The Princess Royal (Royal Romances Book 2)

by Molly Jameson

  “I had the opportunity to speak with the mother of one of your patients today, Rosie Arterton’s mother, Jacinda. I don’t mind telling you I was quite moved by what she told me of the way this department not only found a way to make an insulin pump work for Rosie, but that the nurses also celebrated her birthday with sugar-free fairy cakes while she was hospitalized. You see, she isn’t only a favorable statistic, is Rosie. She’s also an eight year old child who, among other things, loves horses. I think I can help with that bit myself…come next year I’m keen for Rosie and Jacinda to make a visit to a place that’s rather special to me and is about to become something remarkable.

  “To tell you the truth of it, I came here tonight to make inroads to redemption. I’ve been a bit of a bother to my parents as you may have noticed. I floundered about, not knowing quite what to do but getting a great deal of attention while I did. I was meant to say what’s on this notecard and that’s all. It even says that, last thing here. It reads, ‘thank you all so much’ then stop talking, Eliza! It’s underlined. Although it’s good advice, I’ve never been brilliant at listening. So I’m going to say a few things that aren’t on the card.”

  Lizzy drew a big breath and began. He waited, feeling a surge of pride for her.

  “I’ve just come off a rough patch, what with the unseemly business with my ex and then I gave an interview to an American magazine. I quite liked the photos myself but it was—a mistake. I’m sorry about all that and I mean to do better. I’m starting a hippo-therapy installation at Pembroke Lodge near Chipping Campden, in what was once my grandmother’s home. I hope to bring assistive riding and equine therapy to those who have physical and mental disabilities. I’d quite like Rosie to come have a go at therapeutic riding there when we’re up and running. Hippo-therapy is something I’ve taken interest in for some time but it never came to anything until…do you see that man at the front table? That gorgeous, dark-haired one? That’s Phillip Rhys-Cooper. He’s running for MP in the by-election but that’s beside the point. I’m going to marry him.” She broke off, beaming.

  The audience broke into applause at the announcement. Phillip was sure he’d only seen her look so beautiful once before, when she’d held his hand at the tattoo shop in Clerkenwell, that same expression, fierce and indomitable, only now lit by joy. Phillip couldn’t keep his seat. She was too captivating; he felt the pull of her. He joined her on the stage, catching her round the waist. Their eyes met and she grinned like the light of day.

  “Let’s give them a Hollywood ending, Pembroke boy.” She said.

  Phillip dipped her low as if they were dancing, and they kissed.

  ***

  Lizzy glanced down at her notecards, but she'd strayed too far off the prepared speech to bring it back round.

  "I'm delighted to be any small part of this organization and its research innovations. The work you do here is so important, so greatly important to all of us and I thank you for it. Know that our thoughts and prayers are with each physician and nurse, each family affected by this disease." She pressed her lips together. "Thank you."

  Lizzy had got it right, had said compassionate and respectful things without the use of her professionally prepared notecards. She had not blighted the family name. So when speeches were over and a reporter approached her with a question, she felt unusually nervous, as if she wasn't quite in the clear just yet.

  "Now, princess, which designer are you wearing tonight?"

  Lizzy answered the queries about her dress and shoes, wondering if the spot on page six would be entirely about her weight as usual.

  ***

  “I consider that a sign of the very greatest devotion from you, Lizzy.” Phillip said.

  “Did you think I’d leave my phone on for this?”

  “There was a time I’d have suspected you of live tweeting the proceedings.”

  “We’ve had to wait twenty-eight days, and I’ve not tweeted a solitary bloody word about it. I cannot believe they made me register the full time in advance. I’m the Princess Royal of their sodding kingdom.”

  “They’ve waived the public structure requirement for you, isn’t that sufficient? You’ll get to have it in the open air which is most unconventional.”

  “I suppose it will have to do.” Lizzy said. “Now go outside and wait while I get ready. Go chat up the registrar.”

  Lizzy shooed him away, took off her robe, and admired her dress. For once, she’d got it just right. The dress came from a secondhand shop in the city, a champagne cocktail frock with a lace bodice and short chiffon skirt. It looked like something swish that a girl would’ve worn to a party in the sixties. It was off the shoulder so it displayed the crown tattoo with only a scallop of lace like an underscore beneath the ink. She took her bouquet of apricot-hued Jude the Obscure roses and went out to the Pembroke Lodge gardens in back of the house. Phillip was waiting there with Mrs. Chambers and the stable hand for witnesses. It was a Tuesday afternoon and there wasn’t another soul in sight. She walked down the path and joined Phillip. He took her hand, palm down as he had that night in the Clerkenwell tattooist’s shop. She felt the same thrill of belonging and disbelief that she’d come to associate with Phillip.

  “I do solemnly declare that I know of no lawful impediment why I, Phillip George Paul—“

  “If you say Ringo I’m going to die. Did your mum name you after all the Beatles then?”

  “Lizzy, I’d doing my vows.”

  “Right, sorry. Do go on.”

  “I do solemnly declare that I know of no lawful impediment why I, Phillip George Paul Rhys-Cooper, may not be joined in matrimony to Eliza.” He said.

  “And I do solemnly declare that I know of no lawful impediment why I, Eliza Margaret Penelope, Princess Royal of the house of Craismere, may not be joined in matrimony to Phillip.” She said, smiling.

  Phillip kissed her hand and laid it on the back of his neck. With her fingertips, she touched the crown inked there. She was lost to the ceremony for a moment, just looking at him, just letting it sink in that they were truly doing this, being married at Pembroke without a single prying eye to disturb them. There were only the two of them in the world just then, in a silence too full for words. The warmth of his neck beneath her fingers, the softness of his curls, the intensity of his eyes on her made her feel, not for the first time, that she was an unpardonably lucky girl.

  “I, Phillip, take thee, Lizzy, to my wedded wife.”

  “I, Lizzy—“ Her voice caught in a sob. “Bloody hell, I swore I wouldn’t cry.”

  “You also promised you wouldn’t swear. It’s a seven minute ceremony, for Christ’s sake.” Phillip said with a grin.

  The registrar cleared his throat sternly and made them repeat their vows. Phillip slid a band of pink Argyle diamonds onto her finger above the arrow ring he’d bought at the market stall, which she refused to remove. Then Phillip took her by the waist and pulled her close. She draped her arms over his shoulders and smiled at him. He kissed her softly and she sank against him, melting. When they kissed, Mrs. Chambers snapped a photo with her phone. The registrar and stable hand wished them joy and Lizzy handed her bouquet to Mrs. Chambers.

  “There’s to be tea and fruitcake in the lounge.” Mrs. Chambers said, playing hostess.

  “That was grand, Lizzy. Did you miss having the tiara?”

  “I was instructed it came only with inclusion of my parents and their entourage, so not at all. When your whole life’s been a spectacle, it’s a bit special to keep some things private. Did you mind terribly about your family not being in attendance?”

  “They would’ve been grousing it wasn’t to be at Westminster Abbey with horse drawn carriages and photo opps at the balcony.”

  “They must be glad at least that you’ve been created Duke of Pembroke by my parents. I’m sure we can arrange for your kin to wave from the balcony at some point if it pleases them.”

  “That’s good of you, but as I’m newly wedded, I
have little consideration for others just now. What shall we do? A Pembroke tea to celebrate? Fruitcake?”

  Laughing, Lizzy grabbed Phillip’s hand and tugged him after her, crossing the gardens and climbing over a fence—with difficulty because of her chiffon skirt--into the meadow where the oak tree stood.

  “I have to report for my physio course in three days. We must make the most of our honeymoon straight away. Are you ready to scandalize some sheep, Pembroke boy?”

  “Abso-bloody-lutely, Lizzy.”

  <<<>>>

  Afterward

  Thanks for reading The Princess Royal, the second book in my Royal Romances series. I hope you enjoyed it. If so, please consider leaving the book a review. Reviews help other readers decide whether my books are a good fit for them and can have a huge impact on an author’s career.

  Want to be Reviewer Royalty? For a limited time, I’m giving away advanced reader copies of The Royal Rake, the next book in the Royal Romances series, to anyone who posts a review of The Princess Royal on amazon.com or amazon.co.uk. All you have to do is email me the link to your The Princess Royal review, and let me know if you would prefer a Kindle or PDF file: MollyJamesonBooks@gmail.com

  While you’re at it, tell me a little about yourself, because chatting with readers is one of my favorite things to do. It isn’t because I’m a distraction junkie or anything. Nope, not at all. Not me. Oooh, something shiny!

  If you’re feeling really royal, sign up for the Royal Romances newsletter and be the first to learn about new releases, contests, and giveaways. Psst, some of the giveaways will involve tea and “biscuits.” I do love the British! Sign up today at http://www.MollyJamesonBooks.com/newsletter/

  About The Royal Rake … Are you interested in knowing more about Leo, Lizzy’s attention seeking, daredevil, younger brother? Turn the page for the first chapter.

  The Royal Rake

  By Molly Jameson

  Chapter One

  Leopold Alexander Charles, the third prince of England, fourth in line for the British throne, descended a ladder slick with sea spray. It swayed in the blowing rain, swinging drunkenly from the helicopter as he gripped the rungs with gloved hands, a bright orange life belt thrown over one shoulder.

  “Oi, Leo, why d’you insist on risking the royal neck when I could climb down and fetch the poor sod?” his co-pilot Denny called down after him.

  “Relax, Den, all they’d say to you if I felt to my death was, that lad never had any sense at all…tis a fine thing he wasn’t the first born son,” Leopold managed to call back lightly. Carney, the winchman on their Maritime SAR mission, cheerfully made an obscene gesture and suggested that Leo get on with the rescue.

  Then Leopold gritted his teeth and set his mind to the task at hand, rescuing a pair of unfortunate blokes who’d gone boating in a storm with too much Guinness and too few life preservers for their own good. Leo nimbly climbed down, hooked one muscular arm around a rung of the ladder. He reached his other hand out to bring up one of the ill-fated fishermen—at least he assumed they’d pretended to be fishing, though there were no rods in sight, only empty beer cans and some now-waterlogged copies of lads mags with busty birds on the covers. The man reached for his hand, overshot and nearly lurched overboard. Leopold muttered a curse and climbed into the boat, holding the ladder steady with one hand. He hauled the man to his feet and gestured to the ladder.

  “Nah, man, I can’t do it. I’m scared of heights!” he babbled.

  “I reckon just now you ought to be more scared of drowning. Now get your arse up this ladder now!” Leopold bellowed over the driving wind and rain.

  “Hey, are you--?”

  “I am the lieutenant who’s saving your sorry bollocks now get up to the chopper,” he said grimly, putting on his best officer face.

  The man scrambled up the ladder, going a few rungs, stopping to swing and look down, to whimper and probably to piss himself until Leopold shouted a combination of encouragement and imprecations. When Denny had the bloke on the copter, he nodded to Leo, who mustered the second drunkard to the ladder. The man promptly leaned sideways onto Leopold and emptied the contents of his stomach. Leo grimaced and took out a handkerchief to wipe the man’s face.

  “I don’t reckon Jamie has to put up with this shit, d’you, Denny?”

  “That’s the benefit of being the Prince of Wales, I reckon,” Denny shouted back. “Now get him up here.”

  “Come on, mate,” he said, helping the man up the ladder.

  When the fishermen were secure on board, Leo looked out the door as he raised the ladder from the Maritime Search and Rescue helicopter he and Denny manned.

  “Nothing but cold and rain and fog every day,” he shook his head.

  “It’s fucking England, mate. What do you expect?”

  “Mizzle and mist and disapproval, of course. Not being disloyal to my nation, but only think of it? Maldives—there’s a spot with a proper climate,” he sighed.

  “If ye don’t like getting wet, how come you signed on for Maritime service?”

  “It was choosing the devil I know. I was always ace at swimming, and it beat the other branches of his majesty’s military forces. This way I get to fly, I get to save people—“

  “You get to be the hero prince who fishes grateful sods out of the drink, and they buy him a pint later?”

  “That as well, mate,” Leo grinned, “I’m for my old mate’s stag night, so you won’t be setting eyes on me for a few days.”

  “Try and keep honest, Leo,” Denny said, “And send a pic to my mobile. I got to live vicarious nowadays. M’wife would have my eyes if I went to a stag night.”

  “Ah, yet another benefit of remaining a bachelor, no one threatening to gouge out my eyes…” Leo laughed.

  The stag night was the latest in a string of them Leo had attended over the last two years as his mates from school, one by one, lined up for the altar. He was entirely comfortable celebrating another man’s trip down the aisle. Leo just wasn’t in any hurry to follow suit. For all Denny’s whinging, he knew the man loved his wife, and the Lord knew that Leo’s parents were devoted to each other in a reserved and dutiful way. So he was happy enough to raise a pint or four to another man’s fate. It was a long weekend off from search and rescue, so someone else could fish idiots out of the drink while Leo took a bit of time on the cricket pitch and the pub instead.

  He used a car service to reach the country house in Somerset where Roland’s stag weekend was being held. Five of his old mates, as well as Roland's brothers-in-law, were congregated in the library of the house, a fine mahogany paneled room now given over more to a collection of beautiful crystal decanters and their contents than to idle reading. To a man, they drank single malt and bemoaned the nagging of their wives. Roland bore the good-natured ribbing of his mates and insisted loyally that his intended was different, sweet and fun-loving, not at all likely to complain at him day and night. The others laughed knowingly and poured another round. They sloshed their glasses together in a salute to the would-be groom. The ring of the crystal highballs as they toasted Roland made Leo’s head ache.

  Roland had rowed crew with Leo at school and was the second to last of the lads to marry. Leo was the only singleton in the lot. Their wild days lay far behind them and, daredevil that he remained, Leo couldn’t quite get comfortable with them. He drank with them, played a bit of cricket, drank some more. By Sunday night, he’d had his fill of men telling the same dull story—frustration at work and home, a wife who was tired all the time. Their hopelessness made Leo feel restive as if he had to flee to be spared that fate. He left the party a day early, deciding to play the role of good son and get his mother a nice birthday gift from Bath.

  ***

  Copyright

  © 2016 by Kimberly Parsley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or oth
er electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.