Not Your Prince Charming: a Royal Wedding Romance (Royal Weddings Book 2)

by Kate Johnson

  The room was, well, it was opulent. The bed was a huge thing with carved posts at each corner, and there was another sofa—because why not, the room was huge—and the kind of wardrobe that could really only be described as an armoire. His case already rested neatly at the foot of the bed.

  “I see,” he said.

  “The bathroom is just,” she waved back the way they’d come. “Sorry it’s not en-suite, but no one else will be using it. Just remember to lock the door. Um.”

  She was pulling at her sleeves again. Her eyes looked askance, and her head was down so her hair covered her face.

  “Eliza.”

  She glanced up, but didn’t meet his gaze.

  “Your Highness.”

  She flinched. “No. Please don’t. I’m just Eliza.”

  “Okay, Just Eliza. Can we talk now?”

  She frowned, and glanced at the door. If Xavier listened hard, he could make out the sound of people conversing in the hallway down the stairs.

  “There are a lot of people here,” she said. “It’s… the thing is… look, because I did a runner once they’re never going to trust me again. I can’t go outside without an escort, ostensibly for my health, and there are an awful lot more staff around the place finding reasons to be busy near all the exits than there ever need to be. You being here is cause for huge consternation.”

  “Are you saying they’re spying on you?” Xavier said bluntly. He looked around but couldn’t see a camera in here. Which didn’t mean there wasn’t one.

  “No! Well, yes. There’s probably someone at the door right now,” she raised her voice, “making sure we’re not shagging wildly.”

  Shagging wildly sounds great to me.

  She held up a finger for silence, and Xavier thought he heard someone moving softly away. She raised an eyebrow. “You see?”

  “Then…?”

  “Tonight,” she mouthed. Out loud, she said, “I shall give you a tour of the house and grounds when you’ve rested. I’m sure you’re tired. Come downstairs when you’re ready. Drinks at six.”

  Drinks? He had only casual clothes. Was he supposed to be in black tie or something? “I, uh—”

  “We’re quite informal,” she said. “Just put on whatever you’ve brought that’s best. Do you remember the way?”

  Hell no. “I, uh, think so…” He should have brought breadcrumbs.

  “Good. All the way to the bottom of the stairs, turn towards the double doors,” she hesitated, and made a gesture with her left hand, “into the South Hall with the tiled floor, and then it’s the single door,” she made the ‘left’ gesture again. “The Drawing Room has a red carpet. If you get lost I’m sure someone will pop up to tell you the way. If there’s anything you need, there’s a telephone. Line four should get you through to Mrs Grenfell, the housekeeper. All right? I’ll see you later.”

  And with that she was gone, leaving Xavier to wonder what he’d just spent three thousand dollars for.

  Eliza fled downstairs to her bedroom, which she hadn’t had the courage to tell Xavier was directly below his. The staircase outside her sitting room led right up to his. Practically the whole South wing was theirs.

  She took off her sweater dress and tried not to flinch at her reflection. Despite the best efforts of the finest plastic surgeons the Royal Family could fly in from all over the world she was always going to be scarred from the coral reef. Her right arm, ribs, hip and thigh were all scored deeply with puckered pink marks. She was assured they’d fade, but when she asked if they’d ever go away entirely, the doctors all went somewhat quiet.

  Drina had always been the prettier of them, her cheekbones high and her lips full. Her eyes were bluer, her complexion fairer, and her figure more petite in every way but the bust. Eliza was the tall, gangly one, with the swimmer’s shoulders and wide face that her mother tried to tell her was heart-shaped.

  And this was all in comparison to their cousins, the real heirs. Uncle Frederick, the Prince of Wales, wasn’t a bad looking chap and Aunt Louisa was what you might call a handsome woman, but they’d managed to produce three utterly beautiful children. Older, more famous and better-looking than Eliza, they’d always seemed like rockstars. Athletic, easy-going Edward, born to be be king some day; glamorous Victoria who had been offered modelling contracts since she was old enough to walk, and could sell out a dress in seconds with a single appearance; and clever, funny Jamie, who was doing a PhD in something that was both very cool and utterly impenetrable to Eliza.

  She sat down on the bed, feeling terrible. Ed had been the heir, of course. Handsome, shining Edward, the golden prince, perfect soldier and sportsman and father, and now perfectly dead in a tomb in St George’s Chapel.

  And then what had she done, not less than a year after his fatal helicopter crash? Gone and run away from the very people who were supposed to be keeping her safe. Well, she was paying the damn price for that now.

  Guiltily, she recalled the conversation she’d had with Wilson after her rescue. Her father had wanted to fire the poor woman for letting Eliza out of her sight, and Eliza had been forced to recount in humiliating detail exactly why it wasn’t Wilson’s fault. She’d insisted on giving her an excellent reference, much good it would do.

  Nice going, Eliza, you really know how to drag them down with you.

  The Personal Protection Officer seconded to her in Miami had gone back to working for her father, which had temporarily terrified Eliza until he caught her expression and explained blandly that all he had seen in that hospital room was the sort of goodbye hug any two friends might share. Her secret had been safe… had been.

  She’d been told Melissa was under investigation, because it was damn suspicious that a few months after, “Someone planted that red paint on me, honest,” at Jamie’s wedding, she’d been the last person to see Eliza before her kidnap. Eliza didn’t know if Melissa had done anything wrong, or if she was just a magnet for trouble. Right now, she had bigger things to worry about.

  She crawled into bed and tried to sleep, but it wouldn’t come. Xavier was just upstairs, maybe changing his clothes or taking a shower or lying in bed. Did he sleep naked? He hadn’t that one night in the tent, although with the bugs on the island she couldn’t blame him. I remember what he looked like naked. Unkempt, sweaty, dishevelled… and naked.

  And now? God help her, with a shave and a haircut Xavier was almost indecently handsome. He had a chiselled jaw and great cheekbones and full soft lips. She’d barely been able to look at him. She was afraid she might start dribbling.

  She tried to stop thinking about him, but the alternative was thinking about the situation she was in. Next week was the Badminton Horse Trials, and the week after that the Royal Windsor Horse Show, both of which Drina was showing and competing at. Traditionally, she and Drina attended both with their father, a date underlined in the family calendar ever since the divorce, and it was something Eliza always looked forward to even though she was rubbish on a horse. Granny would be at Windsor, of course. It was in her back garden.

  Her mother had been consulting stylists as to what kind of outfits and hairstyles and hats Eliza could get away with for the Summer Season. She’d been thinking about the scars. She hadn’t taken into account the need to hide a baby bump.

  Eliza dragged her sorry self out of bed a couple of hours later, washed and dressed in the sort of smart casual attire her mother preferred for dinner, and resisted the urge to knock on Xavier’s door. She couldn’t be seen to be too eager. The damn staff were everywhere.

  Downstairs, she found her sister lounging on a sofa reading Horse & Hound. She perked right up when she saw Eliza.

  “Who,” she demanded, “is that gorgeous man?”

  Eliza considered pretending she hadn’t noticed Xavier’s looks, and decided it was pointless. Drina didn’t let her answer anyway.

  “Is that your detective? The pictures did not do him justice. It’s like he fell out of the Handsome Tree and hit every branch. It’s surel
y irresponsible for one man to be that good looking.”

  “He certainly scrubs up well,” Eliza said.

  “Scrubs up well? I suspect you could drag him through the manure heap and he’d still be sex on a stick. How did you ever keep your hands off him? Or didn’t you?” Drina pounced.

  “I—it really wasn’t—could you keep your filthy mind to yourself, please?”

  “Lize,” Drina whined. “That means you did. Or at least you wanted to.”

  “Well any woman would want to,” Eliza mumbled, and then the door opened and her mother came in.

  “Mummy! Have you met Eliza’s detective? Isn’t he just absurdly handsome?”

  Their mother gave a bit of a smile, came further into the room, and Xavier followed her.

  Eliza felt her face burn. Drina just smiled sunnily.

  “There you are! Detective Rivera, I presume.”

  She bounded across the room and held out her hand. Xavier looked as if he didn’t know whether to shake it or kiss it.

  “My sister, Princess Alexandrina,” she said, although it was hardly necessary.

  “Your pictures didn’t do you justice,” Drina purred.

  “For God’s sake, Drina. Leave the poor man alone.”

  Drina winked at Eliza as she skipped over to the sideboard. “Would you like a drink, Detective? Whiskey, maybe? Bourbon? We’ve got some mixers, I could make you a cocktail. What do you drink in Miami?”

  Xavier came forward to survey the decanters. He wore smart-ish trousers and a blue shirt that did wonders for his skintone. Eliza found herself staring at the slice of skin his open collar revealed, and made herself look away.

  “To be honest, Your Highness, I drink beer.”

  “Oh.” Drina moved to the bell pull. “Well, we can probably rustle up—”

  “It’s fine. I’ll have a water, or juice. Jet-lag,” he added, by way of excuse.

  Drina insisted on making him a non-alcoholic cocktail, ‘the kind Eliza’s been drinking, on account of her medication,’ which he accepted. He brought one over to Eliza.

  “Your Highness.”

  “You’ll have to stop that,” she said. “I told you, it’s only the first time, and then ma’am after that,” he was smiling, damn the man, “and I also told you to call me Eliza.”

  “Maybe I like calling you Your Highness.” His eyes were warm. Princess.

  “It’s not really up to you,” Drina piped up, breaking the moment. “It’s the rule.”

  “Is it?” Xavier took a seat at the other end of Eliza’s sofa. Too close. Not close enough. “Whose rule?”

  “Well, one rather imagines it’s ours,” drawled their mother, curled elegantly on the sofa. Everything the Princess Royal did was elegant. Eliza usually felt like a lump of dough next to her. She sometimes wondered if she’d been swapped at birth.

  “Or at least Granny’s,” said Drina. “You must think us ever so strange and old-fashioned with our titles and protocols and rules,” she said. “Coming from the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

  “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal,” Eliza added.

  Xavier’s dark, glossy brows went up. “You know the Declaration of Independence?”

  If she was perfectly honest, she knew the quote because her cousin Jamie was obsessed with Hamilton. “Yes. We saw a copy, didn’t we, at George Washington’s house? Mount, er…?”

  “Mount Vernon? In Virginia? You’ve visited?”

  “Yes. Beautiful location,” said the Princess Royal. “The Potomac was frozen when we visited. Breathtaking.”

  “It’s a lovely house,” Eliza added, because she’d been surprised by the charm and grace of the place.

  “Yes, very elegant,” said Drina. “For an upstart rebel anyway,” she added mischievously.

  “His family were given the lands by the King,” Eliza told her.

  “Really? Which one? The mad one? The one who had his head cut off? The one who dropped the Great Seal in the Thames and ran away to France?”

  “Haha, our colourful family,” said Eliza weakly, and took a large gulp of her drink. Yes, please tell the man who may be the father of my child that madness runs in the family.

  Her mother said smoothly, “I do recall that the Declaration wasn’t signed by Washington, which I hadn’t realised up until then. Out on campaign, I believe. Still, it also explained the meaning of the phrase John Hancock. His signature takes up half the page.”

  Xavier looked between them all as if he were watching a sports match. “You know more about my country’s history than I do,” he said.

  “It’s our history too,” said the Princess Royal. She sipped her martini. “One does wonder sometimes what might have happened if George III hadn’t gone so unfortunately mad.”

  “Clodagh says it’s hereditary,” Drina said. Their cousin Jamie’s new wife was about to embark upon a History degree at Cambridge, and had a habit of spouting random facts when she got nervous.

  “Madness? Well, it would explain a few things.”

  They made it through dinner. Eliza had been a little nervous for Xavier, but she quickly realised why he’d made such a good undercover cop. He observed and assimilated very well. Her mother could probably match him, she thought as the main course was served. It was seafood dish that, like all the other courses that evening, required no cutting, thereby sparing him the embarrassment of asking for help with his arm still bound into its sling.

  After dinner he was offered a glass of port, which he declined with barely a glance at Eliza. The Princess Royal excused herself on household business, and Drina asked Xavier if he’d like to watch some television.

  Eliza, her nerves already strung taut, could have smacked him when he said yes. She excused herself and left them in the snug, torturing her imagination with thoughts of the two of them getting cosy together.

  She got ready for bed, tried to get to sleep and failed, lying awake and staring at the shapes in the ornate plaster ceiling. This had been her bedroom since she’d left the nursery, and it had barely changed. She’d never been allowed to put up posters of teenage crushes. She wondered what it would look like covered in pictures of Xavier.

  Her phone buzzed, startling her from a doze. “Can we talk now?”

  It was Xavier. Her heart started beating faster.

  She started to type a reply, but the words slipped away from her. Always worse when she was nervous. She reread his message carefully, and even turned on the text reader, very quietly, to say it out loud, just to make sure she hadn’t misread.

  Slowly, carefully, she typed out, “Where are you?”

  “In my room. Where can we meet?”

  She tried to tell him she’d come to him, but the letters twisted themselves about on the screen. Eliza took a deep breath, closed her eyes a few seconds, and wrote, “Stay their.” Was that the right spelling? Well, that would be a test of how judgy he could be.

  She pulled on a cardigan over her pyjamas and slid her feet into slippers. The heating in the old house was usually reliable, but her mother didn’t believe in having it on overnight and some of the floors were stone.

  She’d specifically chosen Xavier’s room above her own because it could only be accessed by this staircase. The South Wing had its own hallway and stairs, joined to the main first floor landing by one single door. That landing would be watched by cameras and occasionally patrolled by the night staff, but they didn’t go into the private suites, and the possibility of her making it up the South Stair to his room without being seen was pretty good.

  The South Stair was partly galleried, open to the South Hall below, and if she strained hard she could just make out the distant sounds of the night guard pacing the downstairs hall. She crept upwards, carefully avoiding the creaking steps, and tapped very softly on the door to Xavier’s sitting room.

  He opened it, still dressed but without his sling, still breathtakingly handsome.

  “Hi.” He smiled,
and Eliza smiled helplessly back despite her nerves.

  “Can I come in?” Her voice was barely a whisper. Her hands trembled, her shoulders tight.

  He nodded and stepped back, closing the door firmly behind her. It was thick, old oak. Sound shouldn’t travel beyond it.

  For a moment they both stood in his private sitting room, Eliza huddled into her cardigan. Then Xavier spoke.

  “Can I see?”

  “See?”

  He came closer, brushed her hair from her face. Eliza kept her gaze averted. For a long moment he said nothing, just looked intently, the same way he had all that time ago on the beach putting coconut fat on her sunburn. He was so close she could feel the heat of his skin, see his chest rise and fall with each breath.

  “It’s healing well,” he said.

  “So I’m told.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  She shrugged. “Not most of the time.” She didn’t tell him about the times when it had hurt, those awful days and weeks when the skin pulled itself tight trying to stretch over what had been torn away. How she’d massaged and oiled it, used the silicone patches, followed all the advice she’d been given as closely as possible, at least until it all started becoming contradictory.

  “And the others?”

  He was too close. She couldn’t think. “They’re fine. I’m fine. No one will care about them soon.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed. “Right. The real thing. Look, I thought we were careful—”

  “We were. But apparently that’s not as reliable as one might hope. And before you ask, no, there hasn’t been anyone else.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “And no, I don’t… have anything. I suppose I should ask you if you do.”

  “I get tested pretty regular,” he said. “Especially when I’ve just been debriefed.” He grimaced. “Trust me, if I had anything they’d have found it. You don’t have to worry on that account.”

  “Good. That’s good.” One less thing to worry about, although it was small cheer right now. “Right. I’ve been thinking, you can probably order a pregnancy test online, and obviously I can’t have it delivered here but if you—”