The Princess Royal (Royal Romances Book 2)

by Molly Jameson

  “Last chance to back out.” She said.

  “If I leave now I’m nothing but a coward with a bald spot on my chest.”

  “No second thoughts?”

  “None.” He said. “I know what I want.”

  Something in the way he said it, and the heat of the vodka moving in her veins made her shiver. She sat back and watched Bo outline the transfer design. The rapid-fire vibration noise from the machine overpowered in the small space. She took Phillip’s hand and held on, strangely distressed by the fact that someone was working on him with a needle. A bizarre impulse to knock Bo away from Phillip, to protect him, surged up in her. The vodka, she reminded herself, it was making her irrational. She saw Phillip grit his teeth for the barest instant, the only indication that he was at all uncomfortable. She squeezed his hand.

  Another artist came in bearing the transfer for her roses and vines. She looked up at Phillip who met her eyes and nodded. She released his hand and stripped off her shirt. Lying at full length on her side, she faced away from Phillip, self-conscious suddenly about lying there topless under his unflinching eyes. The layer of paper crinkled beneath her hip as she shifted. The cold disinfectant chilled her. The second tattooist, Carlton, started the needle and its motor sounded like a machine gun to her. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and felt the first shock of pain, wondering belatedly if her rib cage had really been the best decision for placement. Lizzy tried to relax, to think of something that made her happy, but every time she tried, the image of Phillip dancing with her intruded, his smile, his teasing, the fierce way he’d dealt with Magnus while she stood by, the weight of his heirloom cufflinks in her palm. For all her joking about knights and lace fans, his standing up for her had been surprisingly touching. She was thinking about it, about him, when his voice startled her.

  “All finished. Want to see?” Phillip said.

  From behind her, he passed her his shirt and she used her right hand to cover her chest with it, maintaining some shred of modesty. He rounded the table, set the stool beside her head and he sat. Lizzy looked at the reddened skin where, in black and deep green, was traced the twisted trunk of the tree of life. Its roots splayed out over his heart. It moved her; she didn’t know why but she didn’t want to examine that thought too closely. Fortunately he seemed to attribute the tear that slipped from the corner of her eye to pain from the application of her tattoo. He reached for her hand, the one outstretched along the pillow above her to expose her pale side to the artist’s needle. Her fingers closed around his and she held onto him hard.

  “All right?” He said. “Do you want him to quit?”

  “No. I’m well.” She said.

  “Since your tattoo is to be quite large, I think I’ll take advantage of having a captive audience. Here is the tale of Phillip Rhys-Cooper’s life.” He cleared his throat theatrically.

  “Phillip was a bookish sort, bit dull on the social scene, keen on studying bugs and the like. A fair hand at rugby, his heft allowed him some success on and off the field despite his lack of height. At Uni, he read finance with a secondary emphasis in environmental studies much to his parents’ humiliation. They’d have rather had a barrister with ambitions to be the Prime Minister than a business manager with secret pretensions to save the globe.” He said.

  “Could we skip to the good bits? Where he turns superhero?”

  “Alas, dear Lizzy, there is no superhero to this story. It is the story of everyman.”

  “Every privileged white man with a fine public education and a gap year in Spain?”

  “Curse you and your accurate knowledge of my past!” He said. “It’s difficult to romanticize one’s tragic history with an audience of hecklers.”

  “I’m only grumpy because I’m being stabbed with a mechanized needle. Do go on.” She said.

  “No more interruptions, though. I’ve a bald chest and it’s making my disposition rather sensitive. Where was I? Ah, our humble hero—no snorting either, princess!” He said as she made an unladylike noise. “took a proper job in his father’s company and made sustainability his hobby. He advocated for more green spaces in urban planning and succeeded in getting his own company to put in a rooftop garden where employees devote two hours weekly to tending the garden and all the produce is donated to soup runs.”

  “That’s wonderful, Phillip, well done!” She said. “What happens to our hero next?”

  “He derails over a pretty American called Amanda who, against all probability, agreed to become his wife. In a disastrous turn of events, she found he was not quite exciting enough to hold her interest and they parted ways.”

  “What did he do after that?”

  “I reckon he pitied himself for being such a sad bastard. He stayed in his flat eating beans on toast for days. His family of course insisted the best cure for humiliation was another nuptial engagement. They put forth for his consideration the Honorable Hortense VanAcker, who is every bit the sexy beast you would expect a woman called Hortense to be.”

  “I would not recommend the Hon. Hortense in any case.” She said.

  “Too smart for me?”

  “No. I was at school with her.”

  “Did she bully your divine self?”

  “She fancies girls.” Lizzy said.

  She stretched and gave a wince when the tattooist left off outlining and changed the cartridge. Phillip stood up from his stool and bent over her. He pressed a brotherly kiss to her temple.

  “Brave girl.”

  “It isn’t as though I were having shrapnel dug out in Kosovo.” She said.

  “You must lie still to be jabbed repeatedly with an electric needle. I reckon that takes a bit of courage and will power.”

  “Stubbornness, more like.”

  “You cannot claim to be my sovereign in that appalling dishabille so I may call you whatever I like. I choose to call you brave.”

  “That vodka’s addled your brains, Phillip.”

  “Nah, that little dram? I’ve decided to read to you.” He said. “Our tattooist informs me you’ve at least an hour of detail work ahead of you and it is the civilized way to pass our time. I have downloaded a selection of titles.” He cleared his throat pompously. “The Sorrows of Young Worther by Goethe?”

  “Ugh, no Goethe!”

  “L’Etranger in the original French by our desolate friend Camus?”

  “Mais non.”

  “Not an intellectual, I see. Very well, you populist rabble, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone?”

  “Yes, please!”

  With that, Phillip began reading aloud, interrupted frequently by Lizzy’s commentary (she hated the Dursleys and shipped Hermione and Harry tirelessly). Carlton chastised her for laughing so hard that she made it impossible to complete shading on her torso. When it was finished, Phillip asked a polite question on tattoo site care and turned his back so Lizzy could dress.

  When she was clad once again in her bright top, she held his shirt and he slid his arms in and buttoned it. They set off for Phillip’s car.

  “Did you have fun?”

  “I should say this was the best charity ball I’ve attended.”

  “That isn’t much competition though. At most our tattoo outing was competing with a slightly above average pudding.”

  “This ball in particular was worse than the tattooist’s needle. Those children were not skilled enough on their instruments to be given an amplifier. It was at times actually painful.”

  “I had looked forward to hearing them perform, until they started. Dear lord, whomever miked the girl with the concertina ought to be put in the stocks.”

  “I believe one of your ancestors abolished that punishment.”

  “Old bastard never had to listen to the girl with the concertina.”

  They left the shop and walked out to his car. She folded herself into the passenger side with a slight wince at the tender spot on her side.

  “It was the uk
ulele that sent me round the bend.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell the board you disapproved of it.”

  “The board? Why in blazes are you on the board of that organization?”

  “Because Father assigns us patronages and I, as the eldest daughter, have to confine my philanthropy to needy children. Edward is in charge of trees and other vegetation, best I can tell. Beatrice and Gigi are diseases and Leopold is war disabled and land mines.”

  “What of Jamie?”

  “Jamie gets all the prestigious ones as the heir to the throne. He gets AIDS and the principal cancers.”

  “Lucky sod, he gets AIDS and cancer.” Phillip said.

  “Not all cancer, I got melanoma. I lobbied for a higher profile charity. So Father gave me melanoma.”

  “I wouldn’t go round saying that. Not everyone would know you were speaking of a charity. One might think your father were a vengeful Norse god inflicting cancerous growths on his own children.”

  “Practically. I’d like a chance to make more of an impact, really draw attention to something worthwhile and troublesome.”

  “The ukulele was troublesome but not worthwhile.”

  “I swear to the baby Jesus I am buying you a ukulele for Christmas.”

  “Don’t threaten me!”

  “Well, speaking of troublesome things, Hortense will be at Nene’s dirty thirty. You’re going aren’t you?”

  “Nene?”

  “Anunciata Moss-Davies? Nene Davies? I was at school with her. She’s having her dirty thirty as a fancy dress party at her dad’s country house. The theme is Arabian Nights!”

  “I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure of knowing anyone called Nene. So, I am not invited to her fancy dirty party.”

  “You can be my escort, make certain I don’t get legless and wander into a yurt with the wrong sort of chap.”

  “Thank you but no.”

  “You need a bit of a cheering up and no one could be down at one of Nene’s dos. Last year was a fiesta with a life-size piñata made to look like the chap from Magic Mike and you had to hit it square in the bits to make the candy come out!”

  “That sounds horrifying.”

  “It was divine.”

  “So whom or what will be hit in the bits at this party?”

  “Oh, it wouldn’t do to repeat from last year’s highlights. She’s quite an original, Nene is. I expect I’ll have to get a harem outfit. Do you think I ought to have a belly ring?”

  “I’ve already seen you have a tattoo. My heart couldn’t take it.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be the death of you…you’re fast approaching your prime years for cardiac trouble.” She said.

  “So what will you do for your own dirty thirty?”

  “Since it was over a year ago, same as ever, I suppose. I had drinks with the girls, stood round shivering in my spring coat while some bloody flower garden was opened with slush still on the ground.”

  “I believe this is yours?” He indicated the palace’s back entrance.

  “I’ll ring you about Nene’s. It’ll be the smartest party this year, promise!”

  “Right.” He said. “Thanks for taking me to have a tattoo. It’s been quite a different evening for me.”

  “Better than moping in your flat with beans on toast?”

  “Miles better.” He said.

  When Lizzy got in, after she admired her tattoo in the mirror a bit, she phoned her personal publicist.

  “Lydia, I’ve a new tattoo I’d like to show off. Get me a spread in some American fashion magazine. I’ll talk some about charity work and do a few photos to set them right about their stodgy view of British royalty. Bring a bit of edge to it, right?”

  The next day she received notice of her booking for Vanity Fair, the cover. She’d done the cover of a few UK mags as official press appearances with questions, which had been vetted by her father’s publicity office. This was her first American magazine and her first interview independent of her father’s bidding.

  Chapter Three

  Lizzy rang Phillip to tease him about Nene’s dirty thirty.

  “Good morning, you.” She said.

  “Argh. My chest hurts.”

  “Good god, are you having a heart attack?”

  “No, I got a bloody tattoo last night, that’s why it hurts.”

  “Ah, you scared me. Not funny, Phillip. I’m calling to remind you that I’m collecting you Friday week at five sharp.”

  “Are we having septum piercings? Hair extensions? Another tattoo is almost too predictable at this point.”

  “No more bodily augmentation at this point, only costuming for a fancy-dress do. I’ve spoken for an ensemble for each of us but I need your inseam and waist measurements.”

  “My inseam? That’s a bit personal. It’s not as if you’ve even bought me a coffee and already you want access to my inseam.”

  “So amusing, Phillip. The numbers please.”

  “Eighty-one centimeter inseam. Seventy-six point two at the waist.” He said.

  “Now, you’re keen to wear harem pants, correct?”

  “Christ, no, Lizzy! Also no dodgy man-blouses with fluffy sleeves.”

  “You can’t wear proper trousers to a fancy dress!”

  “I will refuse to exit the auto if I’m forced to don harem pants.”

  “But you do agree to go with me now?”

  “Yes. I’ll go so long as I’m permitted to dress like a normal person.”

  “No one dresses like a normal person at these.”

  “Then I’ll be the talk of the party if I don’t wear a bejeweled blouse and ten necklaces. You can tell everyone I’m far too stuffy to dress up.”

  “The man I was with last night is not at all stuffy. You need to have a bit more fun and I’m making it my mission to see that you have.”

  “Has your father signed off on that patronage?”

  “He would never approve.”

  “I wish I didn’t suspect that was your motivation.”

  “Don’t tell me I want his attention. I have no interest in drawing his ire yet again. It’s terribly dull.”

  “It seems rather blatant you want him to take notice of you.”

  “It’s habit more than anything else. New boyfriend, new hair style, new exotic pet, something to keep me in the news apart from my weight and the odd fashion misstep.”

  “I don’t think it would do, from the palace viewpoint, for you to go round with me, even as a charitable thing. I’m thinking of having a go at the by-elections.”

  “For MP? God, Phillip, that’s brilliant! I can’t think of a better man for the job!”

  “While I appreciate the encouragement, you can’t precisely come out in favor of me and get mired in political business. You know the palace doesn’t endorse candidates. There may not even be a by-election if Whitby clears the bankruptcy before time.”

  “Oh, I do hope he goes bankrupt! You could do so much good. All that work for the environment—you’d wake up those stodgy lads in the Commons.”

  “Thank you, Lizzy. But you see why you mustn’t dance with me or go to any dirty parties and the like. The press will say you’re backing me.”

  “I am backing you.”

  “I would never exploit your friendship to get attention for myself and my ambitions.”

  “You aren’t. It’ll be a symbiotic exploitation plan.”

  “That isn’t a proper thing at all. You’ve only just made it up.”

  “Yes, but I’m clever like that. You need name recognition if you’re going to have a go at the by-election. I need to scrub up my image a bit after the dust-up with Magnus, and you’re such an upright family friend that it would do me good to be seen with a civic-minded respectable person like you. So where could I turn up to get you a mention in the papers? Any events planned?”

  “I have a fundraiser for the Sustainability Foundation on Wednesday, a luncheon and t
he launch of the new meta-analysis of the impact of environmentally friendly building materials in the UK.”

  “I might just turn up to show my interest. Lend a bit of luster to your lunch do with my royal presence.” She said.

  “You needn’t feel obligated to come to a boring researchers’ lunch.”

  “I want to support your bid for MP. I might even learn something at the speeches. Message the details to my mobile, Phillip. I have to rush.”

  ***

  Phillip Rhys-Cooper checked the time on his phone again. She probably wasn’t coming, he reasoned. Lizzy had official duties and more important things to do than sit in a conference room and watch a PowerPoint about building materials. Still, he kept his eye on the door, hoping. At half one, he took to the podium to introduce the lead researcher Dr. Sharon Marks.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my honor to be here today as a director of the Sustainability Initiative as we learn about the findings of Dr. Marks and her colleagues with regard to innovative building materials and their environmental impact. Please join me in welcoming—Lizzy!” He stumbled over his words, too struck by her sudden appearance to recover his powers of speech.

  The Princess Royal breezed through the doors in a pale suit, a dashing scarf at her neck, her dark hair pinned up, and sat down in the back row. She flashed him a smile and he felt himself smile back, feeling relief and something like triumph. The assembled crowd turned to follow his gaze and he could hear a collective gasp when they saw Lizzy uncapping her pen and opening her folder.

  “Pardon me,” He said, clearing his throat. “Join me in welcoming our top researcher Dr. Sharon Marks.”

  Phillip took his seat near the stage, not rushing back to join Lizzy as he would have preferred. Dr. Marks’ talk was lengthy, but every time he stole a glance at Lizzy, she was rapt, as if nothing on earth interested her so much as the displacement of carbon concrete over time. She scribbled along with her pen and he felt ridiculously proud of himself for having helped to fund this research, for whatever alchemy had brought her into this room because of him.