The Princess Pose (The Modern Royals Series Book 2)

by Aven Ellis

  The Princess Pose

  The Modern Royals Series

  Aven Ellis

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  A Note From The Author

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Connect With Aven

  Also by Aven Ellis

  The Princess Pose

  Copyright © 2019 Aven Ellis

  Cover Design by Becky Monson

  Formatting by AB Formatting

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law.

  For Amy Barnes

  Thank you for being my cheerleader, making me laugh, and being my royal expert in crime.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my copy editor CeCe Carroll, for cleaning up my words, for my content editor, Joanne Lui, for loving my characters and story and making sure they are the best they can be, and for my British proofreader, Alexandra Morris, for your eagle eye and thorough red pen in making ALL THE BRITISH things British.

  A special thank you to Stephanie Kay and Samantha Wayland for pushing me through this book and getting me to this finish line, which seemed so far away at some points. I love you girls and our daily chats.

  Finally, thank you to my readers. You embraced this adventure into royals with gusto and I love you so much for reading my words.

  A Note From The Author

  Because this story is told from the point of view of a British heroine, I decided it would be true to the character to write her speech and thoughts in UK English. So some of the terms are different (like a jumper for a sweater) or spelled in the UK way (realise instead of realize.) I hope you enjoy this authentic take on Elizabeth of York.

  Chapter 1

  The Warrior Pose

  I pull my long, blonde hair up into a ponytail. Then I pick up my pink baseball cap, threading my hair through the back opening and working it into a messy knot on the back of my head. I check my appearance in the mirror. I’m wearing a striped, black-and-white T-shirt, black yoga leggings, my Puma shoes, and warmup jacket. I retrieve my sunglasses off the dresser—even though it’s a dreary, drizzling grey day in London—and put them on.

  I’m a total idiot if I think I’m incognito.

  I sigh. I might as well head out the front gates of Kensington Palace wearing a “YES, I’M PRINCESS ELIZABETH OF YORK” T-shirt and pause for selfies with people. Despite my predicament, I smile.

  Wouldn’t my dear aunt, Queen Antonia, love that?

  I stifle a laugh, because I know my current outfit will turn my narrow-minded aunt upside down and result in lectures from her press secretary, but in order to move forward, the House of Chadwick can no longer remain locked in an ivory tower and appear pristine every day of the year. People relate to us as modern people. My cousin Christian and his fiancée, Clementine, have started to turn things in this direction by being true to themselves and bucking some of the expected behaviours and traditions. Clementine, an American with no noble lineage, has soared near the top of the popularity charts for royals, and she’s not even an official one yet.

  Because they blend that mystique of being royal with being real people.

  And I don’t care what Antonia says, I’m going to follow in their footsteps.

  I turn around and review everything I have gathered for my outing this Saturday morning. I have my mat, water, towel, and a yoga bag. I’m ready for class.

  Then my stomach turns upside down, and I rethink the whole thing.

  It’s not just a yoga class.

  It’s a yoga class in a greenhouse.

  At Cheltham House.

  Where Roman Lawler is.

  Oh, what am I doing?

  This is a terrible idea.

  Roman might not even be there; it’s a Saturday, after all.

  I should be going because I want to learn yoga in a beautiful greenhouse setting.

  Not for the one-hundredth of a chance he might be there.

  I haven’t seen Roman since this summer, when Clementine introduced us whilst they both worked at Cheltham House. He drove up on a motorcycle to Kensington Palace and revealed himself to me when he took off his helmet. I was stunned by how handsome he was, rugged with stubble shading his strong jaw. He had thick, luxurious, dark brown hair and intense hazel eyes. I was furious at the press that day, and his intense eyes observed me, never wavering, until I stopped speaking.

  I remember hearing his deep voice for the first time when he said, quietly, that he liked when I was angry Liz, the one who wanted to change the world with my platform as a working royal. Shock waves reverberated through me, knowing a stranger liked that side of me, the side I never dared show on the public stage. When Clementine made the introduction, he extended his hand. When I close my eyes, I can still feel it touching mine, the callousness and roughness of it. I had never before touched such a deliciously masculine hand as his, one worn from working the earth as a gardener.

  I didn’t want to let it go.

  Then he rode out of the gates of Kensington Palace, and I haven’t seen him since.

  But I haven’t forgotten.

  Which causes two simultaneous—albeit conflicting—emotions in me.

  The first one is worry. Am I going mad? I never give men a second thought, ever. There are multiple layers to unpack on this particular issue, starting with the fact that I’m easily disappointed in the ones I’ve met. Guys like the idea of access to Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth more than Liz. It became so apparent in men I talked to that I could identify them within minutes and make a polite exit, ending any hope they had of making an entrance into the mysterious world of the monarchy.

  I take that one out of the mental suitcase and lay it on the bed. Next up is the fact that there is so much sameness to the men I have been exposed to. I’ve mostly met earls and viscounts. Even my friends at Oxford, which I graduated from this past year, all seem the same. Heat colours my face as I think of how limited my world has been. I was always disappointed in the monotony that made up my world, when I longed for something different. I couldn’t identify what exactly that meant, but I always told myself I’d know what it was when it came upon
me.

  Little did I know it would come to me in the form of a gardener on a motorcycle.

  This is why I should worry. Roman shook my hand, told me he liked my fire, and left. There was nothing to this interaction on his part. Yet here I am, revisiting it often, like those screaming girls who go mad for Xander whenever he’s out in his army uniform, waving to crowds at one of our royal family events, and go online to add pins of him to their Pinterest boards at night.

  I always snickered at that and teased Xander about how all those girls had visions of being the future queen consort to his future king, without even knowing a single thing about him.

  Oh, irony, how delicious you are, I think, grabbing my keys and phone and heading out of my room. Because I can’t forget a man I spent mere minutes with, and now I’m going to a yoga class with the single hope that I might see him.

  I put my hand on the doorknob, about to exit my cottage at Kensington Palace, and freeze.

  What do I expect to happen if I do, on the tiniest remote chance, see Roman? Will he remember our introduction? The conversation we shared?

  My God, I am mad.

  Roman, of course, will remember me not because I was Liz, but you know, because meeting a ranting princess at Kensington Palace is not an everyday occurrence.

  The Liz version of me doesn’t matter.

  I turn around, putting an end to this hare-brained idea. If I go, I will be disappointed. I’ll feel like a fool.

  I’m used to being disappointed. But I can’t stand being a fool.

  Before I can take a step away from the door, the determined side of my brain takes charge.

  You’ve never met a man like Roman. How do you know if he will disappoint you?

  Hmm. Valid point, determined side.

  Then a different voice speaks up, one that rose within me the second I met Roman.

  The romantic side of my brain, which I thought I was born without.

  What if it’s fate that you have this opportunity to see him again? What if this is your moment, and you don’t take it?

  I have a flashback to the old Gwyneth Paltrow movie Sliding Doors, which shows the path her life takes if she catches a different train. I stumbled on it one weekend years ago when I was sick and flipping channels, and I got sucked in by the parallel universe plot.

  I wrinkle my nose.

  What if the greenhouse is my train? What if I don’t go, and it alters the course of my life?

  I exhale. This conversation with all my multiple selves is not only making me think I’m crazy, but it’s becoming tiresome. I throw everything back into the mental suitcase—my disappointment and the advice from all the corners of my brain, except for one—and put it away.

  I allow my decisive voice to take charge.

  Which means I have a greenhouse yoga class to attend.

  Warrior pose, here I come.

  And amongst the hanging plants and potted poinsettias, I hope to find one special gardener.

  Who might change everything.

  The drizzle stops by the time I pull my Range Rover into the car park at the Cheltham House estate. The wind gusts, blowing golden leaves from the trees in the park across the street, sending them up and down in dips and swirls as they are taken on a new journey. I exhale as I turn off the engine. I watch a solitary leaf dance in the wind, passing my windshield and, as if drawn to it with a magnet, heading in the direction of Cheltham House.

  Hmm. Symbolism.

  I feel like that leaf, being drawn and pulled in a direction of somewhere new. The wind represents fate, pushing me where I need to be in this moment.

  I laugh out loud at my deep, philosophical thoughts. All without my usual cuppa, Twinings Earl Grey tea with a splash of milk, which is how I always start my day. I’m ritualistic that way. Cup of tea, always in a fun mug, sitting at my table and reviewing my notes for my appointments for the day.

  Except for today.

  I was too nervous for tea this morning.

  I see a woman in yoga pants and a hoodie, with a yoga bag slung over her shoulder, headed up the path in the direction of the estate.

  I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. It’s time to go. If I come across Roman, I’ll take it as a sign that I was meant to see him today, to have the chance to talk to him and discover whether there is more to him like I suspect. Or I might discover that it was a great moment, but that is all it was ever meant to be between us.

  A moment.

  At least I’ll know I didn’t leave anything on the table. I don’t want to have any regrets like “I wish I would have gone to find him” or “What if we would have met a second time? What if we would have talked?”

  No. I don’t do regrets.

  I glance in my rear-view mirror, then turn over my shoulder and look backwards. I check each side of me and to the front before I slip out of the car, as I always do, to become oriented with my surroundings and familiarise myself with the cars and people in my vicinity. This is part of the self-defence training I have had because, unlike Xander, Christian, and James, who are direct heirs to the throne, I do not have a personal protection officer.

  Which I’m glad about.

  I don’t know how they handle always having someone around. You’d never have complete privacy, and I’d hate that. I give up enough of that as it is; I feel the girl with the yoga mat eyeing me as I slam my car door shut.

  This is where I’m so different from my sisters. Bella is insecure and hates the attention that comes with being a princess. She tends to keep her chin tucked down and eyes glued to the pavement, trying to be inconspicuous. Victoria, my youngest sister, is always in pose mode, walking straight, as if cameras are on her—acting as if they are completely invisible, while well aware she is on display.

  Neither response to attention would be mine.

  I flash the woman a smile and greet her with a cheerful “hello.” I’ve been accused of exhibiting a fake persona—of a sweet princess who is trying to stay in the good graces of King Arthur and Queen Antonia—so I can remain a working royal when they are trying to cut the costs of the monarchy for the British people.

  But that isn’t true.

  I like people. I enjoy being friendly. One of the best parts of having this platform is the opportunity to meet so many people from all walks of life. While Arthur is supportive of me being a working royal, my aunt is not and thinks this work should only be reserved for her children, Xander, Christian, and James. She thinks I’m “freeloading” off the royal payroll and taxing the public.

  I set my jaw as I walk, my heart going as cold as the crisp autumn wind around me. Arthur stood up to her for me. I will never forget his kindness or belief that I can use my role as a working royal to do good things for children, my most passionate cause. Antonia, on the other hand, suggested I save the monarchy the bad publicity and get a “real job.”

  I cringe as I have a flashback to the family dinner where that exploded. My father, the Duke of York, was enraged at the accusation. My mother, the Duchess of York, was tearful, while I was left angry and humiliated.

  But it was my cousins Xander and Christian who backed up their father and insisted I would be nothing but an asset to building the young, modern monarchy of the future. Xander went a step further and implied it would be a pity if a story was leaked to the press about the queen being so secretly jealous of Princess Elizabeth that it pushed her to the point where she threw a fit to keep her out of public service.

  I smile. I thought only the carpets of Buckingham Palace were red, but the shade Antonia turned was on a whole new level after that comment.

  Xander won. Arthur said there would be no more discussion on it, and I was going to be paid to work as a royal. Now it’s up to me to prove that their unwavering faith in me is right. I must go above and beyond what is called for. Pack my diary with engagements, perform them well, and raise money for charities and bring awareness to their needs. Be the face of the monarchy and show that the next generation is hard-worki
ng, and eager to do well and embrace the life we have been most fortunate to be born into.

  I will be the best advocate for the monarchy. I will be the face of the future, along with my cousins and my sisters, if they choose to follow the path I’m determined to make available to them. I will be kind and compassionate and thoughtful in all my endeavours on behalf of the family business, as Christian calls it.

  I set my jaw.

  I won’t fail them.

  I can’t.

  As I close in on the beautiful estate, where people are headed in for tours of the home or to take a stroll through the gardens designed for winter viewing, I shift my thoughts to one thing.

  The opportunity to reconnect with Roman.

  I go to the front of the estate, where a few other people in athletic wear are waiting in the queue. I’ve already purchased my admission for the small group yoga class, but we must check in for admission to the gardens where the greenhouses are.

  I wait in the queue, and this time, I don’t feel eyes on me. I might slip by relatively unnoticed today after all. When it’s my turn, I approach the admissions lady and smile at her.

  “I’m taking the yoga class at ten,” I say, retrieving my phone and bringing up my proof of paid admission.

  “Ah, lovely, yes,” she says, peering down at my receipt. “You’ll need to wear this band.” She slips a green wristband across the counter to me. “If you’ll wait with this group down at the end of the steps, a staff member will lead you to the gardens through the side entrance.”