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

by Kate Johnson

  “Being they’re all in kindergarten, no. Hey, I know what, I’ll hook you up with Melissa,” said Xavi, and enjoyed his friend’s despair.

  Lady O-W had brought with her a woman of middling years who seemed to have had all the colour drained out of her. Eliza could no more have described her hair or eye colour than breathed underwater.

  “Marina designed Serena Armstrong-Whiteley’s dress,” said Lady O-W, as if Eliza would be able to bring it immediately to mind. “She has designed several gowns for society weddings. Here.”

  The portfolio Eliza was invited to admire contained dresses she could have bought on the high street. Some weren’t bad, but when she admired a sleeve she was told it was too short, or a skirt was too wide, or a bodice was too low-cut.

  “Modesty, remember, dear,” Lady O-W said. Her gaze fell on Eliza’s shirt, which she realised now she’d buttoned wrong. “After all, you’ll want something with a proper sleeve, won’t you?”

  “Will I? I think Granny said we’d be looking at summer, so—”

  “No, dear, I mean your… unfortunate…”

  Eliza knew exactly what she was getting at, and made her sweat for a minute or so before she said, “Oh, you mean my scars?” She rolled up one sleeve to expose her elbow. “I’m not ashamed of them.”

  “Well, no, well, quite. The, ah, one on your, ah…?” She tapped her own cheek, clearly trying not to look directly at Eliza’s hideous deformity.

  “Yes, well, an opaque veil should do the trick,” Eliza said. “I’ll have Daddy to guide me up the aisle anyway. Who needs to see?”

  “Quite,” said Lady O-W, the sarcasm bouncing off her.

  Drina came back in with a tea tray, containing a set of commemorative mugs Jamie had given Eliza for Christmas one year. They had been printed with surpassingly ugly wedding portraits of her parents and labelled, ‘God Save Prince & Princes Henrietta’ and they’d made Eliza laugh for ten minutes even before the misspelling was pointed out to her.

  Lady O-W clearly did not get the joke.

  “Oh Lize!” said Drina, pointing at a photo of a wedding dress with four kinds of lace on the sleeve. “You should get that one.”

  “I was just explaining to Her Highness that sleeves are perhaps the best idea, given her… problem areas,” Lady O-W said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Drina thoughtfully. “I mean, your arms are pretty toned, Lize. Too much swimming. Can’t let anyone see you with muscles, can we?”

  Eliza kicked her ankle. Her sister smiled serenely and sipped her tea.

  “And Your Highness does have wide shoulders,” Lady O-W said, as if sizing up a racehorse. “It really is best to cover them.”

  Eliza nodded and tried not to be too sarcastic, kicked Drina several more times, and eventually invented an appointment with a scar therapist to get her out of the house.

  “You,” she said to Drina, who was collapsing with giggles, “you can go… actually, you can go and tell Mummy to never let that woman near my wedding again, you hear?”

  “The bit,” Drina giggled, “the bit where she suggested you should just stick to the registry office because the church blessing was an insult to the faith.”

  “Shut up. It’s fine for Xavi to have a church blessing. We asked the Dean.”

  “And the thing with the ‘cumber band’!”

  Eliza’s lips twitched. Lady O-W had a terrible fear that Xavier would turn up in a ‘tux’ with a gaudy ‘cumber band’ around his waist. Either that or she thought he’d wear a Stars & Stripes waistcoat.

  Eliza was sorely tempted to order him one anyway.

  “Lize, ignore her. What do you want to get married in?”

  Eliza shrugged helplessly. At this point she hardly knew any more.

  “When we were little,” Drina said, “and we used to follow all those brides down the aisle, which ones did you like? Which ones did you hate?”

  “I hated all of them,” Eliza said. “It was the Nineties.”

  “Good point. All right then… Disney films. The Sound of Music. All those boring paintings you used to look at. Something must have sunk in. Granny’s coronation dress was quite bridal.”

  “Granny’s coronation dress was so heavy it required four people to lift over her and collapses mannequins whenever it’s brought out for display.” Eliza sighed. “Whatever you do, don’t mention that to Lady O-W.”

  Drina giggled. “But you’ve got the broadest shoulders, Eliza dear, to carry its weight.”

  “Shut up and go and tell Mummy. I’ve got Tapper looking into some designers for me. Go on, piss off, I was planning on shagging my fiancé.”

  Drina made googly eyes and blew kisses as she left, and Eliza made a point of locking the door. There were security staff around, of course, but they’d let her family in without thinking.

  She found Xavier in one of the outbuildings, which housed gym equipment left by the previous residents. He’d changed into sweats and a t-shirt that clung lovingly to his muscles as he worked out, and she leaned in the doorway for a while, watching the sinews bunch and flex.

  “Hey,” he said, noticing her and stopping. “Is it safe?”

  “Yes, not that you’re off the hook. Rat-bastard,” she added for good measure as he gave her a contrite look and towelled off the sweat. “No, wait, stay there a minute.”

  “What?”

  “I was enjoying objectifying you.”

  His smile was slow and sultry. “What, these?” He flexed his biceps, and Eliza feigned a swoon.

  “Lady O-W thought I shouldn’t be flaunting muscle,” she said. “Apparently it’s unladylike.”

  “Lady O-W can go fuck herself.” Xavier came over and unbuttoned her shirt, pushing it off her shoulders. “I love your arms. I love all of you.”

  “I know,” she said, as he bent to kiss her collarbone. “But will everyone else? Should I wear sleeves?”

  “Only if you want to. Mind you, that thing you called summer? You might want to wear thermal underwear.”

  “You’re so funny,” she said, as her bra joined her shirt, and shortly after that they ticked the gym off their list of rooms to christen.

  “No, Mom, she said money was no object, not that taste could go out the window.” Xavier flicked through the notes on his laptop. “Yeah, I don’t think a giant clamshell is going to go down well.”

  “How about thrones? They said they could get thrones.”

  He closed his eyes in horror. “No thrones, Mom. The Queen has rules about that kinda thing,” he said, which was probably true. He opened his eyes and gazed helplessly at an oil painting—apparently two hundred years old and by someone very famous—of a tall ship tossing on a turbulent sea. Why do we have an oil painting in the kitchen? “Look, maybe some sea theme. I don’t know.”

  “It’s a beach, Xavi, of course you need a sea theme. What is she going to wear? I can’t plan a thing if I don’t know what she’s going to wear.”

  Agreeing that his mother could throw a reception at one of Miami’s most exclusive beachfront hotels so that his whole extended family and former colleagues could come had seemed like such a good idea at the time. The Palace had firmly implied that whilst his closest family members could be added to the Windsor guest list, the thought of them being involved in the planning of the wedding was beyond the pale.

  His brothers and sisters all expected to be attendants, however, and Anita had even described to him in detail how wonderful it would be to walk down the aisle on the arm of some handsome Royal. Eliza had explained this tradition was really not a part of English weddings, and that most royal attendants were children. She’d shown him photos of various royal weddings where, as promised, every person following the bride down the aisle was under the age of ten.

  Clodagh had, shockingly, broken with tradition by having an adult bridesmaid, and Eliza fully expected to be ‘bollocked’ for asking Drina to be hers. The Tiny Bridesmaids, as she called them, were still being selected.

  Eliza was tearing
her hair out trying to placate the staider members of her family, the traditionalists and the courtiers—who even knew courtiers still existed?—who strongly resisted anything that had been invented after the death of Queen Victoria, whilst also trying to come up with a wedding that suited herself and Xavier.

  Sometimes, he could really see why she didn’t like being a princess.

  “Look, Mom, I have to go. I’m finalising a speech.”

  “Your groom’s speech? Your vows?”

  No, an after-dinner speech to a group of extreme sports enthusiasts who were eager to hear how he’d survived on a desert island. He’d mostly said yes because they’d agreed to host the dinner in the name of the hurricane relief charity he had become patron of. The idea of presenting TV programmes was still something he was chewing over.

  “Uh… yeah. Gotta get it right. Bye, mom. No thrones,” he added, ending the call.

  “I know the planning is a lot of work, but banning her from quality TV boxsets is just cruel,” Eliza said, wandering into the kitchen wearing fuzzy slippers and a cardigan. She poked at the teapot.

  “What? Oh… no, don’t mention Game of Thrones to her. She’ll decide on that as a theme, and weddings on that show…”

  “Yeah, best not.” She peeked at his screen, which he closed down shyly. “All right, I won’t look. Listen, I’ve got it down to two designers, and I have an idea that’s either genius or terrible, and I can’t decide which.”

  Xavier reached for his coffee. A lifetime living in England would never get him used to tea. “Do I want to know? Isn’t it supposed to be a surprise to me?”

  She made a frustrated noise. “Yes, and that’s stupid. It’s supposed to be our day. For both of us.”

  She was taking on a lot. Planning most weddings was a full time job, but planning a royal wedding employed a cast of thousands. Yesterday she’d returned from visiting one of her god-daughters, a potential Tiny Bridesmaid, and reported that the child’s mother has offered to dye her offspring’s red hair to better fit in with whatever colour scheme Eliza chose. She’d still been muttering about pink hair when they went to bed.

  “Do you like this genius slash terrible idea?” Xavier asked. “Look, remember what Jamie said all that time ago. Forget the Royal thing. Forget the chapel and the guests and what anyone might think—”

  “—the cameras—”

  “Forget the press.”

  “I mean the TV cameras.” When he stared at her, she made a face. “I was going to break it to you gently. Apparently there’s sufficient demand to broadcast it. Not blanket coverage like Jamie’s, but some bits of it will be live. Surprise,” she said heavily, and added an extra sweetener to her tea.

  “Okay,” he said slowly. No pressure then. “All right. Forget all that. Do you like the idea? Is it something you want for your wedding day? When you marry me,” he got to his feet and took her in his arms. “When we promise to spend our lives together. Is it what you want for that? Because that’s all that matters.”

  Eliza put down her terrible commemorative mug and twined her arms around him. “Marrying you is all that matters,” she repeated. “Yes. You’re right. It’s my damn wedding too.” She kissed his mouth. “Okay. Decision made. We’re going with the… with the thing. Yes, the thing.”

  “Cool, I love things,” he said, to see her smile, which she almost did.

  “It’ll be awesome,” she promised, and left the room.

  “Oh God, is this a terrible idea?” Eliza wailed, the second the dress designer was out of earshot. “They destroyed Clodagh for having gold on her dress.”

  “Only boring people cared about that,” Drina said. “She looked fabulous. She wasn’t a conventional bride and you’re not either. This will be epic. And you can say it’s traditional.”

  “Hah,” said Eliza weakly. There was tradition, and then there was three hundred and fifty year old fashion.

  “Not the lace, you said,” the designer repeated, looking critically at the painting that hung in the upstairs hallway of Brakefield Hall. Eliza’s favourite silver tissue dress, with the wide scooped neckline and the long bodice and the bullet-pleated skirt. “Or the sleeves.”

  “No sleeves,” Eliza agreed. “I mean, this is the dress that stood out for me, but there are loads of others from the period. Look at Sir Peter Lely’s work, and—”

  “Darling, she knows her costume history,” murmured Drina.

  “I’ve always loved this dress,” said the designer. “The real one. I studied it when I was at college. I didn’t know it was in a painting.”

  “It might not be exactly the same dress,” Eliza conceded. “We never had the painting carbon-dated and the lace collar is different, but the way the border pattern falls is the same. Could you do that with the scallop lace?”

  The dress designer and textile designer both tilted their heads.

  Eliza had been asked by the textile designer about symbolism in the fabric for her dress and veil. She hadn’t known what to say—her cousin Victoria had flowers from all 53 Commonwealth states on hers—but in the end the answer had been simple, and provided by the carved overmantel she’d shown Xavier all those months ago in the Dining Room.

  Her father’s coat of arms bore blue scallops, and her mother’s was differenced from the Royal Standard by hearts on the label. And, of course, the fact that she’d met her future husband on a beach was a major factor in the design. Hearts and seashells. Simple.

  “Technically we met on a boat,” she’d said, “but that’s the part I’d rather forget.”

  “Quite apart from the fact you might end up as just the daughter of the Duke of Suffolk if the Commonwealth Realms don’t get their heads out of their backsides soon,” Drina murmured. “Scallops will be terribly relevant.”

  Eliza pinched the bridge of her nose. “It will be fine. It won’t change anything. Now—”

  “Now, the registry office dress,” said the textile designer, and Eliza obediently sat back down again.

  As Christmas approached, Eliza grew more and more busy with wedding planning and royal engagements. While she didn’t carry out royal duties—hosting dinners, visiting hospitals, opening schools and the like—she was expected to attend a lot of official functions. Especially now she was further into the public spotlight. Xavier was expected to attend some of them, but denied access to several more until after they were married.

  November saw her standing with Clodagh on the balcony of the Foreign Office in London, overlooking the Cenotaph that was London’s memorial to the fallen of both World Wars. Eliza wore a black beret and a sleekly tailored coat and looked like a sexy French spy, which probably wasn’t the image her stylist had been going for. The ceremony fascinated Xavier, coldly military and utterly devoid of sentiment, which somehow made it all the more poignant.

  Xavier watched the Queen bow to the memorial, and realised for the first time what Eliza had meant about only answering to a higher power.

  “Are you sure you want to give up all that?” he asked her that night in bed.

  “For you,” she said, “yes,” and that was pretty humbling.

  The week of the eighteenth passed without comment, and Xavier said nothing every time Eliza skipped over TV adverts featuring babies. In a box under the bed sat that tiny pair of riding boots, and he noticed more than once it had been moved.

  On the advice of the Palace, he deleted his seldom-used Facebook account. That was something of a relief, as his brother Pierre kept posting ultrasound images and pictures of a newly-decorated nursery. He was constantly terrified Eliza would see them and start quietly sinking again.

  He and Eliza flew home for Thanksgiving, which was a much better experience with a private jet than it had been whenever he’d done it commercially. The plane had a separate compartment for the staff who accompanied her everywhere, and a cabin of ridiculous luxury for the two of them to share. There was even a double bed, which pretty much begged them to join the Mile High Club.

 
He’d double checked beforehand that Pierre and his wife were staying home in Baton Rouge.

  He and Eliza had been offered a room at his mother’s house, but Eliza pleaded security constraints and booked them another luxury suite. At this rate they’d have sampled every five star resort in Miami-Dade by the time they got married. His family piled on Eliza, exclaiming over her ring and begging for details of her wedding dress. They were taken to the hotel his mother had booked for their reception, which had a private beach and a wedding planner who listened attentively to the list of amendments Eliza quietly insisted on making to the plans.

  They ate Thanksgiving dinner at the crowded table in his mother’s house, the place stuffed with people and food and arguments about football. Eliza gamely tried some of everything, proclaimed the pumpkin pie her favourite and spent four days asking if the Jello salad had been a joke.

  In December she attended several Royal luncheons, taking Xavier along to one of them at Buckingham Palace. This was the lunch for everyone who wasn’t expected to go for Christmas at Sandringham, including various aged aunts and distant cousins. Xavier practised bowing to them all and steeled himself for a barrage of jokes about being a Colonial.

  To his surprise, the Family was polite and friendly. Xavier didn’t realise why until he caught Drina whispering some gossip to Eliza about their cousin Tom.

  “Darling, you’re off the hook. Remember poor Tom was a wreck after that crash? According to Anthony he’s taken up with some tattooed rock chick and they’re shagging wildly all over London. Granny looks like she’s swallowed a toad whenever it’s mentioned. And he’s pissed as a newt, look at him! You can consider yourself relieved of black sheep status.”

  “I didn’t even know I was the black sheep,” said Eliza that evening, walking barefoot into the house and carrying her shoes. She tossed them into the corner, where one of the staff would probably pick them up overnight. Having staff still unnerved Xavier.

  “Listen, honey.” He pulled her into his lap as they sat on the sofa facing the large fireplace in their newly redecorated Library.