if she looked down her neck would snap.”

  “I don’t have to wear a crown, do I?”

  “No, love, you get a tiara. Well, she might lend you one. I could buy you one?” he offered, and Clodagh, appalled by the sheer cost of the rock on her finger, shook her head rapidly.

  “All right.” The stylist looked over her list, muttering to herself. Clodagh wasn’t sure what else there was to decide on. She’d even had her stockings picked out for her.

  “Are we done? Can I go?”

  “Yes,” said the stylist.

  “No,” said the assistant Peaseman had deputised, “wait, the questions for Thursday…”

  “I have them.” She and Jamie were supposed to rehearse answers.

  “No, they’ve been revised…”

  Clodagh took the list from Sarah, the only one of the coterie of professionals who didn’t issue orders or ask stupid questions, and made an effort to smile. “Are there any major differences?”

  “Mostly phraseology. It’s been approved by the Palace, so…”

  “And we all know the Palace must never be crossed. All right, now can I go?”

  It was allowed that she could. Clodagh was escorted back out of the anonymous set of offices somewhere in St James and into one of the Range Rovers, which took her to Kensington Palace, where she was informed His Highness was still busy with his own arrangements for Thursday. Clodagh, who hadn’t seen him for two days, rolled her eyes and said, “How industrious of him. Can I go see him?”

  She didn’t wait for a reply, but set off along the route she’d come to know quite well, down a series of unflashy corridors to Peaseman’s domain. Trotting along behind her was Martins, who had been seconded to her personal security until she was allowed a team of her own. Thursday…

  Clodagh’s reflection in a picture glass caught her eye. She still looked like herself, but… somehow smoother and glossier. Her new hairdresser had done amazing things to the curls Clodagh had always been proud of keeping in good condition, and she’d had her teeth whitened and skin smoothed, and even though she was in civvies she looked somehow a bit more expensive.

  Best not tell them these jeans came from New Look, she thought drily as she tapped on the open door and went in.

  “… yes, of course I can tell the difference, I just don’t care.”

  Jamie was pacing, hair all over the place, shirt creased and untucked, his jaw shadowed with stubble. Hung around the office were various suits, shirts and ties. An array of shoes and socks covered an assistant’s desk. Peaseman leaned against one desk, tie loosened in a manner Clodagh hadn’t seen before. Even Vincent looked exasperated. This must have been some session.

  “And I thought it was just me,” she said, and they looked up in surprise.

  “Clo!” Jamie’s face lit up. “God, sorry, is it that late?” He looked at his watch. “Quick, pick a tie.”

  She pointed to one at random.

  “But, ma’am, does it entirely match your dress?” asked Vincent fretfully.

  “Perfectly,” Clodagh lied. “Now, I’m going to steal His Highness. We have a very important appointment.”

  “But—”

  “That suit,” Jamie said, pointing, “that shirt, that tie, those shoes, and frankly if you ask my opinion on socks again I’ll do the whole thing in a Big Bang Theory t-shirt.” He grabbed his iPad. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re such a rebel,” Clodagh teased as they made their way out of the back rooms of the palace.

  “Oh yeah. You know what I’m going to do on Thursday? Not wear a tie pin.” Clodagh gasped in mock outrage. “I know, right?”

  They got into the car, with its leather and luxury that Clodagh almost didn’t notice any more, and he leaned across to kiss her.

  “You smell nice.”

  She laughed. “You want to hear something funny? They’ve been testing perfumes on me for Thursday.”

  Jamie opened his mouth, shut it, then frowned at her. “Er… for a TV appearance?”

  “Right? Go figure. Apparently I must be ‘fragrant at all times’ so there go the curries and sweaty socks. Where are you taking me?”

  “Windsor. Couple of things I wanted to show you.”

  Clodagh hadn’t been to Windsor yet. She’d had become slightly familiar with Buckingham Palace since her first trip there two months ago, and even more familiar with Jamie’s official residence of Kensington Palace. As an unmarried girlfriend, she wasn’t allowed to stay the night with Jamie, and the one time she’d been allocated a room it had been so far away from his they’d have needed GPS to find each other.

  Everyone in the family knew she was living with Jamie, but
for the sake of maintaining a polite fiction her address was still listed as Becca and Heather’s house in Cherry Hinton. She’d been more or less obliged to quit her job at the Prince’s Arms, which made her panic somewhat until Jamie quietly explained that for the sake of the same polite fiction she’d been given a titular job as Victoria’s advisor, which meant a salary being paid into her account until she came under his own household officially, after the wedding.

  “It’s not a total lie,” he said. “You have advised her.”

  “Once,” Clodagh said. Victoria had, very tentatively, asked her about the adoption process. Clodagh didn’t have much to tell her, but it turned out Victoria just really needed to talk, and to cry, and much to Clodagh’s surprise, she’d cried too.

  Sixteen years of keeping it in, and that’s when it comes out: in the company of a princess.

  Windsor was about forty five minutes away, and they were interrupted more than once by Peaseman and his minions fretting over details for Thursday.

  “Christ’s sake, Clo, do you care about flowers?”

  “Flowers?” she said, bewildered. “I didn’t even know there would be flowers.”

  “There are always flowers. Look, whatever you think is appropriate. You’ve been advising my family for years, Major, you know what’s… yes, I know this is your first time organising a… well, then ask Annemarie’s people. She probably has a flower person.”

  He rang off, rolling his eyes at Clodagh. “Who knew royal weddings were so complicated,” he said, as if that was still funny any more, and she took his hand.

  “Gretna Green isn’t that far away. I mean I could run to a suitcase and a ladder, if you buy the train tickets.”

  He kissed her fingers. “I love you.”

  It was a damn good job, Clodagh thought. She’d stopped even looking at the papers, after one glance the day after the story broke, and she daren’t even go online where, she’d been informed, the vitriol got even worse. Everyone had an opinion, from the benign to the patronising to the downright hateful. Petitions had been started to ‘get the gyppo out’ after her mother’s relationship with Duke had been revealed. Far Right groups had shrieked about the pollution of the royal line with ‘negro blood’. People called her ugly, fat, and common. Her hair was too big and too messy, her clothes too bright, and yet she was also too conservative in her dress and had abandoned her black roots by dressing like a white girl.