Playing Dirty (A Bad Boy Sports Romance)

by Avery Wilde

  “I do, Valencia.”

  “Keira.”

  “No, thank you. First name terms should be mutual.”

  “You’re really not going to tell us your first name?”

  “Correct, Miss Valencia,” said Rogers, allowing that small concession.

  “So are my things still in my room here?” Andrew asked.

  Rogers shook his head. “I took the liberty of taking your things to Keira’s old apartment, just in case. It was still empty.”

  “I see. Well, we’ll go and pick it up, and then I suppose we’ll try to find that hotel.”

  Rogers held up a hand. “It occurred to me, Mr. Arlington, that you and Miss Valencia might not yet have settled on your plans for the future. And since neither of you is any longer in gainful employment, you might need a place to stay.”

  My mouth opened in surprise. “Wait…you’re letting us stay in the apartment?”

  “Precisely.”

  Andrew frowned. “Rogers, you could get in serious trouble for that. The apartment is supposed to be for staff only and…”

  Rogers held up a hand. He was nearly as good as the Queen with the silencing gesture. “I am aware of that, Mr. Arlington. But I am happy in taking the risk.”

  I impulsively hugged Rogers. “Thank you, so much.”

  “Glad to be of help, Miss.” It was a sign of how comfortable Rogers was in his chosen way of life that he slipped so easily from me being a member of his staff to me being a guest who needed to be treated as such.

  “Thank you, Rogers,” Andrew stuck out a hand, which Rogers took and shook. “I wonder if in the past I’ve…perhaps I’ve not been…”

  The hand again brought silence. “Merely a gesture.”

  We strolled back to the car, chatting as we went.

  “If I may ask,” said Rogers, as conversationally as his formal manner could manage. “What are your plans?”

  “We’re going to America,” I said. “The day after tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” said Rogers. “I’m sure you will be very happy there. You won’t miss your family?” This was directed at Andrew.

  “I think they’ll be glad I’m gone,” Andrew replied. “I’ll generate less gossip on a different continent.”

  “Families can be most…” Rogers sought the right word, “excruciating.”

  “Mine certainly can.”

  “I couldn’t possibly comment,” Rogers said before noticing that we’d finally reached the car. “Well, good luck, Miss Valencia.”

  “Thanks, Rogers.”

  “Might I have a word before you go, Mr. Arlington?”

  Andrew nodded, and he and Rogers stepped away. I strained to hear what passed between them without success, but it seemed an amicable conversation and ended with the two men shaking hands once again.

  They returned to the car.

  “Goodbye and good luck, you two,” said Rogers.

  “You’re really not going to tell us your first name?” I asked, smiling slyly.

  Rogers drew a deep breath. “My first name is Lemuel.”

  “Lemuel?”

  “There is a P. G. Wodehouse story,” Rogers explained, “in which the name features as a joke on the man whose name it is. My father thought it would be funny to emulate that joke. He was wrong.”

  “Rogers it is.”

  “Thank you, Miss. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Rogers.”

  Twenty minutes later, we were in the old apartment, and it was nice to be back there again. It was a place in which I’d been quite happy, and returning to it seemed to neatly top and tail my British adventure. Still, a new adventure beckoned, and Andrew and I were keen for that to begin.

  We spent the next day packing and planning, making those important decisions about what to take and what to do when we arrived. Thanks to Rogers, we’d saved some money on accommodation, and that had proved to be just as well as the plane tickets set us back practically all the money we had.

  “My family really doesn’t pay its maids enough,” Andrew said, only half joking.

  When we arrived, we’d be met by Sarah, and she’d said we could stay with her in my old room until we’d found jobs and a place we could raise a child in. In truth, although we were anxiously looking forward to our new life together, we were also very aware that things were going to be tough. Art historian and ex-prince were not qualifications for which the average employer was searching, and if it had just been about ourselves, then we wouldn’t have worried—we would’ve lived in a van as long as we could be together—but there was a baby to consider and babies were unavoidably expensive.

  I couldn’t help reflecting that, until a few days ago, the child currently growing inside me had been second in line to the British crown and would never have to worry about anything its entire life, and now it was being born into nearly nothing. Had Andrew really made the right decision in renouncing his family, if it meant disallowing our child all those opportunities he or she would’ve had if he’d stayed?

  On top of these concerns, it was hard for me to ignore the slight change in Andrew. Outwardly, he remained the happy-go-lucky man I’d always known—loving, attentive, and eager for our future together. But every now and then, I would catch him in moments of atypical introspection, staring out windows or into space. I didn’t ask him about this, because I didn’t need to. I knew exactly what it was about.

  To this point in his life, Andrew’s future had been a given, and now everything he had ever known had been thrown out and replaced with uncertainty. It was exciting for him, but it was also scary. But that was only part of it. The larger part was his family. He had never been particularly close to his family; he didn’t get on with his brother and there was an unavoidable distance between him and his mother. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t love them, and perhaps he’d underestimated the effect that cutting them out of his life would have upon him. Though he tried to hide it, I also knew that he was hurt by their apparent acceptance of his decision. They didn’t seem to have tried to find him and change his mind.

  At all.

  His mind was made up, but it would’ve been nice to think that they cared, if not about the future of the throne, then about him and about our baby. For all our happiness in being together and the prospect of becoming parents and starting a new life together, there were also moments when I wrestled with what I’d inadvertently made him give up. Not the crown or any other aspect of his royal future—he seemed pretty sanguine about letting that go—but his family.

  But there wasn’t much time for such contemplation. Early the next morning, we loaded our bags into Andrew’s car and set off for the airport. Our goodbyes were all said. I’d phoned Rogers the night before to tell him of our plans and let him know that the apartment would be free once more, and then I’d thanked him again for all his help.

  “I always have my staff’s best interests at heart,” Rogers had replied. It seemed like a somewhat cryptic response, but then again, Rogers had always been a man whom I liked but didn’t really understand.

  It was a long drive to the airport, and I’d initially worried that it would be a somber one, because there was a lot on the horizon to worry about. But instead, we both found ourselves happy and chatty, making lists of stuff we wanted to do and see when we got to America. The journey passed swiftly, and we arrived at the airport to check-in for our flight in good time.

  “Is it me, or is it unusually quiet here?” I asked, peering around.

  “I wouldn’t really know,” Andrew admitted. He’d always flown by private jet, for obvious reasons. “But based on pictures I’ve seen on the news and so on, we do seem to have picked a good time to travel.”

  That was an understatement; the place was as good as deserted. I remembered the bustle and squash when I’d first arrived in London, and the sheer number of people all trying to get where they were going—and this didn’t even feel like the same building. We’d picked an early flight, so perhaps we were getting in
ahead of the tourists, but even so, that didn’t seem reason enough for the concourse to be the ghost town it was.

  “Could there be a strike that we didn’t know about?” I asked.

  “I don’t think that’s it.” Andrew’s gaze had been drawn across the concourse to a small group of people now approaching; practically the only ones there. “I can’t believe she’s done this.”

  I stared. The black suited men walking in our direction could’ve been anyone—they looked as if nature had designed them for anonymity—but there was no mistaking the figure in the middle for anyone else.

  “She closed down the airport?” I gasped as the Queen drew closer, walking with a measured step. “Just to stop us from leaving?”

  “Of course not.” The Queen apparently had better hearing than I thought. Or maybe she could read lips—it was strange the talents one acquired as Queen of England. “Some things have been moved about. This terminal, that terminal; nothing too drastic. No one will miss their flight, they just might have to walk a bit further to reach it. Now,” she smiled thinly, “how are you both?”

  “How did you know we’d be here?” Andrew asked, his eyes narrowed. “And when?”

  “I told you when you were little,” the Queen said, “I always know what you’re up to.”

  “That worked when I was five, it doesn’t work now.”

  “And yet here I am.”

  I said nothing, but I had a pretty good idea how the Queen had found out. Rogers’ cryptic statement about having my ‘best interests at heart’ now came into clearer focus. But how was this ambush in my best interests? Unless Rogers knew something that we didn’t. I found myself starting to consider the Queen’s dramatic appearance here in a new light.

  “You can’t stop us,” Andrew said, his voice steely. “Well, maybe you can today. But there’s always tomorrow. You can’t watch us all the time, and we’ll just keep trying. We’re not going to give up on our future and we’re not going to give up on each other, no matter how much you try to make us.”

  As I watched, I saw tears rise in Queen Constance’s eyes. “You think that’s what I want? To wrench the two of you apart?”

  Andrew looked a little taken aback. “Er…yes?”

  The Queen tried to swallow back her emotions; a lifetime of suppressing them had clearly ill-prepared her for moments like this. “Yes. Yes, of course you would. I haven’t given you much of a reason to think otherwise. We don’t talk about things in our family, do we? I didn’t tell you when your behavior made me ashamed to call you my son and I didn’t tell you when I was proud of you either. And I have been, Andrew. Especially in the last forty-eight hours,” she said. “I’m sorry for the way I acted the other day, and I’m sorry for not coming to you to apologize sooner. And what I said about my future grandchild…I didn’t mean it. I was shocked, and I reacted terribly. That is no excuse, though.”

  I looked at Andrew and saw the shock registering on his face.

  “If you want to go now,” the Queen went on, “then I won’t stand in your way. If America is where you see yourselves, then that’s fine. If you really want to renounce your birthright and no longer be a prince, then it’s your decision. But please,” she choked back a sob, “please don’t abandon your family for good. You’re my son and I love you.”

  It was an extraordinary sight to see that stern, controlled woman breaking down. Emotion had finally found its way through the cracks in the façade that she’d kept up for so many years, seeping through, widening the gaps until the flow became a torrent—years of repressed feelings pouring forth, desperate to be heard. Words were not enough, they no longer had the power to express what mother and son were feeling. But that didn’t matter, because words had ceased to be necessary. Andrew strode across to his mother and took her in his arms. She clung to him, seeming suddenly so small, the mantle of Queen discarded for a moment and leaving only Constance, the woman, the mother.

  As I watched, the Queen held out an arm towards her. “Keira…I’m so sorry for what I’ve said and done. Please…”

  I needed no other prompting, and I joined them, an arm around my husband-to-be and one around my future mother-in-law. After all, I was family now too. Andrew had made that very clear to me, and after everything we’d already gone through, it felt amazing to finally have a moment like this.

  ***

  An hour later, the airport was back to normal, with nothing to indicate that anything unusual had happened beyond a few grumbling passengers—and most airports were filled with grumbling passengers anyway.

  In the back of the sleek, black Rolls Royce that took us in the direction of Richmond, I relaxed for the first time in days. I had no idea of what the future held or what this touching reunion between mother and son might mean for me and my future, and yet I felt very happy and entirely at ease.

  “Do you mind if I ask,” Andrew began, somewhat tentatively. “What turned you around?”

  His mother looked wistful. “Rogers came to me and reminded me of something that occurred in my youth. He was absolutely right to do so.”

  Good old Rogers.

  She continued. “I met a man, when I was much younger. He was Swedish royalty. We fell in love and I think we would have been married but…there was some sort of diplomatic misunderstanding between our families at the time. My father had a disagreement with his father—the King of Sweden—and there was a lot of nastiness involved. Media smear campaigns for weeks, and so on.”

  Ah. So that was why Alexandra had said ‘not again’ when she said she didn’t want anything negative to happen between the royal families of Great Britain and Sweden. As awful a person as she was, she’d at least had some good intentions in desperately wanting to marry Andrew. I still couldn’t stand her, and I’d probably never forgive her for how she’d treated me, but I could at least somewhat understand her actions now, as crazy as they’d been.

  “I still remember clearly when my parents spoke to me about it. I don’t think any of us—not me or them—used the word ‘love’. And I don’t think it was because they thought love didn’t matter next to duty, it was just…that’s not how we talk. We bury our emotions. Anyway, they made it clear I could not marry him under any circumstances, and they made me cut off contact. I don’t know what would’ve happened with him if things had been…if I’d fought for him the way you fought for Keira. A few years later I met your father and fell in love with him, and I wouldn’t change that for the world. So in a way I’m grateful to my parents and to myself for screwing that moment up, because it led to something else wonderful. But as you get older, it’s hard not to look back and wonder. My point is,” she seemed to awake from a reverie of times gone by, “I came within an ace of treating you the way my parents treated me—of not actually speaking to you and acknowledging the fact that you are in love. And if you don’t learn from these life experiences, then really, what use are you?”

  Andrew said nothing, but he squeezed his mother’s hand.

  I wondered how many other such experiences might be hidden away beneath the stifling cloak of monarchy.

  For a while, silence reigned in the back of the car, until we were in sight of Richmond Palace.

  “So what exactly are we planning to tell Michael?” Andrew asked.

  “The truth,” I replied. I wasn’t sure it was my place to say so, but the words slipped out before I could stop them.

  The Queen nodded. “Keira’s right. If this near miss has taught us anything—and I sincerely hope I’m not yet too old to learn—then it’s that we need to talk to each other openly and honestly. I’ll speak to him as soon as we’re back.” She paused. “You know he’ll ask about whether or not you want to be King.”

  Andrew nodded ruefully. “I imagine that will be his first question.”

  “Well, it’s not one I can answer.”

  Andrew shook his head. “Me neither.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  “No, I suppose it’s not.” He sighed
. “I hate to mess you around, but…give me time to think and talk to Keira. I think Michael at least owes me that much after what he threatened me with.”

  The Queen nodded. I knew she hadn’t actually seen the photos Michael apparently had in his possession, but she was aware of what he’d intended to do with them if Andrew hadn’t given him what he wanted.

  “What do we tell the media?” Andrew asked next, as if working his way down our list of problems.

  “The truth,” the Queen said. “And as soon as possible. If it comes out any other way, then it’ll look like we were trying to hide something, and it’ll be all the worse for Keira.”

  “I can handle it,” I said.

  But the Queen’s face remained grim. “With all due respect, Keira, I assume you have not been the center of a media storm before?”

  “Well, no.”

  “It isn’t pleasant,” she said. “They’ll come for you with personal attacks. They’ll dredge up old boyfriends, and if they cannot find them they will create them. There will be stories about your friends, your family, your education, your sex life. It will be vile. And the sooner we get on top of it, the better. If we can release the information in our own way then it will be a love story that transcends class. If the tabloids get it some other way then it will be the prince forced to marry the maid he knocked up during filthy sex romps.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Your way definitely sounds better.”

  As we drew up outside Richmond, Rogers came out to meet us. Rogers seldom allowed his expression to reflect his emotions, preferring a stonily respectful visage at all times. But now he was showing emotion, and it was not the happiness that should have been appropriate.

  “Your Majesty,” he addressed the Queen as she got out of the car, “I fear there has been an incident.”

  My heart began to pound, and Queen Constance arched a brow. “What’s happened?”

  He took a deep breath. “There’s been a leak. A tabloid leak." He pronounced the word ‘tabloid’ like someone finding a worm in their apple. “They have asked if we would care to comment on the story they will be running tomorrow.”