The Royal Wedding: A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy, Book 2

by Melanie Summers

  My father sneers. “Is that a threat?”

  “Call it a reality-check.”

  Shrugging, my father puts the glass down on the cart. “It’ll never work. The sooner you realize it, the less you’ll humiliate yourself.”

  I turn on my heel and walk to my desk. “The draft of the trade agreement is one-hundred- and-twelve pages long. It’s taken me all morning to get to page seven.” I pick it up and offer it to him. “I’m sure Vincent will be happy to brief you on what you need to know in order to make the necessary changes.”

  My father glances at the large bundle of pages but makes no move to take it from me.

  Vincent chimes in just at the right moment. “I’d be more than happy to help, Your Majesty. You’ll need to clear your schedule for approximately ninety-two minutes in order for me to walk you through it.”

  “Thank you, no,” he says to Vincent, his eyes staying trained on me. “I shall leave this in the prince’s capable hands.”

  We stare each other down for a moment, then he breaks eye contact first and I know I’ve won. He gives me a slight nod then walks out of the office, leaving Vincent and me alone. I grin at my assistant. “How did you know?”

  “I’d be no good at my job if I wasn’t able to anticipate likely events.”

  “Have I told you lately that I’d be in serious trouble without you?”

  “You don’t have to, Your Highness. It’s enough that you know it.”

  Seven

  The Tiny Nasty Man

  Tessa

  I never thought I’d say this, but having a bodyguard is kind of a pain in the arse. Especially when said bodyguard likes to think he’s also being paid to provide morality instructions. Today, for example, he knows that I’m blowing off work so that I can attend the first of what I’m sure will be many wedding planning sessions at the palace. He happened to be not only driving, but also eavesdropping from the front seat when I phoned Hazel, pretending to be sick. I couldn’t very well ask for permission to take the day off when she’s still ‘not at all upset with me, so don’t worry’ about fake pregnancy scare.

  So, I temporarily reverted to my old ways and made an excuse as to why I couldn’t be at the weekly meeting today. When I hung up, Xavier, who was executing a left turn at a very busy intersection, also managed to exhibit his disappointment in my behaviour with a very loud tsking sound. I busied myself on my phone, answering texts and pretending I couldn’t hear him until he finally cleared his throat and said,”Do you really think lying is the best way to go about this?”

  “In this case, it’s the only way to go about it.”

  “Well, I guess it just depends what your integrity is worth to you…oh, look at that, the line is still huge at Krispy Kreme. Those people are going to kill themselves with all that artery-clogging fat and sugar.”

  Now I’m wishing that I hadn’t refused the limousine that they’d originally offered me, in favour of a Tesla with tinted windows. This would be one of the moments in which I wouldn’t feel at all bad holding the button as the privacy screen went up. I always thought it looked so rude in movies when the main character would shut out the limo driver, but now that I have a two-hundred-eighty-pound shadow not only following, but commenting on my every move, I suddenly understand the need for a few minutes alone.

  Oh, I’m sounding rather whiny today. Maybe I am pregnant. Hmm, let me see, today’s the twenty-third which would mean that, nope. Not pregnant. I don’t even have PMS. I’m just plain bitchy. Maybe it’s because it’s been raining for three days straight. Or, it could be because I’m extremely nervous about today’s meeting. Or possibly because my parents are following in their car, so that they can meet the wedding planner Arthur hired and put their two cents in about the wedding itself.

  Oh, God. The thought of that makes my stomach churn. You see, the Sharpe family has some…how to put this nicely…tacky as fuck traditions. Even though I’ve made it more than clear to them that there will be no ‘money dance’ at the reception, I’m pretty sure they’re going to try to slide that one in, along with a few other gems from my father’s side.

  They didn’t want to get a lift with Xavier and me because any time they come ‘into the city,’ which is literally a twelve-minute drive from their house, Mum needs to stop at her favourite cheese shop, then ‘that little place with that lovely Indian woman who wears those colourful clothes and has such a lovely smile’ so she can buy some turmeric for her arthritis.

  If I were smart, I’d be using this time to meditate on all the things for which I’m grateful, and to convince myself that this meeting will go smoothly and that I am the captain of my fate’s ship and a whole lot of other inspirational and calming thoughts. But the truth is I’m very, very nervous. I’m about to come face-to-face with one of the world’s top wedding planning teams, as well as several of the royal family’s aides, most of whom I’ve never met but I know dislike me very much from my Royal Watchdog days.

  Even the fact that we’re having a wedding planning meeting at all tells me that I’m out of my league. In my world, we normally host a backyard wedding on a hot summer’s day and round up the ladies in the neighbourhood to bring potluck for the meal. A posh wedding on Abbott Lane would include a large white tent set up in the garden of the bride’s parents’, as well as a local acoustic band hired based on their availability and willingness to work for pints of lager. But the wedding I’m to have is to be a completely different affair.

  My gut churns when I think about being dressed up in front of all those fancy people, not to mention all the folks parked in front of their tellies all day for the big event. Literally millions of eyes will be watching me as I make my way down the aisle towards Arthur. Millions of ears will be listening for me to mix up the order of his several middle names so they can have a good laugh. But I’ve got news for them—I’ve been working on it every night before bed and I’m going to get it right. Arthur Winston Phillip George Charles Edward. Or is it Arthur Winston George Phillip Charles Edward? Shit.

  Anyway, more money will be spent on this event than my entire extended family has collectively earned. And the thought of it makes me feel sick, even though I know that the funds have already been set aside from landholding investments that the Langdon family has made over the last several hundred years. So at least it’s not tax dollars that will be wasted, but somehow it still feels—if not wrong—definitely strange. I take a few deep breaths and quietly mutter to myself, “Don’t fuck up. Don’t fuck up. Don’t fuck up.”

  “You know Ms. Sharpe, you’ll want to be finding some replacement words for all that swearing you do. Once you’re the princess, that type of language will be quite frowned upon.” Xavier watches me in the rearview mirror for a moment and I can see from the expression in his eyes that he’s smiling, believing that he’s being helpful at the moment.

  “Thank you, Xavier,” I say between my teeth. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Hmm, what’s this button? Maybe there’s a privacy screen after all. Nope. That’s just the window. Shit.

  “Oh, are you too hot? I can turn on the air conditioning.”

  “No, just hit it by accident.”

  “Sure. Just let me know if you’re ever in need of a temperature change,” he says. “You know, there are lots of good alternatives to curse words, even some amusing ones such as ‘fudge-doodles,’ ‘forget about it,’ or ‘that’s fine and dandy.’ The trick to staying positive is to frame things in a funny way for yourself. You know, get yourself smiling, and pretty soon whatever is bothering you isn’t going to seem so bad.”

  “Okay, thank you, Xavier, but I’m a little nervous at the moment and just need to collect myself.”

  “Absolutely, but maybe this time try saying, ‘Don’t fudge-doodle it up.’ See? Fun, right?”

  I glance out the water-streaked window, only to see that the car is just passing over the Langdon River, named for my future husband’s family. His family has an entire river named after them. A
nd not a small one either. A wide, deep, fast-running river that empties into the North Sea.

  Oh, Christ, what the fuck am I doing marrying a prince? I’m no princess. I keep my jewelry in an Adidas box and swear like a biker, for God’s sake.

  Xavier parks the car in front of the palace. Several young pages dressed in raincoats stand at the bottom of the steps, holding umbrellas, ready to greet guests. As soon as the car stops, the nearest one hurries over and opens my door. As I get out, I see my parents parking directly behind Xavier, their Volkswagen Golf sticking out like a sore thumb next to a Bentley, the Range Rover, and Arthur’s limo.

  I wait at the top of the steps while another page hurries to help my parents. The massive wooden doors swing open, welcoming us into the warmth of the Grande Hall.

  My mother gasps audibly and clutches my arm with both hands. “Oh, my heavens! Have you ever seen something so amazing before?”

  “Well, yes, Mum, I did live here for two months, so —”

  “Let me get a picture. Grace next door is never going to believe this.” My mum starts digging around in her purse and pulls out her new cell phone.

  Oh, good lord. I look to my right in time to see a young woman dressed in a cream-coloured suit walking quickly towards us. She gazes at us, looking my parents and me up and down only to immediately decide that we are not her type of people.

  I feel my face heat up with embarrassment. “Mum, put your phone away; we’re here for the meeting.”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose you’re right. I’ll be able to get photos of this any time after the wedding,” my mum says loudly.

  The woman stops in front of us. “I’m Rory, Sebastian’s senior assistant.”

  “And who might Sebastian be?” my father asks.

  Rory’s head swivels like that possessed girl from The Exorcist, until she’s looking at him. “Sebastian is only the world’s most famous wedding planner. He can turn a barn into a palace with only some tulle and fairy lights. You’re very lucky that Prince Arthur was able to secure him for this event.”

  Before anyone can say anything Rory turns, gesturing for us to follow her as she hurries across the Grande Hall and off to the right, to the wing of the palace that contains the offices and board rooms. We walk briskly down the wide marble hallway, stopping at the end. Rory opens the white double doors and leads the way into the East Boardroom. “This space has been acquired by the planning team and will become nuptial central headquarters for the next six months. You’ll hear us refer to it as NCH for short. Sebastian’s big on acronyms, as he rarely has time to speak in full words. In fact, you should call him Baz instead of Sebastian. He doesn’t have time to hear his entire name.” She gestures for us to take a seat at the massive walnut table and then walks over to a counter and picks up a pile of packets. “You’ll each get a packet. On page three is the list of acronyms you should memorize so you’ll be able to follow the meetings.”

  My parents sit on either side of me on the side of the table that faces the wall of windows that overlook the meadow. My mother pulls out her phone and starts taking photos of the room. “This is where it all begins. These shots will be at the beginning of the wedding scrapbook. Rory, is it?”

  Rory nods as she places a packet in front of my mother.

  “Say cheese.” My mum holds up her phone in front of her face while Rory doesn’t even bother to attempt a smile.

  “Hmm, I don’t think that one worked,” my mum says.

  “That’s fine, Mum. We don’t need a lot of pictures of the meeting.”

  “So, what’s a guy have to do to get a cup of tea and a scone around here?” my dad asks, elbowing me in the ribs and winking in my direction. “This one says you make the best blueberry scones in Avonia, so I made sure to bring my appetite.”

  “You’d have to ask one of the palace staff,” she says stiffly.

  Four women and two men dressed in dark suits enter the room, briskly making their way around to the opposite side of the table and sitting down. I recognize them as assistants to the assistants of Arthur and King Winston. Damien, the king’s right-hand man, who Arthur despises, walks in behind them and takes a seat as far from us as possible. The five of them open small white laptops and start tapping away on them without saying hello. Vincent follows them and greets us, then introduces us to the staff. A wave of relief washes over me as soon as I smell the blue cheese, knowing that I’ll have at least one ally on the other side of the table.

  “Mmm, will it be a savory breakfast, then?” my father asks as he shakes Vincent’s hand. “Smells like cheese of some sort.”

  “Will Arthur be joining us?” I say quickly, hoping that Vincent won’t know my father’s referring to him.

  Vincent smiles and walks around to the opposite side of the table, then sits next to a particularly surly-looking woman. “I’m afraid he’s got a very busy schedule this morning, but he will be joining us for approximately eight minutes.”

  “Maybe he can get me a scone,” my father mumbles.

  My mother leans forward across me and hisses at him, “I told you to eat at home.”

  “Well, I’ve bloody well paid enough taxes to get a bite of breakfast, don’t you think?”

  “Of course you have, Reuben,” Arthur says as he strides across the room toward us. I look up at him, both thrilled that he’s here and mortified that he heard my father demanding scones.

  Rory speaks into an ear-piece. “The prince has arrived. You can bring Baz in now.”

  My mum shifts down one chair and pats the empty spot for Arthur. “Don’t mind him, he’s just a bit of a bear when he’s hungry. Which he shouldn’t be, because I told him to eat breakfast at home.”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” Arthur says. “I think we could all use a little something right about now.”

  Vincent stands without being asked and speaks into his walkie-talkie as he hurries out of the room, presumably ordering food for the meeting. Arthur sits next to me and rests his hand over top of mine then gives me a kiss on the cheek. “You look beautiful this morning. Evi, Reuben, I’m so glad you both came to help sort out the wedding plans.”

  My dad slaps his check book on the table and opens it, revealing his Valcourt United football-themed checks. “I’m not much into the frou-frou details. I’m just here to pony up and eat.”

  Did I think I was mortified before? Because this is so much worse.

  Arthur tilts his head and nods. “Ah, yes. There is the matter of who is paying for what, isn’t there?”

  “As father of the bride, I expect the bulk of the expenses will fall to me, but not to worry. We’ve been saving up for this.” He winks at me. “We’ve got a nice-sized stash to marry her off with.” He looks over at the aides on the other side of the table and points to me with his thumb. “Gotta get her out of the house at some point. She’s damn near thirty.”

  A loud clapping sound comes from the doorway, and I turn to see two young men dressed in cream-coloured suits that seem to match what Rory is wearing, followed by a small man dressed in an ivory linen top and matching pants. He looks to be about forty years old and moves quickly to the head of the table. The entire time he walks, he speaks into his mobile phone. He ends the call by saying, “Done,” then hangs up, looks us over, and smooths down the coif of perfectly-styled very black hair.

  Rory points and assigns us titles, starting with Arthur. “Prince Arthur, groom, bride, M.O.B., D.O.B.”

  Sebastian’s eyes fall on me for a long, very awkward moment. When he’s finished assessing me, he says, “I see.”

  He then glances around the room and smiles. “Six months, people. The royal wedding of the century. Can’t be done, they say? You just watch me.”

  Vincent returns followed by a line of servers pushing carts of fruit, baked goods, coffee, tea, and juices. Sebastian glances at them, sighs dramatically, and buries his face in one hand, at which point Rory jumps into action, standing up and hurrying toward the kitchen staff. “This is not the part
of the meeting in which we eat. No one eats in front of Baz.”

  Vincent leans into Arthur’s ear and whispers something. Arthur squeezes my hand. “I’m afraid I have to go, darling. Something quite urgent has come up.” He stands. “Wonderful to meet you, Baz, everyone. I’m certain that in your capable hands, we will find ourselves enjoying a most spectacular wedding.”

  Arthur then leans over my dad and puts one hand on his shoulder, while holding his other out to shake it. “Let’s you and I let them sort out the details, and once we know what the budget is we’ll talk money.”

  With that he turns and goes, leaving me feeling like a toddler who’s just had her blankie put in the washing machine. Baz instructs everyone to open their packets so we can begin the meeting. My dad leans over and murmurs in my ear, “Why can’t we eat?”

  Baz clears his throat and runs his tongue over his teeth while he stares down my dad. “Can we proceed?”

  “Of course,” I say quietly.

  “You’ll notice we’re wearing ivory and cream today. This will be the theme of the wedding. Flowers, invitations, table cloths, napkins, chair covers—everything ivory and cream. This wedding will set a new standard in sophistication. Think opulent, think luxury, a true celebration of the achievement of being royal. Even the guests will be in ivory and cream. Only the king and Prince Arthur will provide the pop of colour.”

  “Oh, no, you can’t be serious. You can’t expect all the guests to go out and buy ivory clothes when they’ve probably got perfectly good wedding clothes at home. Besides, think of how mucked up the children’s clothes will be,” my mum says, shaking her head. “Besides, Tessa loves cornflower blue. That’s always been her favourite colour.”

  “Oh, has it?” Baz asks, sitting down, propping his arm up on his elbow, then resting his chin on his fist. Add the purple top hat and he looks exactly like that meme of Gene Wilder from the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. “What else does Tessa like? Perhaps we could build the entire day around her favourite things?”