by Kate Johnson
“Who told you to stop?”
“Well,” she said drily, “both my parents were of the opinion that swimming was fine for exercise but was only to be done in private. And as for all that unseemly sweating under a cycle helmet, well. Quelle horreur.”
“But your sister rides in… what was it, showjumping?”
“Showjumping, dressage and cross-country. It’s called eventing. And yes, she does, but she doesn’t do it commercially, with all that tacky sponsorship professional athletes have. And besides, the Royal Family and horses are completely inseparable. Plus, have you seen the outfits?”
“The, like, Victorian stuff? Do they still wear that?”
“You’d better believe it. Eventing is fine, because horses are all jolly good and you get to do it dressed like a Regency gentleman.”
“But swimming is not?”
“There’s an awful lot more bared in a unitard.”
Xavier’s arm was around her shoulders. His fingers stroked her shoulder through the jersey sleeve of her pyjamas.
“I think you’d look hot in a unitard.”
Heat flushed through her. “Yes, well, we can’t have people lusting over the Royals, can we?”
“Even when they’re going to marry them?”
Eliza forced herself to take in a deep breath. That silver tissue dress from the painting flashed mockingly before her eyes. I don’t think it comes in maternity sizes.
“Are you really sure you want to marry me?”
Xavier tilted up her chin so he could look her in the eye. “I am,” he said.
“And not just because I’m filthy rich?”
“No.”
“Or knocked up?”
“No. Well, kinda,” he added, and she made to thump his shoulder, raising her eyebrows at him when he shied back.
Jamie’s plan had been quite simple. They’d give notice at the local registry office, which required 28 days before granting a marriage licence, and spend those 28 days easing her family in to the idea of her marrying Xavier. He’d already met her mother, and if he came to Badminton he could meet her father. After this, when they went to Windsor for the horse show, she would ask her grandmother for permission to marry and explain the circumstances.
“She won’t say no when you tell her,” Jamie had reassured them. “For the good of everyone.”
Eliza was still a little sceptical about this part of the plan, but she’d agreed that if it worked, the rest would be simple. She and Xavier could get married quietly, perhaps at the registry office in Windsor, keep away from public life, and then announce the pregnancy a few months later, casually adding the fact of the marriage in too.
“It’s better if you’re seen together beforehand,” Jamie had said. “Badminton will be perfect. That way, when you announce it, the papers can all look it up and find you madly in love months before.”
“Yeah, ’cos when we went public there was no record of us together so it looked like Jamie was just snogging a random stranger,” Clodagh put in.
“They’ll still go mental,” Eliza said doubtfully.
“The press always goes mental,” Jamie said. “Remember the mantra?”
“Never explain, never complain, never apologise.” She sighed. “All right, but when do I tell my parents? And how?”
“I’d do it at the same time you tell Granny. That way no one is going to rush to the other party and let the cat out of the bag.”
Jamie was sensible and clever, and it was a good plan. So long as nothing went wrong, and Eliza had already run up a fairly long list of things that could.
“How are your acting skills?” she asked Xavier now.
“I survived eighteen months undercover without getting made,” he replied.
“True, but have you ever had to pretend to be besotted with someone in front of her parents and the world’s press?”
He said nothing, so she looked up at him, and as she did he took her mouth with his. His kiss was hot and fierce, burning with all the passion of that night on the beach, and Eliza soon found herself sprawled across his lap as his fingers did wicked things through her pyjamas.
“Princess,” he breathed when he let up for a moment, “I’m not pretending anything.”
Joy surged through her. This could work. This connection they had couldn’t be a misfire, could it? Xavier rolled her to her back and began kissing his way inside her pyjama top.
She’d almost forgotten what he might find there until cool air touched her breast and she realised he’d bared her to his gaze.
“No—”
The move to cover herself was instinctive. She’d been twitching sleeves and skirt hems and necklines into place pretty much since the moment she woke up in that hospital bed in Nassau.
For a moment she stared up at him, panting like a rabbit in a trap, and Xavier, beautiful golden Xavier, withdrew from her. His face shut down.
“Right. No. Okay.”
He turned away, ran his hands though his hair and said, “I apologise. Got carried away. I won’t touch you again.”
What? She stared at his back as he pulled the covers over himself, facing determinedly away from her.
“Xavier…” She reached out a tentative hand and touched his back. He flinched. “I…that’s not what I meant.”
“You want me to pretend. Besotted lover in public. I get it.”
“No! I mean I didn’t want you to stop. I mean… not because of… that.”
She looked down at herself. Peeked inside her own pyjama top. The pink and puckered scars the coral had left winked back up at her.
She really didn’t want to do this.
She sat up and stripped off her top, let the cooler air of the bedroom settle around her, and said, “Xavi, look at me.”
“What?” He didn’t turn. “Eliza, don’t torment me.”
“Look at me. Please.”
He made her sweat for a moment, and then he took a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder.
Then he turned fully.
“Jesus,” he whispered. He came up onto his knees, not taking his eyes off her.
“And this is only the top half,” she said miserably. Some of the marks were small and almost faded into nothingness compared with the big ones. Her elbow had taken a battering, and there was a large jagged scar where a piece of coral had been cut out of her bicep. The reef had taken quite a bite out of her hip, little flecks of scar tissue patterning one side of her ribs, and there was a laceration on her back that tightened and pulled when she moved her arm the wrong way. She hadn’t even shown him the mess on her thigh.
Xavier reached out as if to touch her, then drew back. “Does it hurt?”
Only when I look in the mirror. “Not much. Not any more.”
“Eliza.” His fingertips skimmed the indents in her skin. “I had no idea.”
“Yes, well.” She wanted to cry. “There’s a reason I haven’t been out much in society. Flaunting my scars.”
His gaze turned up to hers. “Oh, honey,” he said, and pulled her against his chest. He was warm and solid and her ugly, flawed skin loved being in contact with his.
“It’s getting better,” she told his right pectoral. “You should’ve seen it the first week. Swollen and red, absolutely gruesome. I’ve seen dermatologists and plastic surgeons. They tell me it’ll fade more, eventually. But right now it’s…” a sob escaped her. “It’s ugly, and I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? What for? It’s not your fault you hit the reef. That damn helicopter—”
I’m sorry it’s so ugly. I’m sorry I’m not as beautiful as you.
“I’m just sorry,” she said, and Xavier stroked her back and kissed her when she looked up at him.
“I’m not,” he told her, his fingers tracing the scar tissue, the weals and dips and bumps. “Every time I see these, it’s going to remind me how you survived that island. How we both survived it, because of you. How amazing you are. How brave. And how beautiful.”
“You d
on’t have to be kind.”
“I’m not.” She averted her eyes and he ducked his head to look into them. “Hey, look at me. Eliza, Princess, I could look at you for the rest of my life.”
“Well, you might have to,” she said.
Xavier smiled, and Eliza’s heart warmed. “Count on it,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
Tweed. There was tweed everywhere. Xavier had never actually seen it in real life, only on the British period dramas his mother and sisters watched sometimes.
“Oh God, it’s like the inside of Guy Ritchie’s head,” he said, as Eliza dragged him into the emporium. It smelled of leather and polish, which he might have suspected of being pumped in if there wasn’t so much of the damn stuff around.
A highly polished woman came over, smiling pleasantly. She wore a tweed skirt and a barrette in her hair, apparently without irony. “Your Highness,” she said, nodding in a way that was not quite a bow. “What a pleasure. Is there anything I can help you with today?”
“Oh, hello, Serena. Yes, I need something for Badders. Wasn’t sure if I was going this year, you see, and think I might have piled on the pounds since I came home, so might just need fitting out for something.”
She was doing that thing again of not opening her mouth wide when she spoke, squashing up all her vowels as if she wasn’t allowed to use them freely.
Serena nodded thoughtfully, apparently having not even noticed Xavier. He realised she probably thought he was Eliza’s security. “Ah, yes. The forecast is mixed, so layers, I think. We have some lovely new skirts in. Would look fabulous with your legs, and perhaps the Dubarry boots?”
“Yes to the boots, but no to the skirt. Trousers this year, I think. And also, Xavier needs something to wear,” she added casually, gesturing to him. “Are the jeans serviceable, do you think? Or some cords?”
Xavier stood there while he was assessed in the manner of a horse or a car one wanted to buy. His looks and physique were commented on as if he wasn’t there, his skintone debated, clothes held up to him. Some of them were truly alarming shades of pink or mustard yellow.
“Is that a real—oh, okay, maybe not,” he managed to say, and got a distracted smile from Eliza as a pair of raspberry cords were taken away.
“Yes, I think plain and neutral,” said Eliza, to his relief.
“I liked the slacks,” he said, and Serena flinched, almost invisibly.
“Please never say that terrible word again. These are chinos. And if you refer to ‘pants’ as anything other than underwear, do be prepared to be ridiculed.”
Xavier opened his mouth but he was cut off again. “How about breeks?” said Serena.
“No, I don’t think he’s ready for breeks. Let’s see the chinos again…”
“What’s a breek?” Xavier whispered to Eliza as Serena bustled off.
“Breeks. Ah… Short tweed trousers, to be worn tucked into long socks and country boots.” She pointed to something he’d taken for a terrible item of women’s clothing. “You don’t want all the nasties from the long grass getting up inside your trousers when you’re out shooting, do you? Ah, yes,” she said as Serena brought some of what he was supposed to call chinos. “Those would be perfect. Perhaps with a polo, what do you think? Or maybe the buttondown…”
“Do I get a say?” Xavier asked.
Serena went poker-faced. Eliza laughed. “Oh, no, of course not. Sorry, darling, but an American simply can’t be trusted at these things. Last year there was one in plus-fours!”
“You can spot them a mile off,” said Serena, who pronounced it ‘orf’. “It’s Madonna all over again.”
“Yes. Ghastly. Not that Americans are the only offenders. Remember the WAGs?”
She and Serena both shuddered.
“I can hear you,” he said. “What’s wrong with being American?”
“Oh, darling, nothing at all,” said Eliza, laying her hand on his arm. “But this is a very… British event, and it’s very… Royal, and we have ways of doing things that are… different.”
Xavier thought about being offended, except he had no idea what they were talking about. Literally everything seemed to be in code.
Except… “Did you just call me ‘darling’?” he asked in an undertone, as Serena went orf to find something called a Barbour.
Eliza coloured up. “Did I? I mean… yes, probably, darling, don’t I say it to everyone?”
“No,” said Xavier, his smile widening. He leaned in and whispered, “After last night you can call me anything you want.”
Her face flamed, and she nudged him in mortification, and then her eyes went bright and she couldn’t hide a smile.
Yeah, last night had been quite something.
In the morning, Eliza had blushed whenever she met his eye, and Xavier had found himself grinning at everyone. He’d barely managed to keep his hands off her at Jamie’s house, and as soon as they got in the back of the Range Rover he’d had the privacy screen up. Not that he expected anyone in the front of the car to be fooled, but he wanted to kiss Eliza, to touch her, to make her eyes go wide and her lips part, to make her sigh in his arms, and he didn’t want an audience for it.
He’d managed to pay just about enough attention that morning to Prince Jamie, who had been researching their plan and informed them it might need a few ‘tweaks’.
Having ascertained that they couldn’t very well give notice of marriage without posting their names and details for any passing paparazzo to see, they’d decided to wait until they’d spoken to Eliza’s family. Xavier had also been informed he would need a copy of his divorce certificate and various immigration papers, and in the end Eliza had groaned and said, “If this goes to the flipping Home Office the world and his grandfather will know. Perhaps we should wait until after we’ve okayed it with Granny.”
Now Eliza was insisting he’d need clothes for ‘Badders’ and Windsor. Xavier had looked the horse shows up briefly online, and seen people dressed mostly as their grandparents, a symphony of tweed and flat caps and ugly jackets. He’d even looked up the Queen and other senior members of the Royal Family, but it seemed the grander you were, the more like a tramp you dressed.
The fact that you’re American would hardly be mentioned. Britain—posh Britain—might as well be a different planet.
“Also a couple of suits, but not just yet. Something for Windsor. Time to make adjustments. Xavi, try this on. And this, and…”
Xavier wondered at what point his transatlantic flight had travelled through the looking glass.
It seemed like four days later when they left, the back of the Range Rover filled with boxes of tweed and riding boots and strange waxed jackets with huge pockets. Xavier had tried on a couple of suits which looked perfectly fine, but Serena had tutted over so many tiny details, measured him in a frankly invasive manner, and promised to have them ‘appropriate’ for this time next week.
“Well, that was fun,” Eliza said.
Xavier blinked at her, waiting for the punchline, but she seemed to have meant it. “I’m marrying a mad woman,” he muttered. “What the hell even was that?”
“You’re going to have to get used to being part of the country set,” Eliza advised him. “The Season hasn’t even started yet. Next thing you know it’ll be Morning Dress and fascinators at dawn.” A thought seemed to occur to her and her eyes went wide. “No. I don’t think you’ll be in Windsor Uniform.”
“I don’t want to know what that is, do I?”
“No.” She took his hand. “Oh come on, Xavier, don’t look so down in the mouth. You’d look handsome in a burlap sack. I’m just praying for cold weather so I don’t boil in my long sleeves. One year it was so hot Drina got sunburnt and the dogs nearly passed out.”
When they arrived back at Brakefield Hall, various random people arrived to help them with all the shopping. “Take it to my room,” said Eliza, in the sort of tone that brooked no questions.
“Really?” murmured Xavier. “Your ro
om?”
“Would you rather stay in yours?”
“You know I wouldn’t.” He wondered if he could get away with kissing her here.
A horse clattered up, and there was Drina, in ordinary riding clothes with her sweaty hair stuck to her neck. “Good Lord, Eliza, did you buy the entire country store?”
“Well, I didn’t know if I was going to Badminton this year.”
“Wear last year’s things. You don’t want to look too… shiny,” Drina said, as if this were a terrible faux pas.
“I’ll trample everything into the mud first,” Eliza reassured her, and Drina rode away as if she’d been serious. Wait, had she been serious?
Eliza took Xavier to the kitchen for a cup of tea— “I suppose you can have coffee, being American,” she teased, and came up short when her mother turned around from the tea things.
“Ah, there you are, darling. Crawford was taking an awful lot of things up to your room just now. Surely you don’t need that many new things? Won’t last year’s fit?”
“Um, some of them, maybe, no,” said Eliza nervously. Her hand crept into Xavier’s and he watched the Princess Royal zero in on it like a hawk.
“Anything you wish to tell me?” she enquired with icy politeness.
“Um.” Eliza looked down at their joined hands for a long while. Xavier was just about to say something, although he didn’t know what, when Eliza said, “Well, I suppose… Xavier and I are… kind of… seeing each other.”
Her cheeks were pink. She’d really never even introduced a date to her mother? Well, given the overprotective state she was kept in, he guessed not.
“I see.”
The silence stretched on. Xavier had never faced anything so terrifying in his life.
Behind Eliza’s mother, the electric kettle boiled to its conclusion and clicked off. The Princess Royal turned around and poured water into a teacup. She added milk, apparently unaware Xavier and Eliza were dying behind her.
Eliza’s fingers clenched his so tightly he thought his bones would snap.
Then the Princess Royal turned around. “Well, for God’s sake don’t tell your father you’re sharing a bed,” she said. “He’ll have you down the aisle of St George’s before you can say shotgun wedding.”