Royal Mistake: The Complete Series

by Ember Casey

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door as I’m walking out.

  I’m not sure what’s come over me, but I start giggling like a little girl. I grab the robe and strip out of my donated clothes before pulling on the soft robe. I tie it as tight as I can, almost like it’s giving me a hug.

  I have to close my eyes for another moment, forcing back the tears that seem to come from nowhere. A hug. When was the last time that happened?

  Andrew held me on the plane today. He’s held me in his arms every night since this bad dream started—how long ago has it even been? Five nights now? Five nights and I need to be held to be able to sleep. Five nights and I’ve gone from needing no one in my life to needing a hug? To needing to be held?

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I know we were in a plane crash. I know this is probably post-traumatic stress disorder or something. I know my foot is fucking killing me, and the hospital discharged me without so much as a pain pill or a how-the-fuck-are-you-holding-up-after-you-almost-died. And I know that everything that has happened in the past five days is some sort of surreal dream—nightmare—that I’m probably going to wake myself from at any second. Because how the hell do you go from being a woman who doesn’t need a man, a job, a home, or any other fucking thing in her life to being some pathetic excuse for a little girl? A little girl who’s crying because her overly soft robe feels like a goddamned stuffed animal wrapped around her. Crying because what she really wants is some goddamned stuffy prince wrapping himself around her…

  Something is wrong with me.

  And the thought of being alone tonight in this room—on that huge bed—I don’t want to think about it, but it isn’t like I have a choice. It isn’t like I can go wandering the halls of the palace, looking for Andrew’s room to see if maybe he’s having trouble sleeping, too. And it isn’t so much the sleeping that I’m worried about. It’s that we can’t seem to keep our hands to ourselves when we’re together. But maybe it’s only because we’re so sleep deprived. Or because no one else can understand what we’ve been through. It isn’t like there can really be an attraction between the two of us. It isn’t like we have anything in common, other than how we were sitting next to each other when the plane crashed.

  Thinking about the crash brings tears to my eyes again. Even considering being alone makes my breath catch in my chest, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a panic attack, if not something worse.

  I’m just about to crumple to the floor in a puddle of tears when I hear a knock on my door.

  Dinner.

  The queen had said she was going to send dinner to my room. I had declined, but she had insisted, even after I had refused again. My stomach hasn’t been right since the plane went down, and I can’t even imagine trying to eat the rich Montovian food I’m sure she’s had sent here.

  At least the knock distracts me from falling apart and gives me a chance to pull myself back together. I walk over to the door, smoothing the robe down and making sure no skin is showing before I crack open the door to tell the servant I don’t need dinner tonight.

  But it isn’t a servant and there is no dinner tray.

  Andrew is standing at the doorway and his eyes lock with mine through the small opening.

  We stare at each other for a moment, almost as though we can read the other’s thoughts. The expression on his face certainly seems to mirror what I’m feeling. I’m not even sure what that feeling is, only that I’m about to lose it in a very big way. The dark shadows under his sunken eyes tell me he’s probably slept even less in the past several days than I have.

  He finally breaks the silence between us. “May I come in, Victoria?”

  I give him a shaky nod and pull the door open for him to enter. I glance into the corridor—no one seems to have accompanied him. I’m not sure what it would mean if someone had—or what they would think of him, coming to my room like this. Or what they would think of me.

  Elle told me about her run-ins with some of the staff here, and I know they can be very unforgiving if they think someone is trying to take advantage of the royal family. And that just isn’t a complication I need in my life—things are damn well complicated enough without having Andrew in my room or having the servants talking about me.

  I turn to face Andrew and press my back against the door after I’ve closed it.

  He stares at me for a few moments before he clasps his hands behind his back and begins pacing. “I’ve been thinking, Victoria.”

  I lift a brow. “Oh?”

  He nods, but continues to pace the length of the small sitting room, a few feet from where I’m standing. “Yes. I believe I’ve come to a resolution regarding the predicament we find ourselves in.”

  “Predicament.” He has no idea. I watch him pacing for another few moments before I notice he’s changed his clothes, too. “What the hell are you wearing?”

  He stops in his tracks and turns to me, his mouth slightly open. “I’m sorry?”

  I nod toward him—I have to almost bite my lip not to laugh. “Those pajamas. They’re… I don’t even know what to call them. Is that what you wear to bed? For real?”

  He looks down at the clothes—they’re pajamas, I think, but the shirt covering the baggy silk pants is so long it almost touches his knees and is so loose it almost looks like a bag. “These are traditional nightclothes, Victoria. And if you must know, I generally prefer to sleep in the nude. Which brings me to my—”

  Something starts to bubble up inside of me. It starts out as a laugh—a full-on belly laugh that makes me double over and clutch at my abdomen. I’m not sure how long I laugh—or what I’m laughing at, really. And I’m pretty sure there isn’t anything this funny about his pajamas—and this is the strangest laugh I’ve ever felt.

  But it doesn’t last too long—probably only a few seconds. The laugh turns into something else almost as quickly as it started. I hear the strangest sounds and it takes me a second to realize that they’re coming from me—choked sobs that almost rip my chest open.

  I sink slowly to the ground, my knees buckling underneath me as I slide down the wall to the floor.

  I close my eyes, wishing I was anywhere but collapsed in front of Prince Andrew. My client. My employer. I try to remind myself of all the reasons that this cannot happen in front of him, but it does nothing to stop me. I pull my knees up to my chest and sob into them.

  I’m not sure how long I sit there, but when I finally lift my head, Andrew is sitting next to me. And his arm is around my shoulder.

  I sniffle and shake my head. “I don’t do this.”

  He nods. “I know.”

  “How do you know?” I turn to look at him. “How could you possibly—”

  “I just do.”

  My mouth falls open, but before I can argue with him, he speaks again. “A woman who can break her sandal to start a fire is not typically the type to sob over traditional night clothing.”

  I laugh again—a real laugh this time—but tears still spring to my eyes again. It takes me a second, but I’m able to control myself this time. I smile and rest my head against his arm. “Do you have a nightcap, too? One of those long ones with the ball at the end?”

  He chuckles. “I suppose if I wanted to, I could obtain one.” He pauses for a moment. “Would you like that?”

  I laugh again. “Would it matter?”

  I feel him shrug underneath me. “If it would make you laugh again, I might consider it.”

  I’m not sure what it is I hear in his voice, but my smile falls and I’m almost glad that my head is tipped against his shoulder as he holds me in the crook of his arm—I know he can’t see my face at this angle. And I’m not sure what it is he might see in my expression—only that I don’t want him knowing that he’s affecting me at all.

  We’re quiet for a few moments before I finally break the silence that hangs between us. “What are you doing here, Andrew?”

  He’s si
lent for a moment too long, but I feel his arm tighten around my shoulder. “As I was trying to tell you earlier, I believe I have a resolution to our predicament.”

  “Right.” I nod. “I’m sorry I interrupted.” I press my lips together to hold back my next burst of giggling at thinking about his nightclothes. “Enlighten me, Your Highness.”

  He sighs and shifts next to me, but his arm stays firmly in place, wrapped around my shoulder. “I propose that for the time being—until other arrangements can be made—we…” He clears his throat, almost as though he’s unable to say out loud what he really wants from me. “We both seem to be unable to sleep without the other in close proximity—”

  “And we seem to have a problem being in close proximity, Your Highness. What happened on the plane—”

  He interrupts. “Doesn’t have to happen again.” He clears his throat. “Though it may kill me to restrain myself, I’m fully capable of doing so.”

  “Yeah, yeah—you’ve already said. If I want you to restrain yourself.” I press my lips into a line, but not because of laughter this time. I almost have to clench my jaw when I remember why I’m here—why he really needs me. Knowing that sleep has nothing to do with it—as soon as he finds his princess, he’ll have someone else to hold him at night. And I’ll be right back where I was before I came here. The same place I was before he came to my room tonight.

  Alone.

  Andrew

  Victoria doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

  “Well?” I ask her finally. “Would you like me to stay?”

  I can’t see her face in our current position, but I can sense the uncertainty in her body. “Andrew…I don’t know.”

  My grip tightens slightly on her. I suppose I expected her to agree without hesitation, considering the way she’s currently nestled against me.

  “Would you like me to go?” I ask her softly.

  Again, she hesitates a moment before responding. “I don’t know.”

  But she doesn’t move, so I’m content to stay just like this for as long as she’ll let me. When I turn my face, my nose is right against her hair, and I breathe her in, savoring the honey-autumn smell of her. Even if we don’t sleep, I would be content to stay like this all night. At least the restlessness seems to leave my body when she’s in my arms.

  We sit there for some time, saying nothing and doing nothing. Just breathing and holding onto each other. And then she shifts. Her fingers tighten on my nightshirt as she lifts her head from my shoulder.

  “Andrew, I—”

  A knock sounds at the door behind us, making us both jump.

  Shit—I forgot they were sending up supper. Both Victoria and I scramble to our feet, and she starts to reach for the door, but I grab my arm and stop her. If someone sees me in here, the entire palace will know by morning. I won’t subject Victoria to that.

  The knock sounds again. “Ms. Simpson? Her Majesty asked the kitchen to send up some food for you.”

  I release Victoria’s wrist and silently indicate that I’m going to hide in the bedroom. Victoria gives a nod, and I dart across the room to the other door, ducking behind it.

  It’s not until I’m safely hidden that I realize how ridiculous my life has become. Look at me—hiding from palace staff in a woman’s room because I couldn’t bear to spend a night away from her side. What has happened to me?

  On the other side of the door, I hear Victoria speaking with the woman who brought up her supper. Dishes rattle as, I assume, the attendant lays her food out on the small parlor table. A few moments later, I hear the door close again, and suddenly Victoria opens the bedroom door.

  “She’s gone,” she tells me.

  I nod and step back out into the parlor, still feeling a little absurd.

  My eyes fall to the table and the spread of food. My mother, it seems, expected her to be quite starved—there’s easily enough for three or four people here.

  “I… Do you want something to eat?” Victoria asks. “I’m assuming if the food is only just arriving then you probably missed your own dinner delivery.”

  And I can only imagine what the attendant will assume when she realizes I am not in my room, I think. But I quickly push my fears aside—if it comes to that, I can simply claim I went for a walk to stretch my legs after our long flight. Or that I had some business to attend to now that I am home again.

  I still don’t have much of an appetite, in spite of the fact that Victoria and I ate little on our flight. But I know I should try to eat—if only to encourage her to do the same.

  “It would probably be advisable to put something in our stomachs,” I say, sitting down on the little sofa in front of the table.

  Victoria sits down beside me. For a long moment, neither of us touches the food. And then I reach forward and grab the basket of buttered buns, offering it to her. She takes one and nibbles on it silently. I take another and do the same.

  We fall into a strange sort of silence as we pick at the food in front of us. Neither of us seems to know what to say to the other. I am only eating for her sake—I wonder if she is only eating for mine.

  After a time, I set down my food. “Do you feel better now that you’ve eaten?”

  She gives me a wry sort of half-smile. “Not really. Do you?”

  “No.” I look down at the table. “Honestly, I think a solid night’s sleep in a real bed will do us the most good.”

  She nods, but a frown has appeared on her face again. “Andrew…”

  “Yes?”

  She lets out a long breath. “Maybe it’s best if you go back to your own room tonight.”

  I should have predicted this was coming, but I still don’t like it. “Are you certain you’ll be able to sleep without me?”

  “No.” She’s not looking at me. “I probably won’t sleep at all. It’s just that…well, it’s just a bad idea.”

  “We need sleep,” I say. “Proper sleep. And if the only way either of us can achieve that is by—”

  “This is about more than sleep,” she says.

  “And I’ve already promised you I would restrain myself.”

  She shakes her head. “Andrew, you had to hide when someone came to the door. If that’s not a hint we’re doing something wrong, then I don’t know what is.”

  “I hid for your sake,” I say. “So you wouldn’t find yourself the subject of rumors on your very first night here.”

  “But what about after tonight? Are you honestly planning on sneaking in here every night from now on? How long do you think we can keep this up? Where does it end?”

  Honestly, I haven’t let myself think about that—which on its own should be proof that something has happened to me. I plan everything. Do everything in my power to maintain control over every aspect of myself and my life.

  “I don’t know where it ends,” I say finally. “But that doesn’t mean we should end it tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, or the night after that, we won’t need each other to sleep. Tonight, though, we do—and the only thing stopping us from helping each other is ourselves. We have a choice to help each other or not, and I, for one, would prefer to help. Tomorrow, we might make a different choice, but tonight, my choice is to be here.”

  She looks at me, and I can see the confusion in her eyes. Suddenly, she stands.

  “I—I don’t even have anything to sleep in,” she says.

  “That must be an oversight,” I say, rising as well. “I requested that you be able to select your own wardrobe upon arrival, but I assumed—wrongfully, it would seem—they would provide you with some temporary things in the meantime. Rest assured, that will be rectified first thing in the morning. For now, though, perhaps I might have a solution.”

  “I am not sleeping naked.”

  “That wasn’t my suggestion.” As appealing as that sounds. In response, I pull off my nightshirt.

  “I didn’t mean for you to get naked either,” she says, and I can hear the panic in her voice.

  “I assure you, tha
t’s not my intention,” I tell her. “My pants are staying on, I promise.” I hold out the nightshirt to her.

  Her eyes shift from the offered garment to my bare chest. A flush of color rises to her cheeks, and she looks quickly away.

  “You live in L.A.,” I say. “Surely you aren’t offended by the sight of a man without his shirt.”

  “I never said I was,” she says, grabbing the nightshirt from my hand. She looks down at it. “You don’t have to give me your pajamas to wear.”

  “As I told you before, I usually sleep naked. I will hardly be bereft without my nightshirt.”

  She looks at the garment a moment longer, then sighs and walks toward the bedroom. She doesn’t say a word to me, but I know better than to follow her now.

  A few minutes later, she appears at the doorway to the bedroom, this time dressed in my nightshirt.

  And my breath catches in my throat at the sight of her.

  She’s wearing a man’s nightshirt—she has no right to look this intoxicating. But despite the garment being far too large for her, the silken fabric skims over her curves in a way that leaves little to the imagination. I can see the swell of her hips, the slope of her breasts—even the points of her nipples through the thin fabric.

  My God, I am never going to make it through this night.

  She must notice me staring, because Victoria’s face has gone three shades of pink.

  “This is a bad idea,” she says, shaking her head in a way that makes her loose hair fall around her face.

  “No, it isn’t,” I say, crossing the room to her in three strides.

  Restrain yourself, I think. Remember your promise to her.

  When I reach her, I stop just in front of her. My hand reaches out and brushes her hair back.

  “We’ve made our choice for tonight,” I say. “Tomorrow, we can make a different one.”

  She looks up at me and nods.

  Together, we go over to the bed. We’ve slept together several nights now, but never in a proper bed. Perhaps that’s why tonight feels so different, why this choice seems to carry so much more weight.