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

by Melanie Summers

  Then we turn to the minister, who says a whole bunch of things about love and marriage and commitment that I miss because I’m thinking about how damn relieved I am to have gotten this far.

  My father steps down and stands in front of Tessa while Vincent hurries over to place a kneeling stool for her. She takes my hand, and I help steady her while she kneels in front of my father. His smile is genuine as he unsheathes his sword (not that kind of sword—good God, you have sick mind). He taps her left shoulder with it and says, “I, Winston Phillip George Edwin Charles, rightful Monarch of the Kingdom of Avonia, Duke of Canterboroguh, Count of Middlesbury, by right of arms dub thee Princess Tessa, Duchess of Wellingborne.”

  Lifting the sword over her head, he taps her right shoulder. “Rise up, madam, and join the ranks of your peers.”

  Tessa stands and curtseys deeply to my father, looking very much like she was born into all this silliness. When she rises, my father takes her hand and smiles, then quietly says, “Well done, Tessa. I know we got off to a rocky start, but I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for my family and for my son. You’ve turned him into the man I should have, and you’re just the person to make sure he’ll be the leader this nation needs someday.”

  Tessa tears up. “Hopefully, that will be a very long time from now, Your Majesty.”

  “Call me…” he gives her a thoughtful look, then says, “Winston.”

  ****

  “This is Giles Bigley on location in Didsbury, where the bells have just begun ringing, indicating that Prince Arthur, rightful heir to the throne of Avonia, has indeed married Tessa Sharpe, who will henceforth be known as Princess Tessa, Duchess of Wellingborne.

  “Any second now the doors will open, and the happy couple will emerge and get into the waiting carriage for a short tour around the village and off to Didsbury Castle for an intimate reception. Even though they’ve broken nearly every royal protocol today, the excitement in this tiny village, and indeed around the kingdom, is unbelievable. I’ve never seen so many smiling faces in all my days as a reporter. People rushing around the cobblestone streets wishing each other well and laughing together, thrilled to be among the very few in attendance on this beautiful June afternoon.

  “The couple will honeymoon here for two days, then head to Valcourt for the official wedding parade, followed by a luncheon with dignitaries and royals from around the globe. Once the celebrations are over, they will commence a one-month honeymoon trip including Maui, Mauritius, and the Maldives…”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Three Cheers for Birthing Hips

  Tessa

  “We did it!” I say to Arthur once we settle into the carriage for the ride to the castle.

  “Yes, we certainly did!” He beams and kisses me right on the lips, not caring who happens to be watching. “Now all that’s left to do is live happily ever after.”

  “But first, let’s party.”

  We wave and smile at the crowd, Arthur holding my hand up in the air between us as though we’ve just taken gold at the Olympics—and in a way, we have. We’ve taken the top prize of love—a lifetime with the right person.

  “Hey! I just realized that you’re going to be King Arthur someday.”

  He gives me an amused look. “I can’t decide if my mother had a bit of a sense of humour or was just a real romantic.”

  “Maybe it was both.”

  ****

  It’s ten in the evening, and the reception is in full swing. I’ve just returned from the ladies’ room, where I patted my hot face with a towel and reapplied my lipstick. I’m a bit tipsy, but more on the excitement of the day than Champagne. I stand near the door and laugh as the guests do the Chicken Dance—a request to the band from my mum, no doubt. Arthur is in the center of the floor, giving it all he’s got along with her, Nina, Isa, Nikki, and the kids.

  I think about how funny life is and how it can change on a dime. I think about the life we’re starting today and what it will be like. We’ve decided we’ll live part-time here at the castle and part-time in one of the larger empty apartments at the palace with four bedrooms, one of which will become Dexter’s. Arthur came by my parents’ place a couple of days ago and loaded all my things into the limo himself so everything will be set when we get home. Home. That has a wonderful ring to it. And even if it will be a strange sort of life in a lot of ways, the scones are to die for.

  Arthur has declared that we will take every Sunday off so we can just be together and do nothing. Or something. Or somethin’ somethin’.

  “Well, this has been quite the hoot, my dear.”

  I look to my left and see the Princess Dowager at my side. “It has been wonderful, hasn’t it?”

  “Quite. Your people are an absolute blast. Not a stuffed shirt in the bunch. I think I’ll fit in quite well with them.”

  “You will indeed. I’ve already had all four of my brothers give me what for over not inviting you to Sunday dinner yet.”

  She laughs. “I’d love that. Now, which ones are single again?”

  “Bram and Finn. Although, from the looks of things, I think Bram and Irene over there are going to make a go of it.”

  “Finn, it is, then.” She gives me a wry smile. “And how lovely for you that you don’t have to worry about the wedding night.”

  I feel my face warm at her meaning, and I laugh.

  “Good that you young ladies do a test drive before you make a final decision,” she says with a firm nod. “Although in my case, it all worked out very nicely in that regard.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” I put one arm over her shoulder and pull her in for a side hug.

  She bristles for a moment, then seems to relax, so I go all in and give her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For giving me a chance, for getting Arthur and me back together, for lending me this gorgeous tiara for today, for welcoming me—”

  “Don’t get all sentimental on me. I’ll lose all respect for you.” She reaches up and pats me on the cheek. “Now, I’ll be expecting great-grandchildren right away. With those excellent birthing hips of yours, it shouldn’t be much trouble at all for you.”

  I laugh, covering my mouth with one hand.

  The Princess Dowager breaks away from my hold and says, “Oh, there’s that handsome Xavier. I’m going to make him dance with me.”

  “Be gentle with him!” I call as she walks away.

  I look around and see my father and King Winston standing next to the bar, laughing with each other. They’ve been deep in conversation for the better part of an hour now, which, I have to say, warms my heart. I’m suddenly proud of my father, who has the ability to be uniquely himself no matter who he’s with. I resolve to tell him as much as soon as I can pry him away from King Winston long enough for a dance.

  As I scan the room and take it all in, it occurs to me that I need to be more like my dad, which is to say, happy to be me. I’ll never manage to make everyone like or accept me, but I can be my best self wherever I go.

  I am Tessa Langdon, Princess of Avonia, Duchess of Wellingborne, Potty-Mouth Extraordinaire, Former Blogger, Recently Retired Reporter, and Soon-to-be Board Member of the three dozen charities I have taken on.

  And best of all, I am brave, I am strong, and I am loved.

  The Royal Delivery

  ~ a crown jewels romantic comedy ~

  By Melanie Summers

  DEDICATION

  For first-time mums and dads everywhere,

  Relax. You’re not going to fuck this up any worse than

  any of the other parents out there.

  I promise.

  Melanie

  ONE

  Vomitgate

  Tessa - 6 Weeks

  I am going to vomit.

  I think. Maybe not. But if I do, it will prove rather inconvenient since my father-in-law, King Winston, is hosting a state dinner to celebrate four hu
ndred years of peace between Avonia and our surrounding nations of Belgium, The Netherlands, and the UK. Vomiting isn’t exactly considered acceptable behaviour at these things, but I’m afraid there’s a very good chance it’s going to happen anyway. Unfortunately, I’m not only seated at the center of a table for one hundred twenty-two, I’m also dressed in a Dior gown that frankly is very restrictive and therefore will definitely not allow me to move quickly enough to get out of the dining hall.

  I’m also seated next to the King of Belgium—an avid hunter, as luck would have it—who is currently regaling me with a most detailed account of how to properly clean a duck the Belgian way and with every word, I feel slightly more nauseous.

  “…dig around in the chest cavity until you find the entrails. You do not want to leave it…”

  Entrails? Oh, no. Please stop talking about entrails.

  “…keep the heart and liver in a plastic bag…”

  Burp. Maybe if I try that slow breathing technique, I’ll feel better. Yes, I’ll pretend to listen while I concentrate on breathing in calm, cleansing air, two, three – nope. Shit. There is absolutely no way I’ll be able to get up and scurry out of the room before—

  Oh, there it is. I have vomited in my nearly empty soup bowl.

  Four times.

  Fuckity fuck.

  I daintily dab at the corners of my mouth, then push my chair back. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty,” I say to the king, who is now wiping recycled black truffle soup off his lapels. “My, that certainly splashed a lot more than I thought it would. My apologies.”

  The entire room went silent sometime between my second and third heave, and now I can feel one hundred twenty-one sets of eyes on me as I hurry out of the room, burping and gagging. I wave a hand at the string quartet, who have stopped playing and are also staring at me, mouths agape.

  “That was a lovely tune. Please continue.”

  I give them a little nod and attempt a grin, but I’m sure with the green tint to my face, it’s coming off as creepy rather than warm. A hand on my elbow takes me by surprise. I look up to see Arthur, who truly is a prince of a husband.

  “Nice aim. You almost got it all in the bowl this time.”

  He gives me a small wink as he wraps one arm behind my back. We make it out into the hallway with our bodyguards, Ollie and Xavier, flanking us. As soon as the doors are closed behind us, I stop and hold out my wrists. Xavier peels off the diamond tennis bracelet and replaces it with a Sea-band, checking to make sure it’s applied directly to the proper pressure point before he does my other wrist. Xavier swears by Sea-bands based on his days in the Navy, but I’m not convinced.

  “There you go, Your Highness,” he says. “In a few minutes, you’ll be right as rain.”

  “Thank you, Xavier.” I take off my tiara and necklace, then hand them to him. “Can you please return these to the vault?”

  “Certainly. Let’s just get you to your room first.”

  Arthur gives him a nod. “I’ve got her. You take care of the jewels.” His tone is a little sharp, which I’ve noticed is happening more since we found out about the baby.

  Xavier, who doesn’t seem fazed, smiles and nods before turning toward the vault room. Ollie, who it turns out has a very weak stomach for a man of his size and profession, follows us at a safe distance. Yesterday, he dry heaved repeatedly when I got sick in the limo.

  Feeling a wave of dizziness, I close my eyes for a second. “Why did I think I could manage this dinner? I’m such an idiot.”

  “Nonsense. You’re an optimist. I love that about you.” Arthur gives me a peck on the forehead. “Besides, it would have been a huge scandal had you not shown up. The press would have had us on the verge of divorce before the desserts were brought out.”

  “I suppose, but I’m sure they’ll find a way to turn my most recent undignified incident into something sinister, so either way, I’m really no closer to becoming a proper princess, am I?”

  “Nonsense, you’re every bit the perfect princess.”

  “Ha! I just yakked on the King of Belgium. I’m neither perfect nor proper.”

  “Proper’s dull as all hell. Now, can you make it to our apartment, or do we need to make a stop at the ladies’ room?”

  “I think I can make it.” I lean my head on his shoulder while we slowly walk toward the private residence wing of our home, Valcourt Palace.

  He lets go of me for as long as it takes him to pluck a Ming dynasty vase out of a niche in the wall. “Just in case.”

  “Oh no, Arthur, I could never vomit into a priceless vase.”

  He shrugs. “You’re my princess. Nothing’s too good for your vomit. Besides, it can be much more easily washed than my tux.” He’s referring to three days ago, when I ruined his navel uniform just as we were on our way to the academy for the graduation ceremony.

  I cringe at the memory of it, and my stomach churns a little more. “You should go back to the dinner. I’ll be fine.”

  “And yet, I’m still going to walk you to our room, help you get undressed, and get you into bed,” he says. “But not in the fun way.”

  “The fun way was what ended with me vomiting on the King of Belgium.”

  Arthur stifles a laugh. “I know I shouldn’t find it funny, but my God, the look on his face was absolute perfection. I assume he was going on about how to properly clean a duck.”

  “He kept talking about the entrails.” I say, then burp at the memory.

  We cross the Grande Hall, then make our way to the lift. When the doors slide open, I hesitate slightly, realizing the stairs might be a safer option.

  “Don’t even think about the stairs. There’s no way you should walk up three flights in your condition. Besides, we’ve got the vase with us.” He ushers me onto the lift, then hits the button.

  Ollie stays in the hall, looking horrified, and says, “Right, then. I’ll just meet you up there.”

  When the doors open twelve seconds later, Ollie is waiting. Arthur holds the vase—which is no longer in mint condition—at arm’s length. Ollie jumps out of the way and makes a small gagging sound.

  I wobble a little as I look up at Arthur. “Sorry.”

  Arthur looks a little green himself but nods bravely. “No need to apologize. I’m the one who got you into this mess in the first place.”

  “Yes, that’s right. You should really be apologizing to me.”

  We make our way to our apartment, and within five minutes Arthur has me tucked safely in bed in my Sponge Bob pajamas, which I know are not exactly befitting a future queen, I but still can’t seem to bring myself to give them up.

  Arthur tucks a cleaning bucket beside me on the bed. Since the ‘morning-noon-and-night sickness’ hit, I’ve developed a strange attachment to ‘Buckety,’ bringing him everywhere with me (except, of course, tonight’s celebration). I stroke the bucket gratefully while Dexter, our pot-bellied pig, stands next to Arthur, staring at me with sad eyes. Pigs are smart, and this one seems to realize I’m really not feeling well. He’s been following me wherever I go, which is a real shift, as he used to be Arthur’s pig through and through. It’s very sweet, except he does smell, like, well, a pig, which isn’t always helpful in me keeping the contents of my stomach in my stomach.

  I look up at Arthur. He’s so handsome in his black tie and crown. How is this man my husband? I’m a failed reporter-turned-blogger, and yet here I am, in the bed of the heir apparent.

  “I guess the cat will be out of the bag now that I’ve done it in public.”

  We’ve been trying to keep the pregnancy a secret until I hit the second trimester, but it seems as though that ship has now sailed. In true Tessa fashion, I’ve gone and humiliated myself publicly, yet again.

  “I can just imagine what your father will have to say, not to mention that awful Dylan.”

  Dylan Sinclair is a media consultant the King hired shortly after Arthur and I had a little mishap on the be
ach in Maui on our honeymoon when we traveled to what we thought was the most secluded beach on the island so I could sunbathe topless. It was a ‘we’re wild, young, free, and on our honeymoon’ thing. But apparently, that type of freedom is not for members of the royal family because it turns out we weren’t as alone as we thought, so now the entire world has seen my tatas. Not exactly kosher for the consort to the future king.

  Anyway, Dylan has quickly become the bane of my existence. She likes to hold weekly meetings with me to discuss my popularity—or lack thereof, more accurately—using her talents as a Google analytics wizard combined with her knowledge of marketing to basically destroy my ego on every Monday afternoon. So, that's a lovely way to start my week, don't you think?

  The senior advisers all seem to think she’s a PR genius, which quite honestly is irritating beyond belief, since all she does is boost the king’s already sizable ego and find new ways to make sure I know I’m a total failure. Dylan keeps a “Days Without Incident” counter on the whiteboard in her office, which is utterly humiliating. Arthur’s questioned her about it, and she insists it’s to measure the movements of all palace staff and the entire royal family, but we both know it’s really about me.

  I sigh and stare up at him. “I made it to sixty-eight days today. My longest stretch yet.”

  “By my account, it’s really ninety-four days. It’s completely unfair to count tripping over a dog.”

  Ah, yes, on a trip to London this past winter, I tripped on one of the Queen of England’s beloved corgis and broke his short little leg, which made me ever so popular with dog lovers everywhere. And British people, for that matter.

  My gut tenses at the memory. “He honestly came out of nowhere.”

  “Could’ve happened to anyone, really,” Arthur says.

  “But it didn’t. It happened to me,” I say, slapping my hand over my eyes. “Just like I’m the one who ruined the celebration tonight.”