Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  dedication

  For Erik and Aurelia.

  You are my everything.

  contents

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  one

  My serve has been my secret weapon ever since I mastered it at Wimbledon junior tennis camp two years ago. The moment I arch my back and feel my racket make contact with the ball, I know Libby is done for.

  She runs for it, almost tripping over herself in her haste to get to the corner. The ball slices right and smashes into the hedges. She’s not fast enough.

  Game, set, match.

  “Damn!” She stops at the net, her chest rising and falling heavily from the sprint. There’s a ring of frizz around the crown of her curly brown hair. “You never practice—it’s not fair you’re so good!” She tucks her racket between her knees as she wipes her brow with her forearm. The morning sun is unusually harsh, even for August.

  “If you got it, you got it,” I say, grinning. “Don’t feel bad, Libs! You’ll catch up with me someday.”

  The joke is my sister has no reason to feel insecure. She’s an academic rock star, just like Dad was at school, but at least I inherited Mum’s sport gene.

  And it’s nice to know there are still things I can beat my big sister at.

  She pulls down her scraggly ponytail, the hair falling around her slim shoulders. “Let’s play again. I know I can beat you.”

  “Dream on.”

  “Scared you’ll mess up your makeup?”

  “I’m not falling for that trash talk. I need to get ready for the party, so I am worried I’ll mess up my makeup, as a matter of fact. I guess you’ll just have to survive knowing you’re second best,” I tease.

  Libby bounces the ball on the other side of the court. “C’mon . . . one more set. We’ll be done in ten minutes. That’s all I need to beat you,” she says, smiling.

  “Tempting, but no.” I shake my head and swat a ball across the net. It sails into nothingness, making a satisfying whomp as it hits a wall draped in lilac-colored wisteria. “My train leaves at one thirty and it’s going to take me at least an hour to get ready. Thank God I’m already packed. Although I would kill for a quick dip in the pool.” My parents have been doing renovations little by little since buying this house, and the Olympic-sized swimming pool—my mother’s dream ever since she was a girl—was finally finished at the beginning of the summer.

  “All you do is lie out by the pool and play with that damn beauty app,” she sighs. “We’ve only played tennis twice this summer.” Libby starts walking around the court, gathering the scattered balls.

  “Hey, my tan’s not going to top up by itself,” I say, adopting a more serious tone when I see her disappointed face. “But I’m sorry. We should have played more.”

  “Nah, I’m not angry. I’ve been distracted, too.” She bops her racket against her heel, anxiety creasing her delicate features.

  “Greene House?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Over the summer, rumors started that Libby’s headmaster had been taking bribes from parents in exchange for high marks. Libby made me promise not to tell Mum and Dad. If the rumors turn into something real, it could ruin Libby’s last year—universities might look at all the top students coming out of Greene House as suspect.

  I try to distract her by making light of it, gathering balls and dumping them in the hopper. “I never understood why you wanted to go to an all-girls school in the first place. No man candy? Cringe!”

  “What a novel concept,” she says, smiling. “Picking a school for the academics. What was I thinking?” She walks around the net and smacks me on the bum with the face of her racket.

  “Whatever.” I make a big show of looking exasperated. “Sussex Park is just as good as Greene House. We’re fifteen-time field hockey champions.”

  “We send more women to Oxbridge universities than any other school in England.”

  “Our graphic design program smokes yours.”

  “The prime minister’s wife and the Queen of Jordan went to mine.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, Prince Edward goes to mine. Boom.” I make a mic drop gesture with a tennis ball and we both start giggling. “I wish we’d gone to the same school from the beginning. If the Greene House stuff gets really bad, you should transfer to Sussex Park.”

  “It’s not that easy.” Libby looks around the court, which is now empty. “I think we’re done here.” We turn and start to make our way across the court and through the gate, turning up the wide, sloping lawn toward our house. We’ve been living here for four years—not only do we have a tennis court and a pool, but we have acres and acres of fields, and the house itself is gorgeous. It’s a three-story Tudor with brick, stone, and wood half-timbering and a gabled roof. I only spend the summers and holidays here, when I’m home from boarding school, but I still can’t believe this is ours.

  It’s so smart that it even has a name: Wisteria.

  “It’s exactly that easy. Sussex Park loves sibling legacies—double the tuition. Mum makes a few phone calls, writes a check, and voilà!”

  “In my last year of school?”

  I shrug. “Why not?”

  Libby shakes her head as we walk up the low stone steps leading to the pool and back garden. “I like Greene House. All my friends are there. I’m already signed up for all my A levels. Hopefully everything will be fine and I won’t have to worry about it. New subject. Excited for the party tonight?”

  “Obviously. India’s house makes Downton Abbey look like a cottage. They even have a garden maze.”

  “Sounds terribly smart.”

  “You could act a little more sincere. Be happy for me!”

  Libby laughs. “What do you want from me, Lotte? That’s amazing! I am positively astounded! This party is guaranteed to change your life—forever!” She raises an eyebrow. “Is that better?”

  Libby keeps her sarcastic side hidden from most people, but I secretly love seeing it. “Fine. But I’m super excited. Did you know India’s grandfather is the Duke of Exeter?”

  “You don’t say. I only heard you telling Mum and Nana and whoever you were chatting on the phone to earlier.”

  “Oh, stop pretending you’re above it.” I lean down as we walk by the pool, splashing a little water on her. She squeals.

  “Your friend’s grandfather could be the Duke of America for all I care. It’s not like we don’t know people with titles and nice houses. Both of our schools are full of them. And Wisteria is hardly a shack.”

  “Yeah, but this is different. You’ve never met India. She’s amazing.”

  “Preparing to be amazed.”

  I roll my eyes at her. “Besides, she’s good friends with Prince Edward.”

  “That’s two mentions in two minutes. Somebody’s got him on the brain,” she teases.

  “I do not.”

  “India’s a regular girl, and E
dward’s a regular boy. There’s nothing special about either of them.”

  “So wrong.”

  “You know it’s not important what people like that think of you, no matter how posh they are, right? What matters is how you see yourself. You’ve got to be comfortable with you,” she says, her face turning serious.

  “Okay, Dr. Freud.”

  “You’re too preoccupied with money and status, Lotte.”

  “Oh, come on. You know how kids at our schools work. There’s no money,” I say, holding my hand palm-down near the waist of my tennis shorts, “and there’s new money”—I gesture at our massive garden, full of roses and jasmine and hyacinths, as we walk through it toward the indoor terrace—“and then finally there’s old money.” I raise my cupped hand above my head to signal the upper limit. “You can pretend all you like that that stuff doesn’t exist. But it does.”

  “That stuff isn’t as important as it used to be.”

  “That stuff is always important. We’ve got to work twice as hard to prove ourselves to the kids with old money—while pretending we totally don’t care.”

  Libby shakes her head. “I hope you’re exaggerating. I have no interest in proving myself to anybody—it sounds exhausting.”

  I shrug.

  “All I’m saying is, everybody loves you. You’re smart, you’re kind, and you’re gorgeous. I know you’d be just as happy hanging out with normal people as with royalty. And they’d all be lucky to have you. Don’t forget that.”

  “Well, Prince Edward is royalty and he’s normal. So it’s a double bonus,” I say, butterflies working my stomach as I think about the possibility of hanging out with Prince Edward tonight. “But thank you. You should bottle that praise and release a motivational app. I’ll play it whenever I need a boost.” My eyes widen as I adopt a creepy voice and raise my arms like a zombie. “You’re smaaart . . . you’re gooorgeous . . . everybody looooves you . . .”

  She laughs. “I’ll miss you when we go back to school.”

  “Me, too.”

  As we walk through the terrace and then inside the French doors leading to the sitting room, I think for the millionth time how nice it would be to have something lining the walls or dotting the bookshelves showing my success. Instead, the wood-paneled room is a shrine to my sister’s academic perfection, with her certificates, badges, and trophies on conspicuous display:

  First Place, Year Ten Science Carnival.

  National Achievement Award in Writing: Year Eleven.

  Greene House Student Merit Award.

  Libby Weston for the win!

  Mum obviously realized at some point that turning our house into the Libby Weston Fan Club was a little weird, and earlier this summer two framed photos of me competing in field hockey and athletics suddenly materialized atop the baby grand piano by the brick fireplace.

  Hey, at least they’re trying.

  “Race you to the kitchen!” I say.

  “Not if I get there first!”

  We elbow each other while running into the kitchen, laughing as we try to beat each other to the fridge. The kitchen was last summer’s upgrade project; Mum had it gutted and remodeled to look like the prime minister’s kitchen, which was featured in House Beautiful magazine. The showpieces are the island, with a white marble countertop, and the huge Aga stove—two other things she’s been fantasizing about for years and finally was able to get after her business took off.

  “Careful, you two!” Mum’s at the kitchen table, typing on her laptop with a buffet of documents laid out in front of her. A glass of white wine sits next to the computer. “I’ve been working on these all morning.”

  “What’s the latest?” I ask, chugging water and standing at the counter while scrolling through my favorite beauty app, Viewty. I heart a photo of dip-dyed fringe, and then bookmark a picture of purple-and-silver smoky eyes, making a plan to try the look myself later. Libby pulls a chair out and sits next to our mother.

  “We have a big order shipping next week. I’ve been reviewing the stock to make sure everything is organized.” She points a manicured finger at the screen. “See that? Not a bad day’s work for your ol’ mum, huh?”

  I look up momentarily from scrolling through the photo feed, peeking over her shoulder before looking down at my phone again. “Holy crap! Harrods ordered your shoes? That’s sick! Way to go, Mum!”

  “Thank you, Charlotte, but will you please put your phone away? You’re glued to it.”

  “She’s on that app again,” says Libby. “I don’t know why you use it so much if you’re always complaining about how buggy it is.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “But there’s nothing better out there.” I leave my phone on the counter, grab a banana from the fruit bowl, and sit down opposite her. Outside the picture windows, the sun blazes over the fields surrounding our home. When we first moved here, I didn’t like the thought of being so secluded out in the country, but now I love it. “You going to miss me tonight? Throwing a big party while I’m gone?”

  “Dad is picking up a curry.”

  “Do you think he knew when you got married that you’d never cook a day in your life?” I ask between bites of banana.

  “I cook! Sometimes . . .”

  “Well, why should women be expected to cook anyway, right?” I say. “So sexist. So antiquated.”

  Libby laughs. “So says the girl who’s dying to become a princess.”

  “I’d be a totally modern princess,” I say, raising my chin in mock haughtiness. “The royal family wouldn’t know what had hit them.”

  “You’d throw Buckingham Palace’s first garden-party electronica concert.”

  “And Snapchat from the balcony.”

  “And Instagram photos of your outfits with the hashtag ‘princess pose.’”

  “Ooh, look at you! Libby knows what a hashtag is! Somebody’s been brushing up on her social media.” The only thing Libby regularly uses is Twitter, so she can keep up with breaking news. As for me, Instagram is my drug of choice—I have over ten thousand followers, which thrills me—though I wish the number were even larger. Thanks to Mum’s shoe business, Soles, my collection is massive and my “shoes of the day” posts get hundreds of likes. “I wish you’d join Instagram, Libs. You’re such a great photographer—you’d love it.”

  “Who’d want to see my boring photos?” she says. Mum and Dad bought Libby a professional DSLR last year—finally responding to years of subtle hints. True to form, however, Libby doesn’t like doing anything unless she can excel at it, and she’s too shy to share her photography attempts—even though I think they’re amazing.

  “Um, earth to Libby. Boring people with your photos is the entire point of social media.” We giggle.

  “None of my friends are on Instagram, anyway.”

  “Ugh, Greene House. Lame. You really should move.”

  We exchange a panicked look as I remember that Mum doesn’t know about the scandal yet. I quickly change the subject.

  “I should probably start getting ready for India’s party. Can’t go looking like this.” I point to myself and pull a face.

  “You’re beautiful without makeup, honey,” says Mum. “I wish you knew that.”

  The first time I applied makeup, I felt transformed. I’m sure it had more to do with my age—thirteen—than my actual self-esteem, but I was going through a rough acne patch and felt like a total ugly duckling.

  Mum had started Soles the year before, and it took off like a rocket. Suddenly, we were rolling in money. We moved from a small two-bedroom town house in Guildford—where Libby and I shared a bedroom—to a six-bedroom house in Midhurst, a quaint town dotted with Tudor architecture. Overnight, we upgraded not just our house but our lives: now we could afford vacations, new clothes instead of hand-me-downs from cousins, a car for each parent, and, of course, boarding school. Not everybody was happy about the transition. Even though I invited my old friends over for sleepovers all the time, they dropped me soon after we moved. I t
hink they were jealous of the fact that we suddenly had money, but they said I was up my own bum. I cried every night for two months—Libby came home from school three weekends in a row her first year at Greene House just to comfort me. While it was hurtful and confusing, it also made me determined to surround myself with people who admired success, instead of resenting it.

  To cheer me up, Mum let me tag along on her first Soles photo shoot. The makeup artist showed me some tricks, and everybody agreed I looked a million times better after she plucked my brows and applied mascara and lip gloss. Even my dad said I looked pretty when Mum and I got home from the shoot—and he never focuses on looks. Soon after, Mum bought me all the makeup that the artist recommended, and I left for my first day at Sussex Park a few months later fully made up: armor on.

  I’ve never forgotten that lesson. People say it’s what’s on the inside that counts—but you’re fooling yourself if you think they ignore the outside, too.

  “You’re certain Prince Edward will be there?”

  Libby groans. “Not you, too, Mum.”

  “It’s very exciting!” Mum says defensively, taking a sip of wine. “Your father and I have spoiled you both. Sending you to top schools has paid off. You don’t know how lucky you are. Not everybody is a classmate of the future king. Most people will never run in those circles.”

  “He’s just—”

  “—a boy,” I say, finishing my sister’s sentence. “We know, we know. But come on, Libby. Has that all-girls school turned you to stone? Even your feminist heart has to beat a little faster thinking of a prince as hot as Edward.”

  She smiles. “I never said he wasn’t hot.”

  “Thank you! That’s all I ask. Just a little acknowledgment that your sister has made it to the big leagues.”

  “How many people are expected at India’s?” Mum asks.

  “From what I heard, her parties are small. Only about twenty people.” I don’t tell my mum that India’s parties are also notorious for teenage debauchery. Last year, the entire Sussex Park campus was abuzz for weeks with talk of Flossie Spencer-Dunhill’s drunken skinny-dip with Tarquin Sykes in the Huntshire pool.

  I know Libby’s right: it’s kind of embarrassing that I’m this excited about gaining India’s friendship. Even with my self-esteem at an all-time low when I was younger, I’ve never been a wallflower, and I have a ton of acquaintances at Sussex Park. But my old friends—mostly hockey teammates—graduated last year, and after India’s best friend, Byrdie Swan-Grover, graduated, India tapped me for friendship. Being part of India’s group is a stamp of approval that guarantees major social access—the kind of approval I’ve been dreaming about ever since leaving my old school. I’m cool with India’s friend Flossie, who plays hockey, and with Alice Hicks, who’s in a few of my classes. And, of course, India and I have been friendly since we sat next to each other in English class my first year and instantly bonded when we realized we both thought manufactured pop groups were totally lame. But the rest of her clique is a mystery. India’s small circle is the best of not just Sussex Park but of English society in general—and Prince Edward is smack dab in the center of it.