by Aven Ellis
“I’m teasing,” Christian says, stroking my face in his hand. “No fish, I promise.”
“Don’t tease me, Christian,” I plead. “I am not ready for this.”
The lightness falls from his face, and I know my words have hurt him.
“You know that’s not what I mean,” I say, wrapping my hands around his.
“It’s getting real now for you, isn’t it? Perhaps it was easier to forget this was my life when we were long-distance. The game has changed now.”
He stares deeply into my eyes, questioning me. As if I’m going to bolt because the magnitude of his life has hit me square in the face.
“I might not feel ready to meet your father, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to do it,” I say firmly. “I have no doubts about how I feel for you. I know what life I’ll be walking into if we continue down this road. I thought I’d have more time to prepare, that’s all. I’ve never done a curtsy in my life, and I don’t want your father to think I’m some Neanderthal with no proper manners. I want him to like me.”
Even more so since I know your mother is going to hate me to the moon and back, I think miserably.
“Show me your curtsy,” Christian says.
I cringe.
“Come on, give it a go,” he encourages.
“Okay.”
I move one leg behind me and bend my knees.
I glance up at him for approval, and I see that sexy smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Can I get up now?” I ask.
He begins laughing. “No, His Royal Highness expects you to hold it for thirty point two seconds before you rise.”
“What?” I ask, beginning to laugh. “You’re lying!”
“Careful, you don’t want to lose your balance and land on that lovely bum of yours. Or lose track of your count, because King Arthur will be most appalled if you only hold it for thirty point one seconds. Oh, and no wobbling. You need to work on that, Fiona, my love. And yes, I’m lying.”
I start giggling and lose my balance and plop! I fall back onto the wet grass, my ass sticking firmly in the mud.
I look up at him and burst out laughing. Then I hiccup, which makes Christian roar with laughter.
“Looks like we have work to do,” Christian teases.
He’s grinning as he extends his hand to help me up. Instead of rising, I give his hand a tug and he tumbles forward, landing in the mud next to me, and I shriek with laughter as Christian is now covered in wet grass and mud like I am.
“That’s for the thirty point two second lie,” I say.
“You just took down the spare. Where are those protection officers of mine when I need them? I should sack them for not keeping a better watch on the redheaded American.”
He’s grinning at me, and my heart leaps with joy.
“Oh, I’ll do more than take you down, Your Royal Highness,” I tease.
Christian reaches for me, and I try to roll away. He catches me and moves on top of me, pinning me to the wet grass with his body weight.
“You already have taken me down, Clementine,” he whispers before kissing me.
Our bodies entwine, and I feel so alive in this moment. I feel the dampness of the earth and the scent of Christian’s cologne and wet grass mingling together as we kiss. We’re muddy and flecked with grass and neither one of us cares.
All that matters is being together. I don’t care what hurdles I must face to be with this man. I will find a way to clear them.
Starting tomorrow with King Arthur.
I’m inside Sandringham.
I’m a jumble of emotions as I cross the carpeted floor of the great hall, my head hardly grasping that this is reality.
I’ve been in the UK a mere twenty-four hours, and my world has turned upside down. The Dishing Weekly photo has been seen not only by Chelsea but by other friends and acquaintances, and now the tabloid has been calling my mom. The palace released a statement confirming that one Clementine Jones was indeed a friend of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, and the palace hoped that our privacy would be respected during the remainder of my visit.
I had a brief phone call with my mother. I told her, yes, I’m friends with Prince Christian and I would call her later and explain everything, but no, I was not acting in a reckless manner and I didn’t have headaches. For good measure, I advised I did not need a psychologist or Dr. Choi and if they did fly over here to get me, which she insisted she would do, I’d refuse to go. Paisley said she’d talk to her and try to get her to calm down once the shock wore off. I texted Bryn and Chelsea, saying I would tell them everything when I got home.
All of this will have to wait because trying to make the best impression possible for King Arthur needs my complete focus right now.
I drink in the amazing room, the antique lover in me in awe of what I’m seeing. I’m in one of the most iconic homes in the world, one steeped in rich history. I’m surrounded by magnificent paintings of royal family figures, stunning tapestries, wood paneling, and beautiful lamps. The period tables and sofas signal the furnishings haven’t changed much from the Edwardian era. Kings and queens have entertained guests in this very room. I want to know the stories behind everything here. I want to explore every room. I want to see the white drawing room, the ballroom, and the library. This is a living art history book, and I have the opportunity to see it through Christian’s eyes, from his family’s perspective.
But I’m not here to indulge my love of antiques or revel in the fact that I am breathing historic air.
I’m here to impress the father of the man I love.
I try to tamp down the nausea that is rising in my throat. Christian comes over to me and puts his hands around mine.
“He’s going to love you,” he says softly, his eyes shining brightly at me.
I exhale. “Okay.”
“It’s going to be fine,” Christian says reassuringly. “You’re smart, charming, and funny. Real. He will wonder how I got so lucky as to find you and that you agreed to go out with me.”
“Right,” I say, shaking my head.
“I am.”
I remove my hands from his and anxiously adjust the tie around my green wrap dress, grateful that I did pack a few “date night” dresses for this trip. It has long sleeves and a modern, geometric print, and the green makes my eyes pop. I glance down at the dress, wondering if it should be a bit longer. Is it too short for a royal lunch? It hits just at the knee.
“You look beautiful,” Christian murmurs, once again reading my mind.
“It’s not too short?” I ask, concerned.
“You don’t need to change the way you dress,” Christian says, his voice firm. “You stay who you are. I never want you to change for the family.”
“Well, I don’t think you’d want me showing up in my Stanford hoodie and ripped jeans, would you?” I cock an eyebrow as I adjust his tie, and damn, my man looks brilliant in a slim-fitting Burberry suit. “Considering you put on a suit.”
He reaches for my hand again. “I love the way you dress. It’s part of who you are. I don’t want to lose that part of you for them.”
“You won’t. But I still wish this dress was longer.”
“Hmm. I disagree. I wish it was shorter.”
“Christian!” I chide, but I can’t hide the smile that spreads across my face. “Be quiet.”
He gazes down at me. “Don’t worry. We’ve got this.”
We.
Once again, we’re a team. I’m not here alone trying to impress his father. Christian is going to support me every step of the way.
Christian’s gaze shifts to something over my shoulder, and he straightens.
My heart leaps out of my chest. I know it’s the king without turning around.
“Father,” Christian says, his face lighting up in a smile.
I turn around, and I’m struck by how handsome King Arthur is in person. He’s tall, at least six foot three, and dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit
. His thick, blond locks are swept back from his face, with a bit of product controlling the same golden curls that Christian has. His piercing blue eyes regard me with interest as he moves closer.
My palms begin to sweat as he nears us.
“Christian, I’m delighted to see you under these circumstances,” King Arthur says, his voice deep.
To my surprise, they hug. I’ve never seen shows of affection from King Arthur in the few bits I’ve seen of him on TV, but there is genuine warmth between father and son.
“Father, this is Clementine Jones,” Christian says.
I quickly curtsy and rise, feeling relief that I can check that off my list.
“It is a pleasure, Your Royal Highness,” I say.
Christian informed me that I could call him “sir” after I addressed him as Your Royal Highness for the first time.
“Clementine, I have to say this is a surprise,” King Arthur says, extending his hand to me. I shake it with a firm grip. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise, sir,” I say, my voice taking on a nervous shake.
As soon as Christian hears it, he wraps his hand around mine. King Arthur’s gaze shifts toward our locked hands, and a smile appears on his face.
“I think you have some stories to tell me,” King Arthur says. “Let’s have a drink first, and then we’ll have lunch.”
Christian leads me to an antique loveseat, where he sits next to me, our legs touching. He places our entwined hands on his leg. I slant my legs to the right, keeping them pressed together at an angle. I’ve seen Queen Antonia do this in pictures; it must be the official royal way of preventing anyone from seeing up your skirt. I hope I have this right. I would die if King Arthur thought I was an uncouth Neanderthal.
King Arthur takes a seat on another sofa facing us.
As if waiting in the shadows, a well-dressed young man appears in a sharp navy uniform, asking the king what he would like to drink. He requests a glass of cabernet, and Christian and I follow suit with the same.
King Arthur shifts his gaze toward me, his expression warm. “Christian tells me you two met online. Very modern,” he says, his eyes twinkling at me.
I give the king a nervous smile. “Yes,” I say, my voice still reflecting that stupid shake. “He found my internship as an art installer interesting. I’m an art history major, and I’m due to graduate in June. And I have to say this home is better than any textbook I’ve ever read.”
“She’s with me for the art,” Christian deadpans. “For most girls, it would be the whole prince thing, but for Clementine? It’s access to antiques.”
“Now that makes more sense,” King Arthur says, winking at me.
I know we haven’t spoken for more than ten minutes, but I already like King Arthur.
“What do you hope to do with your art history degree, Clementine?” King Arthur asks.
“I hope to work with antiques,” I say. “I’d love to work for a museum or auction house. I love antiques because they tell stories. Whether it’s something personal, such as a treasured set of dishes passed down through a family, or something from generations long ago, such as formal asparagus tongs, they show how society was and how we’ve evolved to where we are now.”
King Arthur doesn’t say anything, and oh, crap, have I lost him with my ramblings?
Oy, I talked about asparagus tongs with the King of the United Kingdom.
The young man quietly returns, serving the king his glass of wine, then Christian, and finally me.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking a sip and hoping to calm my nerves.
“See? How could I resist her?” Christian says. He removes his hand from mine and, in a move that surprises me, he strokes my hair. “She knows what asparagus tongs are. Where do you find a knowledge base like that?”
“I find cutlery fascinating. I know it’s weird,” I say, glancing at the king to gauge his response to my babbling.
“You appreciate the history of things, which is important,” King Arthur says, his eyes locked on mine. “I know you’ll enjoy seeing the art around the estate after lunch.”
“I’m very much looking forward to that, sir,” I say.
“We’ll be sure to start with the cutlery,” King Arthur teases, taking a sip of his wine.
Normally, I’d ask King Arthur a question about himself, but I don’t even know if I’m allowed to speak to him first. And what would I even say? So, how is it being a king? Any fun appointments coming up?
Crap.
Then I remember Christian telling me to be myself and treat him as his father, not the king.
“I’m looking forward to Sunday roast,” I blurt out. “I’ve never had a Yorkshire pudding before.”
King Arthur furrows his brow. Okay. Zipping from asparagus tongs to Yorkshire pudding is not appropriate discussion.
Maybe I should stop speaking.
That’s probably the way to go.
“Never had a Yorkshire pudding?” King Arthur says. “It’s a good thing Christian has taken action to rectify this situation. Nobody should go without the joy of a Yorkshire pudding.”
He smiles at me, and I find myself relaxing a bit.
King Arthur rises, and Christian follows suit, so I do as well.
“Let us move to the dining room,” King Arthur says. “I look forward to getting to know you over Sunday roast, Clementine. I’d like to hear not only your story, but your story with my son.”
I swallow hard. While King Arthur has been kind and charming so far, I know the conversation is going to move past cutlery and Yorkshire pudding now.
I only hope I can pass whatever test he lays out for me with flying colors.
Because I know my future with Christian will depend on it.
Chapter 18
Peas and Tapestries
I stop walking the second we enter the dining room. I gasp aloud in awe, and my hand flies to my mouth.
I’m not staring at the immaculately set table with stunning silver candelabras and exquisite china, or the collection of breathtaking antique clocks on the pale-green built-in wall display. I’m struck by the gorgeous tapestries hanging on the walls.
“These tapestries,” I say breathlessly, “all modeled by the works of Goya. I can’t believe I’m seeing them in person. They are exquisite.”
King Arthur smiles. “Not that I need to tell you, because you probably know the history, but they were a gift from Alfonso the Twelfth of Spain in 1876.”
I nod, still finding it hard to believe that Christian has grown up surrounded by masterpieces of art, by artists such as van Dyck, Da Vinci, Rubens, and Rembrandt. Seeing these tapestries makes it real.
“Incredible,” I say, awed.
“If you are this excited by the tapestries, wait until you see the china services in the collection,” King Arthur says.
I can’t help but smile. “Well, being that my mom collects needlepoint patterns and my father collects running shoes, I will most likely need smelling salts if I see the china service of King George the Fourth, because I’ll be passed out from excitement and shock!”
Christian laughs and King Arthur seems amused by my candor as we take our seats. Household staff appears once again, pouring water and refilling our wine glasses, all in a coordinated effort.
It’s like being on Downton Abbey, I think as I stare at the menu card in front of me, listing the elements of today’s lunch. Except this isn’t an old TV show I’ve binge-watched.
It’s Christian’s life.
Soon, plates are set in front of us, and I stare down at a plate of fine china filled with a generous slice of juicy, medium-rare roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, fresh spring peas, and crisp, golden roasted potatoes—all cut to precisely the same size.
Another elegantly-dressed staff member comes around with gravy service, and I am rewarded with a sauce that glides like velvet over my meat and Yorkshire pudding. Before I can murmur a thank you, he discreetly slips away. Instead, I turn my attention to K
ing Arthur.
“Sir, thank you so much for inviting me here today,” I say, smiling at him. “I’m happy to make your acquaintance, and I am honored to be here for lunch.”
Christian shoots me a look, which confuses me. I can’t quite detect what I’m seeing in his blue eyes. Concern? Annoyance? What?
But more than what, why? I had practiced what to say on the way over here, and that sounded like a perfectly appropriate thing to say to a king. I rack my brain, trying to figure out what I could have possibly said that was wrong or insulting.
“You can talk to Father like you talk to me, Clementine,” Christian says, picking up his knife and fork.
Anger prickles me. I do not like Christian telling me how I can—or cannot—speak to his father. I’ve never seen this side of him, and while I’m irritated, I know there’s something driving this, because this is not the man I know.
King Arthur’s brow creases. “Of course she can, but I don’t see how thanking me is inappropriate.”
“It’s not, but I don’t want her to think she has to speak so formally to you. Or to any of us, for that matter.”
I study Christian, vowing I’ll find out later what this is really about. For now, he’s not getting away with talking about me like I’m not here. I don’t care if the king is sitting directly across from us or not.
“I’m quite capable of speaking for myself, Christian,” I say evenly as I cut my meat. “My parents taught me manners and conversation starters. I might not hold my cutlery the same as you, but that has no bearing on how I choose to thank your father for generously hosting this lunch.”
I pause and take a bite of my roast beef, which, oooooh, is the most succulent piece of beef I’ve ever had in my life, and chew thoughtfully while I try to figure out what Christian’s deal is.
“I’m sorry. I was out of line,” Christian demurs. “I don’t want you to feel like you need to treat us differently.”