“Pummy?”
“My older brother, Andrew. Everybody’s called him Pummy since he was a baby—I can’t remember why it stuck.” The upper classes love to call their children ridiculous nicknames that sound like something from a children’s nursery rhyme. No doubt India will someday be proud mother to a baby Moony or Smush or Flopsie.
India stops in front of a door that looks just like every other one. “This one is yours: the Oak Room.”
There are several portraits on the walls and a gigantic four-poster bed that dominates the room. On the bed is a green velvet cover with gold embroidered stitching. The room is adorned with heavy tapestries hanging from the tall, wood-paneled ceiling, and two large windows look out onto Huntshire’s rolling hills. The walls are decorated in muted shades of green and salmon . . . and is that a hand-painted mural? Next to a stone fireplace, framed by an enormous gold mirror and two French taper candelabras, is an elegant wooden armoire. On a low marble table, there’s a pot of tea, a tray of digestive biscuits, and the latest issue of Elle with a black-and-white picture of Emma Watson on the cover. The room has clearly been renovated for guests—from what I’ve read in Hello! and Julian Fellowes books, most guest bedrooms at grand old country houses are sterile, drafty cubicles. By contrast, this room feels like the Ritz. I wish Libby were here to see this.
“It’s fabulous,” I say, looking around and realizing there’s no en suite bathroom. “Um, but where is . . .”
India smiles. “The loo is down the hall, remember? People think it’s so glamorous living in a house like this, but they don’t realize I grew up with coal heating, it took ten minutes to walk to breakfast, and you share the lav with ten other people.” She turns to leave. “Everybody’s probably out back by the pool, so I’d take advantage of the privacy and get ready now if I were you. Come down whenever you like, but dinner’s at seven sharp. Meet beforehand in the Smoking Room.”
With three hours until dinner, I have time to kill. If Libby were here, she’d explore the grounds, walk through the gardens, maybe take an excursion down to the stables or peruse the library before the rest of the troops arrive. Me? I pull out a hair dryer and the massive makeup bag from my duffel. I’m going to use every single moment to make myself look perfect.
I spend forty-minute minutes trying on outfit combinations before settling on an “effortlessly”—ha!—casual look for tonight: flowing white top, black shorts that hit mid-thigh, and gold sandals. After a relaxing hot shower, I blow-dry my long hair slowly and carefully, adding little braids to the sides so it looks bohemian and artfully messy.
I pad down the hallway from the bathroom back to my room. One of the hanging portraits, of a studious young man holding a book, makes me think about Libby. What if the scandal at her boarding school taints all the hard work she’s done? It wouldn’t really affect her chances at getting into a good university, would it? I couldn’t care less where I attend. University isn’t for well over two years—it’s a lifetime away. But Libby’s had a single-minded pursuit of St. Andrews, Dad’s alma mater, since she was young. I hope my sister isn’t screwed over by something that she has nothing to do with.
Eventually, I decide to put her troubles on hold. I have enough to worry about in my own life. Libby’s smart. She’ll figure it all out.
Makeup is another endeavor: after forty-five minutes applying waterproof mascara, eye shadow, eyeliner, tinted moisturizer, foundation, bronzer, blush, shimmer highlighter, and lip gloss, I’m satisfied. The trick is to look like you’re not wearing any makeup, which—like the “this old thing?” outfit—is harder than it sounds. I spritz on a waterproof finishing spray, to keep anything from running or smudging if we go into the pool, and then text Libby to get her opinion.
ME: What do you think? Is the makeup too much?
LIBBY: Maybe a little less lipstick
LIBBY: But I love the braids—you look amazing!
ME: K, thx, love u!!
ME: Heading down to dinner now
LIBBY: Love you, good luck! You’re going to do great!
I wipe off my lip gloss, swiping on clear ChapStick instead. Libby’s right: it looks even more natural. I check myself from every angle in the dusty gold mirror opposite the armoire, marveling at the dappled evening light streaming through the picture windows. It’s better than any Instagram filter. I snap a selfie, tagging Huntshire’s location and captioning it “Dinnertime! #countrylife #magichour,” and then do a quick ten-second Snapchat video, showing off the view from my window with a timestamp filter.
I check my phone again: it’s already a quarter to seven. I walk down the long hallways, feeling like an outsider as I make my way back downstairs.
Stop it. You were invited. You belong here.
The entrance smells like cinnamon. I walk downstairs, stopping by a tall gold clock and trying to remember which way India said I should go.
To the right of the entrance is a green hallway full of portraits, leading to the other wing of the house. To the left is a massive library.
I feel like I’m in a Choose Your Own Adventure novel from my childhood. On one side: coziness, familiarity, and warmth. On the other: uncertainty, danger, and intrigue. Which to choose?
I move toward the library, peeking inside.
It’s a cavernous two-story hall with paneled ceilings and amber walls, looking more like the lobby of a grand old resort than a single room. Square oriental tapestries cover the vast length of the hall, polished wood peeking out every twenty feet. A chandelier the size of a helicopter hangs from the paneled ceiling way down in the middle of the hall, and there’s a giant organ taking up an entire wall at the far end. There must be twenty thousand books in here. This room alone must take an army of staff to maintain—if you can even call it a room.
“Looking for the Smoking Room, miss?”
I jump, feeling guilty.
An older man in a black suit comes and stands behind me, carrying a tray.
“Yes, thank God you came along! This place is enormous.”
“Follow me, please,” he says, leading me toward the green hallway. I check out all the old portraits of Frasers on horseback and in uniform and clutching flowers and wearing jewels, wondering how many bloody portraits one family can take over the centuries. We pass by a study, and then finally arrive at the Smoking Room.
Outside the room, there’s a gruff-looking man in a navy suit and yellow tie. He takes a step toward me as I approach, as if to block my entry.
“Um . . . the Smoking Room?” I point toward the door, barely recognizing the timidity in my voice.
He nods, taking a step back.
The room is gorgeous, but it’s less grand than I expected—especially compared with the library. There are a few overstuffed sofas and ancient chairs, a piano in the corner, a fireplace in the center of the room, and a colossal floor-to-ceiling war tableau covering half of the wall opposite the door. The floor is covered in a red-and-gold antique rug. On top of the piano, there’s a framed photo of an old man with the King and Queen. With the exception of the truck-sized painting and the royal photo, it’s pretty damn similar to my parents’ drawing room at home in Sussex.
And on a hideous floral sofa nearest the fireplace, with his head buried in his iPhone, is Prince Edward. A golden retriever is curled up into a ball next to him, its massive head leaning on Prince Edward’s thigh.
I walk in, clearing my throat. “Hiya!”
He looks up from his phone, his face breaking into a warm smile. “Hi! Charlotte, right?” At Edward’s voice, the dog lifts its head, looking at me lazily.
Prince Edward knows me. Holy crap.
“Yep, Charlotte Weston. India’s friend.”
“She mentioned you were coming. You’re from Midhurst?”
Remember what Libby said: treat him like any other guy.
“Have you got a dossier on me or something?”
He laughs. “Something like that.”
“Where is everybody else?”
“They�
��re never on time.”
“Scary guy standing watch outside the door.”
“Oh, that’s just Simon. Ignore him.” Recognition dawns—it must be his bodyguard.
As if sensing my thoughts, the dog jumps off the sofa and rearranges itself on the floor. I will myself to walk over and sit next to Edward on the sofa. “I like your kicks.” He’s wearing a pair of blue-and-red trainers with his jeans and rugby shirt. Up close, I notice how wide his shoulders are. I picture myself snuggling into him by a roaring fire at Kensington Palace, his arms wrapping around me as we make out during adverts of Britain’s Got Talent. I have to snap myself back to reality, otherwise I’ll start blushing.
“Thanks!” He puts his phone down and swings his arm around the back of the sofa, crossing one leg over the other and jiggling a heel up and down. “So, you’re a forward on the hockey team?”
“Seriously, how do you know all this? My stalkers are normally way less up front about it.”
“I have MI6 on my side,” he says, stone-faced. It takes me a second to realize that he’s joking.
“Undercover. Nice.”
We hear a din out in the hallway, and Flossie, Alice, and India walk in.
“There you are,” India says. She’s wearing a flowing white caftan with gold embroidery, looking perfect as always. “I knocked on your door. But I see you were otherwise occupied.” She smiles, inclining her head toward Edward, and I blush. The two of us stand to greet everybody.
“Hi, Charlotte,” Flossie says, looking back and forth between Edward and me.
“Hi, Flossie! Good to see you!”
She smiles. “You, too.”
Flossie and I have been hockey teammates for two years now, though it was only after India took me under her wing late last year that Flossie started acknowledging my existence.
“Eds! We missed you by the pool today. You would have loved the new diving board.” She opens her arms wide and kisses him on both cheeks. “He does a mean backflip,” she says to me.
“Two weeks in Paris with your family and suddenly you’re double-cheek kissing?” India says to Flossie before giving Edward a hug.
Flossie glares at her, but India doesn’t notice. She’s already turned her back.
“Hi, kids, big kisses,” Alice says distractedly to Edward and me, walking around the near edge of the room by the fireplace. Her wild red hair floats around her thin face in a fuzzy halo. “Where’s the booze cart? I desperately need a drink. I’ve had the worst day.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
“My parents just phoned to say my pet ferret, Mr. Moose, died.”
For a second, I think Alice is joking. But then I remember last year in our English class when Alice gave an impassioned speech about how plants have souls, and another time when she declared that she intended to spend her Christmas holiday using sonar equipment in Scotland to see if there was anything large in Loch Ness. She’s an eccentric one.
“I’m so sorry. Is he your only pet?”
“Oh, we have a menagerie. Horses, dogs, cats, goats, a donkey, the most wonderful llamas, you name it. My brother Hamish collects snakes—mostly ball pythons, of course. But the loss of one of your children always stings.”
I nod, wanting to show support but not really sure how to respond. “Of course.”
Flossie points to my legs. “You’re covered in dog hair.”
I look down at my black shorts, which—sure enough—have a thin layer of golden retriever hair all over them. I try to appear cool as I calmly dust my hands over my thighs and bum, letting the hair fall to the floor. Inside, though, I’m cringing.
I mean—I like dogs, my mum likes dogs, everybody likes dogs. But the bloody upper classes are obsessed with them.
“Did I get it all?” I ask Edward.
He glances down at my legs nervously, as if worried he’ll get yelled at for checking me out. “Looks good to me.”
Oliver and Tarquin walk in, each holding a six-pack of beer.
“Beer? You must be joking.” India points to the drinks cart in the corner, partially hidden behind a tall plant by the fireplace. “There are like fifteen bottles of gin over there.”
“Gin is for mums. I want beer,” says Tarquin. Even though he’s as posh as it gets, he has a faint Cockney accent, which amuses me—India says it’s because of his childhood nanny. His brown hair is still wet, and his round cheeks are fire-engine red, as always. He grabs her, planting a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek.
India ignores the kiss, plucking a beer bottle from his pack and holding it between her fingers. She inspects the label, wrinkling her nose. “Stella?”
“Didn’t seem to bother you ten beers in at Arthur’s last weekend,” says Oliver, his dimples popping. He removes the top and looks for a place to put it. Tarquin grabs it from him and tosses it in the corner.
“Let’s not completely trash the joint,” India says. “My father isn’t heir. They could kick us out of here at any time.”
“Oh, please—you have loads of servants. It’ll be pristine by morning.” Tarquin looks at me but doesn’t bother coming over. He nods in greeting. “Hey, Edward. Hey, Charlotte.”
Oliver approaches us both, slapping hands and body-slamming shoulders with Edward and then giving me a polite hug.
I watch all the commotion, looking over at Edward to gauge his reaction. He seems amused, settling back into the sofa cushions as Flossie comes over again.
“Eds, are you thirsty? Beer? Wine? G and T?”
“A beer would be great, thanks.”
“I’ll take one, too, please, Flossie!” I call after her. I lower my voice, muttering to Edward, “I mean, might as well take advantage of her scurrying around after you.” Normally I’d be more deferential to Flossie, but I’m taking a risk that Edward will be amused.
He raises an eyebrow. “India told me you were a bit of a firecracker.”
“Did she?”
“Among other things.”
“Really? What other things?”
“It’ll only make you blush.”
“Try me!”
“She said you were gorgeous, for one,” he says, holding up his hands and ticking off fingers. “She also said you were smart, a great athlete, and had excellent taste in men. So far I know she got three out of four right.”
The corners of his mouth hook upward, and his eyes dance back and forth between mine. His eyes are dark blue, like my favorite J.Crew jumper. I find myself fighting the urge to lean forward and kiss him.
We’re off to a very good start.
three
The full party has arrived, and twenty of us are lounging by the swimming pool as the stars twinkle and fireflies buzz. Huntshire backs up onto one of the most spectacular gardens in England—a vast expanse of hedges, greenery, flowers, and a Hampton Court–inspired maze.
I walk over to the edge of the pool, where it slopes down a green incline leading to the maze, and plop myself next to Oliver on a crumbling stone fence. He’s tall and handsome but not at all my type: very buttoned up, with close-cropped reddish-blond hair and a stiff, slightly awkward manner. His father is one of the top bigwigs in the British army—like a general or something.
“What are you drinking?” I ask. His plastic cup is full of a brownish liquid.
“Whiskey. Want a sip?”
“Sure, I love whiskey!” I’ve never tasted it before, but I’ve heard it’s revolting. I steel myself as I take a small sip, swirling it around the way I’ve seen my father do at family dinners with my uncle. I swallow gingerly, willing myself to have a poker face as the burning liquid hits my throat. “Good stuff.”
“I’m impressed,” he says. “Most girls can’t handle whiskey.”
“Don’t be sexist. You don’t have to be a boy to drink,” I say, poking him in the ribs. I take another sip, this time slightly bigger, before handing the cup back to him.
As I expected, Edward soon comes over to join us. Seconds later, Flossie appe
ars, too.
“What’s going on?” Edward asks. He sits down on the fence next to me.
“We’re getting our whiskey on,” I say.
“Charlotte’s a tough old bird,” says Oliver approvingly.
“Is she?” Edward asks. He looks at me. “What did you do this time?”
“That’s between Oliver and me,” I say coyly, hoping a little competition will spur Edward on rather than scare him away.
“Hey, Oliver! Flossie! I need your help!” India calls from across the pool. She’s carrying a tray of cupcakes with one hand and a bottle of vodka with the other.
“Duty calls,” says Oliver, marching across the lawn.
“What does she need now?” Flossie sighs, following behind him.
“And then there were two,” I say, leaning back and letting my hair fall over my shoulder.
He meets my gaze and we smile at each other. I’m doing my best to appear cool, but my heart is beating double-time. God, but he’s so cute.
“Can I tell you a secret?” I ask, scanning the situation and taking another risk.
He leans forward. “I’m all ears.”
“Oliver thinks I’m a rock star because I had a sip of whiskey, but I hated it. It tastes like jet fuel.”
Edward laughs. “I know what you mean—I don’t have a taste for anything but beer and cheap wine. When people serve me expensive wine at dinner, it’s such a waste. I have to gulp it down and pretend I know the difference.”
“I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine,” I say, raising my cup.
We lock eyes.
“Oh, but you’re almost out,” Edward says. “Can I get you something?”
“Whatever you’re having,” I say. “Beer is just fine.”
This must be the first time in his life that Prince Edward has been dispatched to get a drink.
He chuckles. “One bottle of Belgium’s finest, coming right up.”
He makes his way over to the icebox and pulls out two bottles of Stella, holding them aloft triumphantly as he returns. He skillfully removes the tops using the ledge of a wall as an opener, banging his palm down over the metal caps.
“Somebody’s been around the block.”
Romancing the Throne Page 3