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

by Kate Johnson

  “Buying them at a bakery,” said Xavier, who’d been raised in a family of women who cooked and then lived the kind of bachelor lifestyle that hardly lent itself to weekends spent experimenting with cake batter. The eggs he’d cooked at Eliza’s had pretty much been the limit of his skillset.

  “I see.”

  “It’s the American way.”

  He was trying not to look at the stairs, because Eliza had called Clodagh up on some pretence and they hadn’t come down for ages. What was Clodagh going to tell her? To give up the baby as she had? To abort it? Xavier still didn’t know how he felt about any of that. He’d always kind of thought children would be part of his future, but not when the woman having them was so unhappy about it.

  If she’s that unhappy—

  “You’re from Miami, I understand?”

  He found a smile. “That’s right. Born and raised.”

  “I’ve never been there. Florida, yes, to Disney World, but I was about seven so my memory is fuzzy. Miami is much further south?”

  “Pretty much as far south as you can go in the mainland United States. The Keys extend further, though.”

  “You surely don’t police all that?”

  “Well, not personally.” Xavier finished his coffee and the second he put the cup down, Jamie offered him a refill. “I’m with the Miami-Dade PD. The Keys are Monroe County.” And I know what you’re doing, he added to himself, as the prince kept up a stream of polite chatter. It was impressive, really. All this talking about the other person, never giving much of himself away. He’d imagined Royals to be more self-centred.

  “To be perfectly honest, all I know of it is playing Grand Theft Auto. And I don’t expect that’s terribly accurate? Or would playing it be too much of a busman’s holiday for you?”

  “Kinda. It’s not set in the real Miami,” Xavier said, just in case Prince Jamie thought the actual city was that violent and corrupt. Hell, the place had its moments, but nothing that matched the fiction.

  “Yes, but based on it?”

  Xavier made a ‘kinda’ motion with his hand. He’d heard the arguments, of course, that violent video games were responsible for the rise in violent crime. Having seen enough violent crime before the rise of video games, however, he was inclined to think this was all trash.

  “Once, I visited the developers,” said Jamie, a light shining in his eyes. “I was a kid, with my dad, and we went to this new computer game developer. I was so excited because they’d made Lemmings, and I loved Lemmings. If I had any idea they’d later create the Grand Theft Auto series…”

  Xavier’s brows went up. He’d noticed the games consoles, neatly stacked on an antique bookshelf that would have looked more at home in a university library, and the controllers that went with them, and assumed the prince liked a little gaming during his downtime.

  But, “You played Lemmings?”

  “Oh man, I was obsessed with Lemmings. I had a Sega Mega Drive, my mother had to ration the time I spent on it because I could literally spend all day playing. I think it was called something else in America. The Genesis?”

  Xavier nearly spilt his coffee. “I had one of those! Well, it was my brother’s, but he let me play. Sometimes. If I did his chores.” Wow, that brought back memories. Mostly of being yelled at by his mom for spending so much time indoors glued to the television, but still.

  “They were great. Tell you what though, nothing beat the Gameboy.”

  “Right?” said Xavier, sitting forward. “You could play it anywhere.”

  “Anywhere,” Jamie agreed excitedly. “I spent so many hours in the backs of cars and on planes and that thing was a godsend. Of course, I was constantly being told to put it down and read a book instead…”

  “Yeah, I was always told to go outside and play in the sunshine.”

  “Joke’s on them, of course, because when did reading ever get anyone a PhD?” Jamie said, in what was clearly an oft-repeated joke.

  “Or a…” Xavier considered what he had. An application for a Medal of Valor. His mother telling him he should get a Purple Heart. A princess.

  “Probably a George Medal,” Jamie said, as if he was talking about handing Xavier another brownie.

  “Who’s getting a George Medal?” asked Clodagh, her footsteps coming down the stairs.

  “Xavier. Maybe. Don’t tell anyone,” Jamie said. “Act surprised.”

  “I will be amazed and astonished,” said Xavier, distracted, waiting for Eliza to follow Clodagh. When she did, it was apparent she’d been crying.

  “Hey,” he said, rising, holding out his hand to her. Too late, he realised he probably shouldn’t have done that, that it was a giveaway they were more than just acquaintances. Well, hell, Jamie and Clodagh probably knew that anyway. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “Just some food for thought,” she said, taking a seat at the other end of the sofa.

  He tried to read her face but she was giving him nothing. Neither was Clodagh.

  Jamie looked between the two women. “Everything all right?”

  “Fine,” they both said at the same time.

  Silence fell.

  “What’s a George Medal?” Xavier asked, to fill it.

  “Are you getting one?” Eliza asked, and from her expression he gathered he should be impressed.

  “I have no idea. Do I want one?”

  “I’ll say,” said Jamie. “It’s one of the highest honours a civilian can receive. Only the George Cross is higher, and just to give you a clue what it entails, quite a lot are awarded posthumously.”

  “Jeez. Really?” He wasn’t sure he wanted a dead man’s medal.

  “It would technically be honorary, but you’d still get it.” Jamie was tapping at his tablet. “Here. It’s quite shiny.”

  Xavier looked at the silver medal with its image of a knight slaying a dragon. “It’s, uh, impressive.” What the hell would he do with it?

  “You’d be Xavier Rivera, GM. That sounds nice,” said Eliza.

  I’d rather be Xavier Rivera, Not In A State Of Wondering What The Hell You’re Going To Tell Me.

  “I’ll see if I can push the Awards and Honours Committee on a decision,” said Jamie.

  “Great,” said Eliza.

  There was another silence.

  “So what were you guys talking about upstairs?” asked Jamie, taking a sip of tea. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “Hair,” said Eliza.

  “Make-up,” said Clodagh at the same time.

  “Hair and make-up. I forgot mine,” Eliza said.

  “Yeah, she’s going to borrow…” Clodagh began, and both men looked between the two women. Clodagh, dark-skinned with a head full of curls, and Eliza with her loose blonde waves and complexion like milk.

  Xavier could never claim to be an expert on hair and make-up, but he was failing to see the intersection in this Venn diagram.

  “Um,” said Clodagh. She sent Eliza an apologetic look, and Eliza sighed.

  “You know what, fuck it,” she said, and squared her shoulders. “Might as well tell him.”

  Clodagh nodded. She took Jamie’s hand. “For what it’s worth I think it’ll help.”

  “Who he?” said the prince, glancing at Xavier as if he already knew the answer. “Me he?”

  “Yes, you he.” Eliza’s fingers pleated the edge of her sweater. “I wasn’t talking to Clodagh about hair and make-up. I was… asking her advice. About… about… well, you see, the thing is, on the island, Xavier and I… um…”

  She trailed off. Xavier drew on all the ability he’d honed over the years to stay calm under pressure. Damn it, he’d faced druglords and gang bosses and murderers, but he’d never had to face a man whose father would be king one day.

  “You didn’t get married, did you?” Jamie said, in tones of dread that did nothing to soothe Xavier’s nerves.

  “No. What? By who? It was a desert island, Jamie, be serious. I did get pregnant though.”

  She said it fast,
then went still. Xavier could see how tense every muscle was. He reached out, touched her hand, and she jumped as if she’d forgotten he was there.

  “Right,” said Jamie distantly. He put down his teacup. His gaze appeared to be transfixed on the far wall. “I… see. Congratulations?”

  “Try it again without the question mark,” muttered his wife.

  “Congratulations,” he said obediently, and then almost immediately winced.

  “Yes, see, that face? That’s not a congratulations face,” Clodagh said.

  Her husband sighed. “I do see a few problems,” he admitted.

  “Just a few?” said Eliza heavily.

  “I mean obviously you can’t have it without—”

  “No. Obviously.”

  “And you can’t have it after—”

  “Out of the question,” she agreed.

  “And trying to get the Privy Council to—”

  “Quite.”

  “And, no offence, but is he a—”

  “Yes.”

  “Christ.”

  “And divorced.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Well, exactly.”

  Xavier stared at them. “What the hell are you guys talking about?”

  “Nothing we haven’t talked about,” Eliza said. “We just… have a lot of shorthand.” Her fingernails dug into his hand.

  The divorce would be a problem. He’d heard from his lawyer on one of the issues he’d emailed about this morning, but not the other. Not the one causing him so much grief.

  Jamie was running his fingers through his hair, apparently without realising. “Right,” he said. “I… well, I see. Right. Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” said Xavier and Eliza heavily.

  “Right. And you’ve… I mean, a doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Good. Good. Um.”

  Clodagh peered at him, then shrugged. “Might as well make another cup of tea while he’s thinking,” she said. “Anyone?”

  “Should you be drinking caffeine?” Xavier said, and Eliza sent him a deadly look. Clodagh took the cups into the kitchen.

  “Week of the… 18th November,” Jamie muttered. “Granny’s anniversary. Death of JFK and Roald Dahl. St Andrew’s… no, too early. Although maybe.”

  “Thanksgiving,” Xavier contributed. He glanced askance at Eliza. Jamie had worked out their due date just like that? Xavier hadn’t got any further than ‘probably November’ and he knew exactly when the baby had been conceived.

  “He studies maths,” Eliza said.

  “Computer Science, and don’t distract me.” Jamie frowned at the distance.

  Clodagh came back in with the teapot. She glanced at her husband, perched on the sofa arm and helped herself to a scone.

  “He’s not going to come up with any alternatives we haven’t already thought of,” she said.

  “You could go on a monastic retreat for the next seven months, give birth in secret and later adopt it as your own ward like in Downton Abbey,” said Jamie, still staring at the wall.

  Clodagh rolled her eyes. “I stand corrected.”

  “Any sensible suggestions?” said Xavier.

  Jamie focused his eyes on them and looked apologetic. “Keep it or don’t,” he said. “It’s a binary choice. Once you’ve decided which of those to choose, more choices open up.”

  “Yeah, we don’t need a flow chart,” Clodagh said.

  “Victoria was enquiring about adoption,” began Jamie.

  “No. No way. That’s not… this isn’t a soap opera. I’m not carrying a baby for someone else. Even if she is my cousin. Granny’s head would explode.”

  “True,” said Jamie. Clodagh passed him a scone and he bit into it apparently without noticing. “Well, then. Do you want to keep it?”

  He asked if she was making a choice about a coat she wanted to return to the shop.

  “You know it’s not that simple.”

  “Well, except it is, really,” said her cousin, and before Xavier could lay into him, he went on. “Ignore everything else. Forget about Granny, and the Family, and what your mother will say. Forget about getting married, or maternity wedding dresses or whatever else has been going around your head. Forget about all of that and just answer this question: do you want this baby?”

  Xavier still had hold of her hand. Eliza stared hard at a point only she could see on the mantelpiece. Clodagh put her hand on Jamie’s shoulder. A clock ticked.

  And then Eliza said, “Yes.”

  Chapter Eleven

  She watched Xavier move around the room, shirtless, lean and beautiful as a panther. Was this a man she could spend the rest of her life with? What would he look like in ten, twenty, thirty years? Would they still find each other attractive? Would he lose interest in her and run off with someone else like his first wife had?

  His golden chest had a smallish scar on it where the bullet had gone in, and a much larger one on the back where it appeared to have been dug out. He bore other marks too, older faded scars and what might have been a partly-removed tattoo on his bicep.

  Eliza had changed into her pyjamas in the bathroom, an all-encompassing set with little sheep all over them. Hardly sexy, but she wasn’t exactly out for seduction.

  “Is this really going to work?” she said from the bed, and he glanced over at her.

  “It will if we want it to,” he said, unfastening his jeans. Eliza both wanted to look away and didn’t, fascinated by the skin he kept revealing. He caught her hesitation and said, “I can go sleep in the other room if you want.”

  “No. No, I don’t think being alone right now is going to be a good idea for me.”

  He got into bed beside her and held out his arm, and Eliza curled against his warm body, just as she had that very first night in the life raft. Strangers, huddling together out of necessity.

  “Clodagh told me once that her sister got pregnant without planning to and decided that must mean it was fate and she was meant to be with the guy. At least I think that’s what she said through all the hysterical laughter.”

  Xavier rested his cheek against her head. “That happened to my cousin. Marched down the aisle before she’d even finished telling Abuela.”

  “How’d it work out?”

  He made an uncertain noise. “Well, the court says he’s probably not a danger to children, and the prison has been very good about allowing visitation.”

  Eliza’s head snapped up. The bastard was grinning.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Sorry. He’s kind of a lowlife, but he pays his child support and I don’t look too closely at where he gets the money from. Things work out, Princess.”

  “What are you going to do about your job?”

  He took in a deep breath and sighed it out. “I guess I quit. I’m still on leave, and my future holds nothing more glamorous than a desk job. I got a 401k. Pension plan,” he added. “I can live a while before I figure out what to do.”

  Eliza bit her lip. She tried not to smile. “Xavi, did you see my mother’s house?”

  She saw his jaw tighten. “Yes. And I know you’re used to a certain standard, which I can’t provide, but I’ll figure something—”

  She couldn’t help it. She started giggling.

  “What’s so funny?” He sounded really pissed off.

  “Oh, Xavi, I’m sorry. It’s just so… well, it’s sweet. You don’t have to pay for everything. I have more money than I know what to do with.”

  He narrowed his eyes at the distance. “You’re an assistant at an auction house—”

  “Yes, well, I have to do something with my time and that looks better than living off my means. My father isn’t just a duke, he’s also a hedge fund manager. He’s very good at it. We’ve never drawn on the Privy Purse. We own property and racehorses and shares by the billion. I don’t have much of a head for figures but I do have very good business managers. Trust me when I say money won’t be a problem.”

  Xavier
was silent for a long while.

  “I mean, that’s not a problem, is it?” she said, not quite knowing why it would be but equally sure he could make it one if he wanted.

  Then he kind of laughed. “Jeez. I mean you told me your family was wealthy…”

  “You were only thinking about the Royal side. Daddy is very successful.” She looked at her hands. “Would you like to meet him? It’s Badminton next week. The Horse Trials. He usually sponsors an event. Drina’s competing.”

  Xavier cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said slowly. “When you say badminton and horses you don’t mean what I’m picturing, do you?”

  “No. Badminton is the name of the place. Where the racquet sport was invented, apparently, but no, there won’t be any horses playing with shuttlecocks. As much fun as that would be. It’s equestrian events. Dressage, cross-country, that kind of thing. All very traditional.” She patted his chest. “You’d look very dashing in tweed.”

  “Hmm.”

  “We could get you a matching sling. How long do you have to wear it for?”

  “Well…” Xavier scratched the back of his neck. “Technically, I don’t. But the first day I took it off someone thanked me for my service by clapping me on the shoulder and I swear to God, I was half a second from crying like a baby.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. I figured while travelling it’d help stop people jostling me. There’s still some muscle and tissue damage.”

  “And your lung?” She’d looked up pneumothorax. Estimates on healing time were as long as a piece of string.

  “It’s fine.” His chest rose and fell, smooth and golden and muscular. Hard to believe he’d ever been in danger of drowning in his own blood. “Mostly. I can’t over-exert myself. Wouldn’t pass the police physical. Anyway,” he added, before she could commiserate, “were you really a triathlete?”

  Eliza groaned. “I was more of a swimmer than a proper triathlete. I just got kind of caught up in it at uni. It was the first time I’d ever really been allowed to do what I loved without someone telling me to stop, and I made friends with some of the girls trying for the triathlon and it kind of went from there.”