King Size: A Royal Bad Boy Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  “It would be remiss of me not to bring up this morning’s headlines,” she says, sitting forward to address Owen. “And I can’t help but notice your bandaged right hand. Can you explain why you repeatedly struck a man in handcuffs? A man who was helpless to defend himself? Who was in police custody and being dealt with?”

  Owen lifts his hand, opening his fingers, flexing, then turning it to show the bruising. He lowers his hand, placing it on his other one, over mine. He leans a little forward, speaking calmly but deliberately in response to her question. “I lost my cool with a man who assaulted my wife. Who repeatedly threatened to harm her. Who, after being deported from the country, managed to sneak back in using false papers and carrying burner phones to elude our police. He managed to slip through our security and get inside the palace, and he got close enough to my mother, Her Royal Highness Princess Dalia, to—in his own words—‘slit her throat or blow her brains out,’ and then he followed up by threatening to do precisely that to Norah.”

  “I understand all that,” the interviewer replies. “But Your Majesty, he was in handcuffs. He hardly posed a threat to you or anyone else at the time.”

  Owen nods. “Agreed,” he says. “It was the wrong thing to do in the moment. But even in handcuffs he persisted, hurling threats and insults at my wife. I’d challenge any man in this country who comes face to face with someone who so violently threatens their family not to react in the same way. It would be the rarest of men who could rise above it. I’m Crown Prince and soon I’ll be the king, but I’m still human, and like any man I’ll defend my family and my country to my dying breath.”

  A few moments later it’s all over. The bright lights are turned off and the cameras powered down.

  The interviewer from the Telegraph sits back in her chair, regarding us with satisfaction. “Thank you,” she says. “We’ll edit today and broadcast at eight tonight.”

  Princess Dalia steps forward, offering her hand. She appears slightly miffed with the last question, but I can tell by the way she circles her arm through Owen’s she’s swelling with pride at how well he handled his response.

  “One off-the-record question, if you’ll allow me?” the interviewer asks.

  We all stop, holding our breath.

  “We don’t do off-the-record,” Princess Dalia responds, her tone chilled, a tight smile pressing her lips.

  “Everyone is going to speculate,” the lady from the Telegraph says. “That speculation is going to wind up in print within hours of this broadcast. Wouldn’t it be better to spin the speculation your way?”

  “Go on,” Princess Dalia says cautiously.

  “If you’ll give me an exclusive first look at the new prince or princess, I’ll spin the speculation as a giant leap forward in the monarchy’s progress into the 21st century, leaving behind all those stodgy old social mores that are no longer relevant in normal people’s lives.”

  Princess Dalia nods, smiling awkwardly. “While the palace has no official comment on that matter and doesn’t even know what speculation you may be referring to, we’d be happy to offer you an exclusive first look at any offspring the happy couple may have in the future. Your paper and news channel have always been among our favorites to work with.”

  “Perfect,” she responds. “I’ll be in touch.”

  An hour later, when I’m alone in the library sending my mother an email with the wedding date and travel details, Princess Dalia has herself seen in. She strolls into the parlor with a train of people following, all of them carrying armloads of gowns and boxes of stuff. She begins arranging the people into stations around the room.

  “Ah, there you are, dear. Come here!”

  I walk forward with trepidation. My one refuge has just been invaded by a hive of activity bearing all manner of silk, lace, and satin finery, and oversized catalogs of every description.

  “We have a shotgun wedding to plan, dear. Many decisions to make, very little time. Step into the whirlwind.”

  Before we get to the dresses, we select the invitations, the flowers, the food, table dressings for the rehearsal dinner, the pre-wedding brunch, the reception, and the formal dinner afterwards. For some reason I’m required to select a china, silver, and crystal pattern, and even a linen design.

  The Princess advises me without pressuring me, while her secretary follows, taking notes. “You don’t have wretched taste,” she says, meaning it as a compliment. “I’ve seen girls with ten times your pedigree who couldn’t match a dinner plate with an appropriate piece of silverware to save their blue-blooded lives.”

  “Art and design school,” I say. “Bachelor’s degree in making sure things match and balance.”

  “Impressive,” she quips. “On to the dresses.”

  We spend the balance of the day trying on gowns designed for a fairytale wedding. Acres of silk, lace, and miles of ribbon fill the parlor, with piles of delicate slippers spilling into the library.

  We make an elaborate mess of the place, and have fun doing it. The Princess is all business, but I find myself enjoying the business of becoming a bride, even if it is a shotgun wedding.

  “I’m still searching for a venue,” the Princess says, examining me in my favorite dress from among the dozens I’ve tried. “It’s got to be somewhere with enough space to accommodate the reception, but not so large that we’re forced to invite the whole country. The palace is too large and too royal. I’m drawing a blank.”

  “How about a private house?” I ask. “That’s common where I come from.”

  The Princess considers the idea. “The problem is we’ll have nobles sparring with one another, creating jealousies between them. Someone will feel slighted by whatever choice we make.”

  “What if I choose?” I ask. “I don’t know any of them, so I can’t slight any of them.”

  She regards the idea with interest. “What are you thinking?”

  “My friend Sinead’s house near Brynterion,” I propose. “If it wasn’t for her and her husband, Earl Hereford, Owen and I would never have reconnected, and I’d be a girl out in the world in a great deal of trouble.”

  She smiles. “What type of house does this Earl Hereford have?”

  “Huge,” I say. “And ancient, and beautiful. It’s hundreds of years old. I don’t know what style it is. It’s a mix. I do know that its main hall was originally an abbey. I think Sinead said it had twenty bedrooms in just one wing.”

  “What’s this house called?”

  “It’s Hereford Abbey,” I say, “not far from Brynterion Castle.”

  “I think I know that place,” the Princess says. “Let me look it up before we make the inquiry. If it’s the place I remember, it would be perfect. And you’re correct, no one could take issue with you choosing the home of your friend.”

  It would make Earl Whatsit’s life to host a royal wedding at his ancestral home. Sinead would love it, too. They’re already at the very top of my guest list. This way, they won’t have travel expenses.

  “I like this dress the best too,” the Princess says, admiring me. “We’ll hold off on fittings until we’re closer to the date.”

  She unzips me, helping me out of the gown, handing the dress off to the young woman in charge of them all.

  “I’m sneaking out of the palace for dinner tonight,” the Princess says. “But tomorrow morning, the three of us need to go over the guest lists, so don’t go to bed until you and Owen have made yours. Each of you need to select an equal number of bridesmaids and groomsmen. Understood?”

  I nod.

  “Don’t let Owen blow it off. He’ll try to. We need to get the invitations out last week. There’s no time to lose.”

  “Understood,” I say. “Can I ask a favor before you go?”

  “Of course.”

  “I really want to make an OBGYN appointment. Do you have anyone you’d recommend?”

  The Princess nods. “Of course, darling. I’ll make an appointment for you this week. We’ll catch up on it in the
morning. You’ll love her. She’s my doctor. She delivered both Lloyd and Owen.”

  That’s such a relief.

  It’s almost seven in the evening before Owen returns from work, looking haggard. Being king isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and this, our first full day back since our blissful Aegean holiday, has been non-stop for both of us.

  He leans down, kissing me sweetly on the cheek before wandering to the bar to pour himself a drink. “Mother has you doing something,” he says. “What is it?”

  “Guest list,” I say. “You have to do one, too. We’re meeting about it in the morning. All three of us.”

  “Can’t make it. I’m having a showdown with the Minister of Finance tomorrow morning over police department budgets. I did a tour of Cymrea’s police stations today, and it was appalling. The buildings and jails look like something out of a Dickens novel. They’re archaic, and filthy, and crumbling. Next week I’m touring the city’s schools. Would you like to come with me? I’d like your opinion. I went to a very unconventional private school in Scotland. I have no clue what a normal elementary or high school should look like.”

  Really? “Yes!” I exclaim. “I’d jump at the chance to make myself useful.”

  “Monday and Tuesday,” he says. “Put it on your calendar.”

  I laugh at the notion. “I don’t have a calendar,” I say. “I don’t have anything except several boxes of books.”

  Owen strolls over. “That’s right, I was going to have your things brought from Paris. I completely forgot. I’ll take care of that tomorrow.”

  “It’s okay. I really don’t need anything. The palace is fully functional, non-stop entertainment. At least, it has been so far.”

  “What did you do today?”

  I tell Owen about my day filled with crystal patterns and china, flowers and tablecloths and bed linens, dresses and shoes and bouquets.

  “You did all that in one day?” he asks, settling down beside me at the table, looking over my guest list.

  “That and more,” I say. “Your mother is a force of nature.”

  “That she is.”

  We order dinner served in the apartment so we can tune in and watch ourselves on the television, delivering our happy news to the world. Owen cringes at his televised self, but he looks dashing and at ease on the screen, answering question with his fingers threaded in mine throughout the whole thing.

  I’m less impressed with my own performance, but Owen assures me I’m far too self-critical. “You’re going to break a million hearts,” he says. “Now that they’ve gotten a good look at you and heard you speak, they’re all going to see how brilliant you are, along with being the most beautiful women in the realm.”

  When the interview gets to the very end, Owen watches himself deliver his speech about defending home and family. He nods his head, agreeing with himself, then adds at the end, “Can’t wait to see tomorrow’s headlines.” He turns back to me. “I’m surprised Mother wasn’t here for this. Where is she?”

  I grin. “I think she’s gone out with her duke,” I say. “She said she was sneaking out for dinner.”

  Owen smiles, shaking his head. “Amazing.” He looks up, eyes bright. “How do you feel about moving upstairs? The king’s suites are… expansive. We’ll have to do some remodeling and redecorating. It would be more convenient, as the office is up there, with all the people I work with every day. And there’s a nursery.”

  “I’m fine with wherever we live,” I tell Owen. “I never expected to live in a palace. I’m not complaining about this place, but if we’re supposed to move, I’m fine with that, too.”

  Owen looks around at his minimal space with all its glass, chrome, and black leather. This apartment, just like the one at Brynterion, is stripped down to the essentials: a physical protest against the notion of decoration.

  “It’s probably time to put away my chrome and steel ‘spare’ resentment and soften the edges a bit. Babies need soft surfaces and warm places. I doubt a toddler would like this any more than I liked the Louis XIV gilt or baroque furnishings I was always being told to keep my hands off of. I want our children to feel at home when they’re at home. I don’t want them raised like relics in a museum.”

  “Let’s make them a home, then,” I say. “Let’s clear the slate, saving what works, tossing the rest. We’ll build something comfortable for the four of us inside the king’s suites.”

  Owen’s expression warms. “You know, for a gold-digger who only agreed to marry me for my money, you’re turning out to be a pretty good pick.”

  20

  Owen

  The invitations are sent and RSVPs received. The cake is made, sitting in a walk-in freezer in the kitchen at Hereford Abbey. The flowers are on their way. Some of the guests coming in from outside the country have already begun arriving in town, including my future in-laws, who flew in from South Carolina two days ago. They’re interesting. So far, they’ve spent almost all their time in Anglesey sightseeing. There’s plenty here to see, though they haven’t spent a lot of time with Norah, which I find curious.

  The wedding is in two days, and the coronation is just one week away. I’ve never been a man who developed anxieties around events, but the last few weeks have been so tense in their build-up to what’s about to happen—first with the wedding, then the coronation—I seem to have perpetual butterflies in my gut. The only thing that eases it is a shot of my favorite whiskey at the end of every day, combined with spending a few hours just talking about things with Norah. She makes things feel okay.

  The day after our big television debut announcing the fast-tracked wedding, the papers and the internet exploded with speculation about Norah’s condition. The kind people at the Telegraph were as good as their word, leading the frenzy with a lengthy editorial speculating on “this thoroughly modern young couple” forging a new path for the monarchy, shedding all the nonsense and hypocrisy that made our grandparents miserable. The rest of the press fell in line, and public opinion is solidly leaning in support of us. More than 80% of the people polled said they hope we are pregnant.

  Speaking of public opinion polling, 95% of those polled said they would have punched Wembley, too, if given the opportunity. That story dropped from the headlines faster than a certain American president’s popularity rating.

  Today’s big anxiety-inducer promises to be a challenge—and controversial: my brother’s psychological evaluation in the Swiss hospital has concluded, and he’s returning home. The doctors, while agreeing completely with all of us that he’s incompetent, delusional, and generally unglued, have also concluded that he poses no risk to himself or to others. He’s annoying and impossible to have a rational conversation with, but he’s not going to hurt anyone.

  Mother is determined to return him to the breast of his family. I’m worried he’s going to turn the family into a group home for the unhinged. Time will tell.

  He’s arriving here at Brynterion by three o’clock. We’re all supposed to greet him out front. I hope he’s not still wearing those ridiculous saffron robes. He used to have such great fashion sense. Before he turned to The Exalted Order of the One True Toth, he was a bit of a clothes horse and a fixture on the international club scene from Milan to London.

  I don’t understand what happened to him. Sometimes I wonder if the stress of becoming king just became too much, sending him straight over sanity’s edge. Lately, I wonder if I’ll manage to hold it together well enough to get through next week.

  It’s not enough that I’m getting married. It’s not enough that I’m about to be officially coronated king of Anglesey in an insanely choreographed ceremony whose rites and rituals go back to the Dark Ages. It’s not enough that the ceremony takes place at the cathedral in front of thousands of guests, as well as a live television and internet audience that will number in the billions.

  On top of all this, we’re in the final phase of negotiating a new trade deal with the United Kingdom following their exit from the Europea
n Union. The Brits have had a hell of a time since leaving the EU. The French in particular have been punitive regarding food imports. This has opened an opportunity for our farmers to export more products at higher prices into the UK. Meanwhile, the French, who having been punitive with the Brits on principle, are now left with unsold farm commodities that we’re more than happy to take off their hands at fire sale discounts.

  While we’re working on that deal, we’re also looking at a massive internal infrastructure initiative that will upgrade everything from our schools and municipal buildings to bridges, roads, power generation, and waterworks. I’m still trying to figure out how to pay for it, and that’s proving a challenge. The nobles, who control 90% of the nation’s wealth, don’t want to put in their share for the improvements, claiming their children don’t go to public schools, and they can do very well without the national electric power grid; their homes—stately mansions on thousands of acres—either are or can be powered with solar and wind, installed at their own expense.

  Meanwhile, the 90% of the population of Anglesey who don’t live on estates or out in the countryside are struggling to make ends meet on flattened wages, in a country with a rapidly aging infrastructure, and their taxes keep going up.

  We’ve got to do something different, but I’m struggling with just what to do.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  I look up from my paperwork, which I’ve been gazing at for twenty minutes without comprehending a single line I’ve read.

  Norah leans on the doorframe of my library, arms crossed, gazing at me like she knows what I’m thinking. She’s a figure of beauty. The best thing in my world.

  “I’m thinking everything about being king sucks, except having had the good sense to offer you the job of my wife. I think you’re the best decision I’ve made so far.”