The Crown Jewels Boxed Set (A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy Series)

by Melanie Summers

  “Ibiza is a total party island. Can we at least find somewhere not so…wild?”

  “Okay, Granny. I’ll see if we can book a river cruise down the Danube.”

  “Oh, God, you’re really going to make this difficult for me, aren’t you?”

  “A little bit, yes. But you owe me, remember?”

  “Owe you? For what?”

  “Because you’re too busy to hang out, and you’re getting all princessy and stuff with your packed schedule and your dress designer and your delicious bodyguard. Tell him I said hi, by the way.” She snaps her gum, making a loud popping sound into the phone. “Oh! I just realized Xavier will be coming with us, won’t he?”

  “No, I’m planning to leave him here. I can’t exactly afford to spring for his ticket, and I don’t expect Arthur to pay for his trip.”

  “Are you allowed to leave home without him?”

  “Yes. Of course I can. No one outside of Avonia will recognize me, so I’ll be quite safe.”

  “Too bad. Can you imagine him without his shirt on?”

  “No, I can’t. And I prefer not to.” I quickly Google cheap flights to sunny destinations while I talk. “What about Monaco? It’s supposed to be lovely there.”

  “Monaco is for rich, old people. We don’t fit into either of those categories. Well, I don’t. You, however…”

  “I’m neither rich nor old,” I say, feeling my hackles go up a bit at the accusation.

  “You sure? Did you just hear how you answered me?” Nikki laughs, then puts on a very haughty voice. “I’m neither rich nor old.”

  “Oh, God, that really did sound…”

  “Snooty?”

  “I was going to say polished.”

  “Whatever label you put on it, you don’t sound much like Tessa.”

  Bollocks. I’m about to give in, aren’t I? “Fine. We’ll go to Ibiza, but not to the nude beaches—and no raves.”

  “Yay!” she shrieks into the phone. “We’re finally going to Spain!”

  “And we’re not doing one of those booze cruises.”

  “We can negotiate the terms when we get there.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Gotta run. My one o’clock is here.”

  ****

  Didsbury Castle is exactly as magical as I expected. It’s over seven hundred years old, built from stone and made to last. One could fit at least twenty of this castle in Valcourt Palace, which still leaves it an impressive specimen of architecture. It’s been refurnished many times over the centuries, but one thing remains the same—the incredible views of the sea and the shores to the north of the castle, and the gently-sloping meadows to the south. The land up here is vastly different than that near Valcourt. The hills roll to the south as far as the eye can see and, today, are blanketed in white snow with only the odd bare, frost-covered tree to break up the fields.

  It’s after lunch on Christmas Eve, and Arthur has just finished taking me on a tour of his favourite home. I haven’t seen him so excited since the day we got engaged. He leads me quickly from room to room, telling me hilarious tales of his childhood much of which was spent here. We make our way through secret passageways (can you believe they have actual secret passageways?), from room to room while Arthur explains the difference between a palace and a castle.

  As it turns out, a castle is built to provide protection in the event of an attack, whereas a palace is more of a luxurious home meant to impress. Unlike the palace, the castle has a homey feel with warm tones in the carpets, draperies and furniture, and is much more casual. Roaring fires have been lit in each of the enormous fireplaces to welcome us.

  Dexter, who has made the trip with us in the limo, is fast asleep in front of the fire in the library, where we started and now are ending our tour. But I’m not here to learn about the secrets of Didsbury Castle or even to spend time with the love of my life. I have one objective—to make Arabella like me. Well, not make, more like encourage through my thoughtfulness and wit.

  When I really think about it, I know it’s a tall order. She’s not likely going to warm up to me. But maybe, just maybe, by the end of the three days she’ll hate me less. King Winston has elected to spend Christmas in Bali this year, having quietly left a few days ago. The dowager drove up with us and has gone to visit an old friend in the village. Arabella, who I suspect could not stomach the thought of making the trip with me, will be here any minute.

  “So,” I say, wrapping my arms around Arthur, “what’s the traditional Langdon family way to spend Christmas Eve?”

  “Christmas Eve dinner together, followed by heading into the village for midnight mass. What do the Sharpes do on Christmas Eve?”

  “Scrabble tournament. Highly competitive, high-stakes, typically my one chance of the year to beat my brothers at anything.”

  “So, you fancy yourself quite the Scrabble master, do you?” Arthur grins.

  “I’m pretty sure I could take you for a few dollars.” I smile.

  “I had something else in mind entirely.” He gets that gleam in his eye, and I know what he’s about to suggest.

  “You’re thinking strip Scrabble, aren’t you?”

  He pulls me to him and gives me a big kiss on the lips. “You know me so well.”

  A light cough coming from the direction of the door interrupts the moment. Arthur and I quickly drop our hands and turn to see who it is. Arabella gives us a little nod. “It looks like I’m interrupting.”

  “Of course you’re not. Happy Christmas.” Arthur crosses the room and gives her a big hug.

  “Hi, Arabella. Happy Christmas.” I try for a warm smile, but not wanting to overdo it, I narrow my lips causing the combination to come out looking like my dermatologist went overboard with the Botox. (Not that I’ve had Botox, or have a dermatologist, for that matter.) “We were just about to play some Scrabble. Would you like to join us?”

  She gives me a hard look and then shakes her head. “I’m afraid I have some emails to return before dinner.” With that, she turns and leaves.

  I sigh, and my shoulders drop.

  Arthur smiles at me. “Don’t worry. She’ll come around eventually.”

  “I hope so.”

  ****

  Dinner is served in the dining room, which is not to be mistaken for the dining hall, a massive room with a table that seats fifty. The dining room is much smaller, with a large stone fireplace currently decorated with Evergreen boughs and ivory pillar candles. Next to the fireplace sits the tallest Christmas tree I think I’ve ever seen. It stretches up almost to the ceiling and has been fully decorated with muted red and gold decorations prior to our arrival.

  The Princess Dowager sits at the head of the table, while Arthur and I sit side-by-side to her right. Arabella is across from us, sucking back Moscow Mules like they’re going out of style. The server, Mrs. Potts (yes, that’s really her name, and yes, she does somewhat resemble a teapot in her build, but as far as I know does not have a son named Chip), brings out the first course, the traditional fish chowder and freshly baked rolls.

  I polish off my pre-dinner wine and look around, wondering if it would be considered rude of me to serve myself another glass. I know I shouldn’t, but I really am extraordinarily nervous to be sitting with Arabella again. We haven’t spent this much time together since my first night at the palace, when I had only been invited so that Prince Arthur could try to impress my knickers off me and convince me to blog very nice things about the family.

  Arthur squeezes my knee with his right hand to let me know he’s here. I’m sure the tension coming off me is visible. I pick up my spoon and hold it the way they showed on that YouTube video, lightly resting it on the side of my index finger. I scoop away from me as I dip it in to the soup, then lift and delicately bring it towards my lips.

  Mrs. Potts, who is quickly becoming my favourite person on the planet, comes back out and refills my wine. “How’s the soup?”
she asks.

  “Delicious.” I nod and thank her for the wine.

  She sets another Moscow Mule in front of Arabella, then quickly surveys the table, gives a nod and turns to go, saying over her shoulder, “I thought it must be one of our better batches on account of how quiet it is in here.”

  When she leaves the room, her words hang in the air, forcing us to face the awkwardness between us.

  “So, Arabella, do you have any trips planned over the next couple of months?” Arthur asks.

  “No.” Arabella dabs at the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

  Princess Florence puts her spoon down and stares at her granddaughter for a moment. “You’re not still holding a grudge, are you, my dear?”

  Arabella shrugs and sips at her drink.

  “Sulking is not a good look on you, darling. Neither is piss-drunk. Now, take that sceptre out of your keister and let’s try and have a fun Christmas, shall we?”

  I feel my cheeks glowing with embarrassment in that way that only happens when you’re a child and you’re over at a friend’s house, and said friend gets in a massive amount of trouble from her parents because the two of you just polished off the last ten cookies in the jar. You know you’re to blame as well, but they’re only yelling at her, and you can’t exactly do anything about it.

  “You can’t force me to like her,” Arabella says quietly. She glances at me, but only for the briefest second before she continues eating her soup. I suddenly lose my appetite. Baz would be very pleased.

  ****

  After dinner, the four of us make our way to the living room. There is another Christmas tree in this room, only this one resembles something a little more like what you would see in a more typical house. It’s much shorter for one thing, so you wouldn’t need a ladder to put the star on top. It’s beautifully decorated, but interspersed are handmade decorations; when I examine them closer, I see that these were made by Arthur and Arabella as children. The sight warms my heart, and for the first time since I arrived, I think we may have more in common when it comes to celebrating Christmas than I originally thought.

  Arthur, who was very quiet for most of the meal, announces that we should open our presents before we head into the village for mass. Arabella’s eyes light up for a moment, then she seems to remember I’m here, and her face returns to its previous stoic look.

  “Splendid idea,” Princess Florence says, seating herself in an armchair next to the tree.

  “I have a little something for each of you up in my room,” I say, feeling my heart in my throat at the thought of giving Arabella her gift. She’ll probably toss it in the fire even though it’s taken me several hours to make.

  “I’ll be right back.” I try to sound cheerful as I make my way to the door, but part of me wouldn’t mind walking right out of the castle, getting in the car, and driving home to my parents’ house. Imagine that. I’m longing to be with my family.

  “Do you need help finding your room?” Arthur asks, following me to the hall.

  “No, I’ll be fine. I have an excellent sense of direction,” I say, grinning because he knows nothing could be further from the truth.

  He nods. “Yes, of course you do. Like right now, for instance. You do realize you’re heading in the wrong direction?”

  I laugh, spinning on my heel. “Obviously. I just wanted to make sure you knew.” I lift my chin and start toward the stairs, calling over my shoulder, “See you in a minute!”

  I get lost four times before I find my room and twice on the way back, which, if you ask me, is an improvement. My palms are sweating by the time I find the living room, and I hope no one notices the damp patches on the gift-wrapped boxes I’m about to distribute. Christ, I hope this works.

  “There you are, dear.” Princess Florence smiles up at me. “I was just about to send Arthur to look for you.”

  “No need. I always find my way, even if it takes me several wrong turns to begin with.”

  “That’s the same for us all, I think,” Princess Florence says.

  I set my gifts under the tree and wipe my palms on my thighs as discreetly as possible.

  “May I start?” Princess Florence says. “I’ve been waiting for weeks to give you your presents.”

  Arthur finds her gifts under the tree and hands one to Arabella and one to me, then sits beside me on the couch with his own. “What could this be?” he asks, rubbing his hands together with excitement.

  Arabella, who has hers open already, says, “Oh, Gran!” Her face falls. “How to Catch and Keep Mr. Right?”

  “You’ve had such bad luck, I thought this might be a bit of help for you. Now, you two. Go!”

  I pull the wrapping off to reveal a book with a picture of a couple in bed on the cover, entitled, A Working Wife’s Guide to a Sizzling Sex Life. “Oh, wow. Well, this is…thank you. It’s very…very…”

  “Don’t mention it, dear. I know how hard it is for you young women to manage to keep all those balls in the air. This book will help you manage his.” She hoots with laughter, and I find myself laughing with her.

  When we’re done, she turns to Arthur. “You, now. Don’t be such a sissy. Open it.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Open it!” the Princess Dowager insists.

  “Yes, Arthur, let’s see what you got!” Arabella teases.

  I poke him in the arm, getting in on the fun. “Stop being a sissy. Rip that paper off.”

  Arabella grins at me but then quickly scowls before looking back at Arthur.

  Arthur swallows hard, then sighs as he rips the paper off. He shakes his head and says, “How on Earth did you turn into such a dirty old woman?”

  Princess Florence snorts out a laugh. “What dirty? I’m just trying to be helpful.”

  “You most certainly are not. You’re trying to embarrass us.” He laughs.

  “Read the title, Arthur!” Arabella insists. “What’s your awful book called?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  I give him a light slap on the arm. “Read it out loud!”

  “Fine. A Man’s Guide to Being a Lover and a Friend: Give Her What She Needs and Keep Her Coming Back for More.”

  “Ooh! I like the sound of that! Thank you, Princess Florence!” I say, trying to stifle a laugh.

  “You’re very welcome.” She winks, and for the first time I feel the tiniest bit relaxed being in the same room as Arabella.

  Arthur hands out his gifts next—a baby blue pashmina for his grandmother that he suggests will bring out her eyes, a set of noise-cancelling headphones for Arabella to take on flights, and for me a gorgeous full-length camel hair coat, something I’ve always wanted but never could afford. When it’s Arabella’s turn, she hands a gift bag to her grandmother and to Arthur, then mumbles, “I must’ve left Tessa’s present back in Valcourt.”

  “That’s all right, Arabella,” I say, attempting a smile in spite of the pang in my chest. “You don’t have to get me anything.”

  I watch as Arthur lifts a very smart cable-knit sweater from his gift bag, and Princess Florence opens a lovely set of bath salts.

  “Well, mine are next, I guess,” I say brightly. “They’re nothing really. Just small.”

  I hand each of them my presents, then sit back down again on the couch. “It’s better if you all open them at the same time. They’re all the same. Well, sort of.”

  I glance between the three of them as they tear off the paper that took me an hour to wrap, then open the boxes.

  “What’s this?” Arthur asks, picking up the black album.

  “I came across these photos at work. They were among hundreds of boxes of photos donated by Paul Downey’s widow. I know you probably have thousands of photos, but I thought these, in particular, belonged with…” My voice trails off as I see tears in Arthur’s eyes.

  He’s looking at a photo of himself as a little boy, holding his mother’s hand while she smiles do
wn at him. I hear a sob from the Princess Dowager, for whom I’ve collected an album of candid photos of her with her late husband and her son as a little boy.

  “This is absolutely lovely, my dear,” she says, smiling through her tears. “This must have taken you hours.”

  “Not too bad, really. My mum has an entire room devoted to scrapbooking, and she let me use her things.”

  I look at Arabella, who’s wiping her eyes, her shoulders shaking. For her, I have dozens of photos of her mother, Queen Cecily, from the time she was engaged until her untimely death, only two months after Arabella was born. The last photo is a closeup of Cecily kissing Arabella on her forehead.

  Arabella looks up at me and nods. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I haven’t seen any of these.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say. “I think you look just like her.”

  Arabella smiles and nods, then pats the album. “This is truly thoughtful, Tessa.”

  A warm glow spreads through me, and I know it’s corny, but I really do believe miracles are possible, especially at Christmas. I look over Arthur’s shoulder while he thumbs through his album, laughing at some photos and growing quiet at others.

  “Look how young I was,” Princess Florence says. “I almost forgot what perky bosoms I had back then.”

  ****

  It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to midnight mass. We used to go when my Grandpa Seth was alive, but after we lost him, we slowly fell out of that tradition as a family. Sitting here now in the wooden pew at the front of the stone church, I have that same cozy, sleepy feeling I had when I was a child. The service is lovely, lit by candles only, with a choir of children who yawn in-between songs. The minister speaks of love and the meaning of Christmas and the importance of family to care for each other in this modern age. I rest my head on Arthur’s shoulder a moment and close my eyes, coming dangerously close to falling asleep before I bolt upright.