Glass Castle Prince
Nicole Williams
Copyright © 2019 by Nicole Williams
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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For everyone who grew up reading fairy tales and fights each day to create their own happily ever after.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Untitled
About the Author
Chapter 1
I grew up next door to the royal family’s summer house on the banks of Lake Genovese.
Not because my family was rich and could afford one of the sprawling estates near Valmont Manor, or due to some trace of royal blood in our heritage.
I grew up next door to Valmont because my father was the groundskeeper, our humble quarters tucked into the trees on the south end of the grounds. I grew up surrounded by privilege and wealth, but my parents had cocooned me—as overprotective types with only one child did. I never interacted with the royal family or any of the distant relations who flocked to Valmont in the summer months for the legendary parties Her Royal Highness put on. My dad left his groundskeeper position the fall I turned ten in favor of a job in the north as a park manager.
It had been a decade since I left Valmont as the groundskeeper’s daughter, but little, if anything, had changed. Royal families were like that; change came gradually, if at all, to everything from their estates to their hemlines.
“Do you understand your position here?” The prune-faced woman, in her matronly tweed suit, came to an abrupt stop in the grand foyer, interrupting my nostalgia.
I slipped on the same competent expression I’d worn the day I’d been interviewed for the job. “I understand.”
“You’re quite young. The last off-season house manager was twice your age.” The woman, Mrs. Hutchinson, appraised me, the corners of her mouth turning down.
“What I lack in age, I make up for in work ethic and energy,” I said, checking my shoes to see if I’d somehow managed to step in horse dung when I passed through the Queen Angeline Ballroom, as Mrs. Hutchison’s brow suggested. “And I spent the first ten years of my life on Valmont’s grounds. I know my way around the place.”
“Your father was the groundskeeper, which means he wouldn’t have stepped foot in the castle.”
“Correct.” I made sure to smile as I said it, not wanting to anger the person who was technically my boss. Thank the gods she’d be joining the royal family back at their primary estate, Stratford Castle, as soon as she left here.
“There’s a great deal of difference between keeping the lawn green and shrubs shaped and winterizing sixty-two rooms while keeping an eye out for any signs of snow or ice damage.”
I held my smile and reminded myself she probably didn’t mean to talk down to me. “I’m a quick learner.”
Mrs. Hutchinson’s eyes suggested We’ll see before she walked toward one of the side doors. “Prince Edward and you are the same age, right? Did your paths ever cross when you were growing up here?”
My nose scrunched up, since her back was to me. “He’s two years older, and no, our paths never crossed.”
Thankfully. Prince Edward was a pompous, lazy playboy whose smirk embodied everything that was wrong with society—entitlement and smugness.
“That’s too bad. He’s such a lovely fellow.”
“The loveliest,” I said flatly.
When we stopped at the door, she checked to make sure the giant black binder was still clutched in my arms. She’d assured me it would answer any question I might have about my responsibilities here, as well as detail every duty, from covering the furniture with sheets to setting the thermostats.
“Why did you decide to take the year off from Whitbridge?” she asked, slipping into her beige trench coat after checking the glum weather out the window. “It’s the most prestigious university in the country. Was the course work too rigorous?”
My hands slid into the front pockets of my overalls. “No. I scored top marks both my first and second year.” I wasn’t sure how much I should say. “I just needed a year to decide what I want to do with my life before I commit to another two, or ten, years of college.”
Mrs. Hutchinson chuckled, slipping on her leather gloves. “Doctors go to school for ten years, dear.”
“Not groundskeepers’ daughters?” I said, verbalizing her probable thoughts.
She waved me off as though I were making a bigger deal than necessary. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” I stated, because I did understand the way people viewed one another based on social standing and pedigree. My parents had never come right out and admitted it, but I knew my dad giving up his job as a royal groundskeeper had a lot to do with not wanting to raise me around such stunted, old-fashioned views.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it now.” Mrs. Hutchison gave me another look, one that suggested she wasn’t sure if Valmont would be reduced to ashes when she returned with the royal family at the start of summer.
Not that she had a lot of alternatives. There were never a lot of people to apply for a position like taking care of a massive estate in the off-season in one of the most isolated places in the country. A person could go weeks here in the dead of winter without seeing another living soul, animal included.
But I’d had my reasons for applying.
“If anything comes up, I can be reached on my cell day and night.” Mrs. Hutchinson stepped through the door, frowning at the gray, mottled sky.
“I’m sure everything will be exactly as you left it come June.”
She waited under the awning for the driver equipped with an umbrella to fend off the drizzle. “I’m hopeful it will be,” she said before she climbed into the back seat of the black Aston Martin.
There was a vehicle reserved for me to use while I was here, but it was not an Aston Martin. It was more like an old rumble-bucket truck that a person would sell turnips out of the back of.
Standing in the doorway of Valmont, I waved at the retreating car, saying farewell to any signs of life for at least a few good weeks. Time I could use to deconstruct the funk littering my brain and hopefully find my reset button. The one that would put me back to my original factory settings, the place before life, with all of its complexities and expectations, had shoved me off my intended course.
The magic place where I was me and knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life.
With an excited squeal, I spun inside, locking the door to keep out the rest of the world. Alone at last.
The first thing I did was kick off my sneakers and throw my long hair into a ponytail. Then I slid through room after room, flipping on lights as I went, living out my childhood fantasy of dancing through every room I’d only seen from the outside looking in.
It wasn’t a brief task.
I managed to frolic my way through half of the rooms on the main floor before I gave myself a side-ache and declared my childhood fantasies fulfilled.
&n
bsp; Catching my breath at the bottom of the grand staircase, I decided it was time to get to work. The majority of the rooms would be sealed up during my stay, the third floor of the west wing remaining open for my use. The black book of all things Valmont instructed I was to start in the ballroom, but the inherent rebel inside me decided to start in the dining room.
I preferred to get the biggest chores done first, saving the easiest ones for last. The dining room could take a solid week of work, judging by the list in the binder.
Setting my portable speaker on one of the windowsills, I selected my favorite playlist, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work.
The playlist was on its third replay and my elbows felt like the size of grapefruits when the clock chimed twelve times. Blowing wisps of hair from my face, I assessed my progress. The silver candlestick holders had been polished and tucked away into one of the mahogany buffets. The massive table had been shined to glass, as had the actual windows, which were now drawn by curtains.
I took a few minutes to throw fresh white sheets over the furniture before deciding a cup of something warm was in order before bed—cocoa, coffee, milk, tea, I wasn’t picky.
The staff kitchen was tucked into the back of the house, where a small gravel lot was used for staff members’ cars during the summer. The kitchen was dark and still smelled of bleach and lemon cleaner. I was about to flip on the lights when an unexpected sound came from the direction of the side door coming off the staff entrance.
Holding my breath, I waited, hoping it was the wind making funny noises, rather than a home invader. There was no shortage of royal nutters out there, plus those looking to make some extra cash by selling a heisted painting on the black market.
The doorknob jiggled. A definite, deliberate jiggle. So much for the wind theory.
Crouching, I grabbed the closest item that seemed self-defense worthy, cursing myself for leaving my phone in the dining room playing Joan Jett yet again.
The stainless steel skillet was heavier than I expected, and it took both of my hands to wield. After stumbling across the house, I positioned myself to the side of the front door, in the ideal spot to either knock out the intruder or make a run for it myself.
The doorknob rattled again, right before the door whined open. Adrenaline flooding my system, I raised the skillet above my head and waited . . .
For half of a second.
“Die!” The word shot out of me on its own as I drove the skillet down on the black-hooded head that had skulked inside.
The person dropped instantly, limbs sprawling across the white-tiled floor.
“I got him,” I whispered, still clutching my weapon of choice.
Several figures came rushing through the doorway, followed by another handful more.
“Freeze!” I hollered, winding the pan back for another swing.
“What the hell?” One of them gasped when they noticed the motionless form on the floor. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” I replied, my fingers fumbling for the light switch that was somewhere beside me.
A rumble of what could have been sighs or laughter passed between the three as I finally found the switch. Light flooded the kitchen, illuminating the scene . . . and my mistake.
“I’m the Duke of Westington,” the one closest to me answered, as the other two crouched beside the one I’d cracked with the skillet. “And that, splayed out on the floor thanks to your skill with kitchenware, is Prince Edward.”
Chapter 2
“I’ve apologized, right?” I took a break from my incessant nail chewing to ask, getting right back to it when I noted the scowl on Prince Edward’s face.
“Only several thousand times so far.” His lip curled as he adjusted the ice pack he pressed against the back of his head.
So, yeah. I’d clobbered the future Kind of Norland in the head with stainless steel cookware.
Not my finest moment.
“Make this several thousand and one.” I shifted when he grimaced from repositioning the icepack. He had an egg on his head that was practically the size of an actual one. Thanks to me.
The handful of personal security he’d arrived with were stationed around the Manor, after triple checking to make sure I wasn’t hiding any other “weapons” on me.
“Well, I for one don’t know what was funnier. Some petite chick crying Die like it was some damn battle cry, or the sound Edward made when he came to after being knocked out. By a petite girl,” the Duke of Sommerhall—or Sommerwall or Sommer-something—remarked, making the other two chuckle into their fists.
Prince Edward fired a look at the three of them that would have turned my bones to powder. They must have been used to it though, because their laughter didn’t stop.
“What I wouldn’t give to go back in time so I could film the whole thing.” The other duke—the third was merely a lowly university friend—pulled out his phone and snapped yet another photo of Edward situated in one of the dining chairs, ice pack, glower, and all. “I would literally drop half of my inheritance into the ocean for a replay.”
“Because that would be a prudent use of an inheritance,” I muttered to myself, though from the quirk of Prince Edward’s brow, he heard me as well. I couldn’t look away fast enough. I waved my arms as I did when I was nervous. Or excited. Or pretty much any time I felt any emotion beyond general ennui. “I thought you were breaking in.”
“Because so many home intruders use a key.” Prince Edward’s voice was dripping with sarcasm and a hint of ire.
My shoulders slumped as I tucked farther into the corner of the room I’d put myself in once I’d managed to produce an ice pack and a bottle of pain reliever. It had been suggested I keep a healthy distance from the future king until it was determined I was no longer a physical threat. Though I thought James, the “common” college friend, had mostly been teasing when he suggested that.
“No one told me you were coming,” I said, as though it were an admissible defense for nearly giving the future ruler of a country brain damage.
Prince Edward’s ice-blue eyes froze a little more. “I didn’t realize I needed to inform the staff when I decided to visit one of my family’s homes.”
I fumbled with my phone settled deep in my overalls’ pocket, debating if I should call Mrs. Hutchinson. Of course walloping the good prince in the head less than twelve hours since I started the job warranted a call to my supervisor, but no one else seemed to be in a hurry to sic the royal police on me.
Yet.
I also knew that once Mrs. Hutchinson found out about what would now be referred to as the Stainless Steel Disaster of 2019, I’d be out of a job so fast I wouldn’t know what hit me. Maybe a skillet.
“Your family left for Stratford a few days ago.” I bit my lip as I considered how to temper my blunt question to show enough deference, given who I was addressing. “What are you doing here?”
Deference was not in my communication arsenal apparently.
“I didn’t feel like joining them in the capital.” The room went silent for the first time since we’d entered it, Prince Edward’s icy stare aiming out the window. “They think I’m on safari.”
“Like a photo safari? Or the other kind?” I asked.
“It matters how?”
I swallowed my initial response, realizing now was not the time to preach conservation.
“How long are you going to be here?” I said instead.
“Why? Am I going to be cramping your space in this thirty-thousand-foot hut?” Prince Edward dropped the ice pack on the table, glaring at it with disgust as he rubbed the back of his head.
This was the first time I’d seen the prince in person. Of course it was impossible to escape his face splashed across every magazine and paper in the nation, singing his every praise. Sometimes I felt like I was the only one in Norland who wasn’t under the impression that Prince Edward was the dreamiest thing since marshmallow cream. Or that he walked on water. Or that I’d sell my left kidney for an i
nvitation to one of the many parties he attended.
He wasn’t even that good-looking . . .
I retracted that thought with a defeated sigh. Prince Edward was quite good-looking actually, but that’s where any and all “good” where he was concerned ended.
He was still scowling at me with the kind of intensity that suggested I was wearing a crown of kitten skulls.
“Are you always this angry?” I asked him without thinking.
A rumble of grunts came from his friends at the other end of the table.
“No.” Prince Edward redirected that scowl at the guys. For a moment. “But then it’s not every day I get smashed in the head by an implement used for frying bacon.”
The way he said it had me reliving the scene all over again, making me grimace. “Again, I am so, so sorry, Your Highness. I should have checked to see who it was first.”
“Enough with the ‘Your Highness’ stuff. It makes me feel like my dad.” His jaw ground. “And next time you hear someone at the door, maybe execute some self-control.”
The sound of the pan hitting his head echoed in my ears. Another grimace. “I promise, Your Highness. I mean, Prince Edward.”
More rumbles of laughter came from the other end of the table, followed by a few Your Highnesses spoken in a high voice.
His eyes flickered back to me. “Edward.”
“Edward,” I echoed before swallowing. “I think I’ll be off to bed now, before I manage to put myself out of a job any quicker.”
As I left the room, I felt him watching me. There was a heat behind it, a tangible sensation.
“Don’t worry, Skillet Ninja!” one of the dukes called after me, what sounded like a cork popping following. “It will be like we’re not even here, I promise.”
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