The doors do, in fact, burst open, but it’s just PPO Twiggy and a small, balding man in a crooked clerical collar.
“Oof, sorry if I bumped into you there, Officer Thingy,” he slurs. “I’m a wee drunky, in point of fact. Usually off duty by now.” He hiccups. “Lovely to see you all. Which one of you is my cousin?”
Cilla rolls her eyes. “Right here, Cousin Bernard,” she says.
Bernard eyes the flame-haired Gemma. “You sure it’s not her?”
“Reasonably,” Cilla says, steering her cousin over to a nearby pew, and sitting him down with a pat on the shoulders. “Bernard, I know you’re half in the bag right now, but do you think you could toss together a quick wedding for my friends?”
Bernard squints over at us. “Crikey, they’re a bit tall.”
“Does that affect things, do you think?” Cilla asks patiently.
Bernard considers it. “Shouldn’t think so,” he says. “It’s mildly frowned upon to marry people when you’re as bladdered as I am, but…” He puts his fingers to his lips. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Freddie tries to stifle a laugh, the first sign of real lightness I’ve seen from him all day. “Is it too late to book Bernie for tomorrow?” he wonders. “The look on Gran’s face would be worth more than the entire Abbey.”
Next to him, Bea huffs, “I suppose I should not be shocked that there is not a more elegant solution to this muddle.”
“You wanted discreet,” Cilla says impatiently. “There’s nothing better than a man who might wake up tomorrow and think it was all a dream. Besides, this is the only vicar we’ve got. You want to keep faffing around or can we get on with it?”
Cousin Bernard has scooted toward Gemma. “Shall I take your confession?” he slurs, with a suggestive nudge.
“It’d make your ears bleed, Father,” Gemma says cheerfully. “And we need to get this sorted. We’re running out of time.”
“But Lacey isn’t here yet.” I feel a twinge of panic. Our relationship is still bent, but I can’t meet this milestone without her.
“Bex!” I hear, and there she is, like magic, breaking away from PPO Stout. We hug each other tightly, the most enthusiastic one I’ve gotten from Lacey in years, before I notice that she’s also trailed by my mother and Aunt Kitty (who has gone from jet-lagged to looking like she thinks she’s hallucinating). Both are wearing pajamas under their matching trenches, as if Lacey has dragged them out of bed at the last minute—which is probably exactly what she’s done.
“Hi, Nancy,” Nick says, coming down the aisle to meet her. “Sorry about the hour.”
Mom rubs her eyes. “Lacey said something about the wedding? Is it on?” she asks, yawning. “She’s a bit too keyed up to give good details.”
“It is happening right now, in fact,” Nick says, glancing over at me. “Once we tell Marj, tomorrow’s show might not go on, so…just in case.”
“Well,” Mom says after a beat. “That seems sensible.”
“I think I’ve missed something,” I hear Aunt Kitty whisper.
“Just a spot of blackmail,” Gaz tells her soothingly.
“Yeah, about that,” Lacey says. “Good news! I kind of did something.”
There is a collective groan. Even Bernard groans.
“That’s what got us here in the first place,” complains Bea.
“No, no, it’s good. I think,” Lacey says, flushing. “I saw Nick leave the party, and Clive wasn’t even that subtle about sneaking after him, and I just got so mad. I couldn’t believe he had the balls to show up acting like we’re still friends, and then stalk you, right there at Buckingham freaking Palace. So I followed him. When I got to Stout and Twiggy, they were more than happy to tell me where the three of you were.” She snickers. “Stout even slipped me a Taser.”
Stout suddenly seems very busy with a button on his coat.
“I was tempted to barge in and use it, too,” she says. “But then I got to the door and I could hear Clive talking. And I got a better idea.”
She pulls her phone out of her pocket, swipes at it, and pushes play. It’s a little quiet, and crackly, but it’s there: “I did the digging, I manipulated the sources, I got the story, all by myself. The Royal Flush is going to be bigger than Xandra Deane. And you’re at my mercy now.”
“I believe this is what they call being hoisted on your own petard,” Gaz says.
“How did you even get this?” Nick is clearly impressed, and frankly, so am I. Whatever I thought Lacey had been up to all evening, gathering evidence wasn’t on the list.
Lacey blushes. “It’s a little ridiculous,” she says, “and I didn’t even know if it would work. But I figured, why not borrow from the Douchebag Playbook that got us here? So I used the voice memo on my phone, and kind of jammed the end of it under the door. I spent that entire fight on my stomach in the hallway of Buckingham Palace, praying nobody would go to bed early.” She wrinkles her nose. “The Queen Mum did walk by, but she just poked me with her cane and told me a curtsy would have sufficed.”
“You’re lucky she didn’t crack you on the head with it,” Freddie noted.
“Anyway, I got almost everything,” Lacey finishes proudly. “I stopped just before the very end because I was afraid Clive would catch me when he left, and he would have stepped on me. Plus, I had to get to Pudge.”
“Pudge?” Bea asks sharply. “You’ve talked to her?”
“She was still at the party,” Lacey says. “I remembered you saying she hates this stuff, so I played it for her.” Lacey takes a breath. She is enjoying having the group in the palm of her hand. “She was fuming. Said she was going to go do unmentionable stuff to his chakras. And then she had me email it to her.”
Gaz takes the phone. “Let me hear this,” he says, walking off past Bernard, who is now fully snoozing, his mouth wide open.
“I mean, I don’t know if this fixes anything. His piece can still run,” Lacey says. “But at least we have counter-proof that he’s a disgusting scumbag, and it’s entirely possible Pudge beat him home and put his laptop in the dishwasher. I may have undone the effects of all that time she spent in the ashram, but…”
She trails off. There is a moment of silence in the candlelit Chapel Royal while everyone processes this. Nick and I exchange dumbfounded looks. Then I wrap my sister in my arms.
“Even if it doesn’t work,” I whisper, “you are my hero. Thank you, Lacey.”
Lacey squeezes me back. Over her shoulder, I see Nick watching us. He looks pensive, and I know he’s thinking about his brother, standing alone across the aisle.
Gaz wanders back over to us. “It might not stand up in court, but it’s jolly gripping,” he says. “If it ever needs to fall into Xandra Deane’s hands, a transcript wouldn’t make you two look tremendous, but it would make him look like a sociopath. Hearing it might be enough to shut him up, at least temporarily.”
“Well done, Lacey,” Freddie says admiringly. “And to think, I almost had to rope you into eloping with me to create a diversion.”
Lacey looks alarmed.
“Don’t worry, I never would’ve pimped you out,” I tell her.
“Thank God,” Lacey says. “I think one Porter is all that family can handle.”
We hug again, bringing in Mom and a bleary Aunt Kitty, as Freddie walks over to Nick and extends his hand.
“Thank you for letting me be here,” I hear him say. “I meant what I said tonight. I respect you, and I love you, and—”
Nick cuts him off by grabbing his proffered hand, which turns into one of those guy embraces where they first slap each other on the back, and then give in to it.
Cilla clears her throat. “So, are we actually going to have a wedding, or do you lot just plan to spend all night slobbering all over each other?” But her tone is kind.
She leans over and pokes Cousin Bernard, who jolts awake.
“Did I miss my cue?” He peers at Nick as he clambers to his feet. “Don’t I know you?”
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“No,” Cilla says, steering him to the altar.
Watching her wrangle everyone into their places, I pull Lacey to the side.
“Walk me up the aisle. Please,” I say. “You should be up there with me tomorrow, too, but since it’s too late for that, maybe this is our second chance to do it right.” I pause. “Or…our first chance, technically. You get the gist.”
Lacey beams and blots at her eyes. “I do,” she says meaningfully, through a sniffle. Then she processes my jeans and striped shirt and bursts out laughing. “Only you would change out of a designer gown and into jeans for your own wedding.”
I look down at myself and laugh, too.
“I can be a duchess tomorrow,” I tell her. “Right now I just want to be me.”
Lacey and my mother and I loop arms, me in my jeans, my mother in her pajamas, my sister still in her ball gown—and, I like to think, my father watching closely from somewhere blissful, in his Cubs cap. Together we walk the comparatively compact thirty feet to my groom, still in half of his tux, the hair on his head agitated from a night of tugging at it. We look at each other with enormous smiles, tears rolling freely down our cheeks, the two of us doing all the sloppy emoting that we cannot tomorrow even if I am allowed up that aisle.
My mother takes Nick’s hand and places it on top of ours.
“We’re not giving her away, sweetie,” Mom tells him lovingly. “We’re bringing you in. Welcome to our family.”
Nick’s lip quivers. They release us and step back, sniffling, as Bernard clears his throat.
“Dearly beloved,” he begins, hiccupping again and swaying slightly. “In the presence of God, and those other chaps in his gang, we have come together to witness the marriage of…” He peeks down at the cheat sheet Cilla wisely provided and then looks back up at us and blanches. “My liege,” he sputters, bumbling into a kneel.
“Discretion, Bernard,” Cilla prods, tapping her nose.
“Of course, but I’m just so honored to…oh, hellcrackers, I should probably start again,” he says, returning to his feet. “Don’t suppose anyone has any coffee? No? Right.” He smacks himself on both cheeks, like an angry man applying aftershave, then takes a meditative breath. “Get cracking, Bernard, bring your A-game.”
Nick nudges me with a grin. “Well, there goes that nice, normal wedding.”
I smile back through tear-filled eyes. “That’s okay. Normal has never been our strong suit, right?”
“Dearly beloved,” Bernard begins anew, with fresh command. “In the presence of God, the Father, the Son, and Holy Spirit, we have come together today to witness the wedding of Nicholas and Rebecca, to pray for God’s blessing on them, to share their joy and to celebrate their love…”
His words melt into me as Nick and I look into each other’s joyful faces. I don’t know if we will wake up tomorrow to blistering scandal or blessed silence. I don’t know if we will live blissfully, or go blind from looking for trouble in our periphery every day until we are old. And yet, as the vicar performs the familiar ceremony, I do not float above myself. There is no fear of what lies in wait for us, no nostalgia for where I’ve been or who I was, no temptation to stop and say good-bye to a version of myself I’m leaving behind. I am fully in the moment when Nick and I say the words that have united millions of couples across hundreds of years, because they are the culmination of eight years of friendship and longing and love that began on a rainy Oxford night and survived in the face of every other element. So it no longer matters whether we’re allowed to make these vows again, in front of the Queen or the country or the world. Here, in this hallowed place, I have made them to the only person who counts, and he to me. The kiss that blesses these promises forges the only certainty I need: that even if we are never a duke and a duchess, we will forever be Nick and Bex. An unbreakable we, at last.
The End
Acknowledgments
Our first and most fervent thank-you doubles as an apology to everyone in our lives whom we accidentally neglected in the process of writing this book. For nearly a year, we were down the rabbit hole of royals and research and world-building, writing and revising and cutting. We must have said the words “I can’t, I have to work” a thousand times, and we’re infinitely grateful that our friends and family heard them so patiently, and stuck with us, never taking our reclusive behavior personally. Special thanks in this regard goes to Carrie Weiner, who frequently put out our hair when it was on fire. We will be repaying her with infinite Diet Cokes and snacks.
We owe the world to our impeccable and indispensable agent, Brettne Bloom, whom we’re also lucky to call a beloved friend. Thank you to Elizabeth Bewley for the gift of Brettne when we needed her most; you are as sunny as your Royal We namesake but exponentially smarter. Thank you to Hachette for its support of us as authors, and for keeping us in the family by bringing The Royal We to Grand Central. We are grateful to the entire GCP team for all its hard work and enthusiasm, especially our brave editor, Sara Weiss, who stared down a first draft that was…well, let’s just say “longer.” Our copy editor Angelina Krahn was tireless in keeping our draft clean and our semicolons in check (no small feat there). Thanks to Mari Okuda for not killing us after we turned in our notes on our page proofs. And cover designers Elizabeth Turner and Anne Twomey worked themselves to the bone, and their design—using brilliantly funky artwork from Noma Bar—makes us as proud and excited as the words we put inside it. Thank you so much, all of you, for your collective genius.
We’re intensely grateful to Eliza Hindmarch for giving our manuscript a tireless and thorough “Britishisms” pass (any errors on that front are ours, for what we decided to call “artistic license”); to Annalisa, The Madam Editor, for helping us make sense of Britain’s approximately eighty-two million daily newspapers; to The Royal Order of Sartorial Splendor website and Ella Kay from the Court Jeweller for being indispensable resources about monarchial tiaras and other sparkly regalia; and to Julie O’Sullivan for helping craft the alternate history that enabled our Lyons dynasty to come to pass. Nick’s cryptic crossword clues originated in the Sunday Times cryptic 4561 by Tim Moorey, originally published on October 27, 2013. And we wouldn’t have any of our favorite details about the interior of Buckingham Palace if not for the hugely sympathetic and kind guides and guards there, who took pity on the two sad American women who idiotically showed up at the wrong time for their tour. Tickets are available on an extremely limited basis and we nearly missed what was our only window; thank you, everyone at Buck House, for accepting our tragic apologies and finagling us into the last tour of the day. We had the most wonderful experience there and no, we’re not just saying that because the tour ends with Champagne. Although that didn’t exactly hurt.
We also probably ought to acknowledge the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. It was November 2013 when we first suggested those two should have another baby right around the time our baby would be published, for optimal synergy. Apparently they took that to heart. Thanks, you two. You’re extremely thoughtful.
And last, but never least, we need to thank our own families (royally, if you will): Jim and Susan Morgan; Elizabeth Morgan; the Hamiltons and the O’Sullivans; Maria Huezo, without whom no deadlines would be met; Gail Mock; and Kathie Cocks (plus, we believe, a dose of extra luck from the Great Beyond, courtesy of Alan Cocks). We thank Dylan and Liam Mock for the cuddles and their indomitable cheer when we were too stressed to see straight, and Kevin Mock, for picking up way more than his fair share of slack. You are, collectively, the most sterling support system, and we love you like Gaz loves curry.
Also by Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan
Spoiled
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Contents<
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Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
The House of Lyons (c. 2007)
Prologue
Part One: Autumn 2007Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Two: Summer 2009Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Three: Winter 2011Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Four: Autumn 2013Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Five: Present DayChapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Acknowledgments
Also by Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan
Newsletters
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, incidents, and dialogue (except for incidental references to public figures, products, publications, and services) are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living persons or to disparage any company’s products or services.
Copyright © 2015 by Well Played, Inc.
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner
Cover illustration by Noma Bar
Cover copyright © 2015 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Royal We Page 48