Royal Holiday

by Guillory, Jasmine

  Vivian walked up the stairs an hour later. She wondered if she’d see Malcolm again. She hadn’t wanted to be direct about wanting to see him again when they said good-bye, so she’d said nothing.

  Wait. Why hadn’t she wanted to be direct? What possible benefit was there for her in not being direct? Here she was, on vacation in England, and there was this attractive man—why shouldn’t she tell him what she wanted? All he could say was no. So what? Plenty of people had said no to her in her life. What would it matter if he did?

  When Vivian walked into her room, her eyes landed on Malcolm’s letter of the morning on top of the bureau in the corner, and she smiled.

  She suddenly knew what to do.

  Chapter Five

  When Malcolm walked into Sandringham House the next morning, the normally calm building was bustling in preparation for the upcoming royal family Christmas festivities. He dodged around the rest of the staff and the many, many Christmas decorations as he made his way up to his small office. This house had so many Christmas trees he’d lost count.

  When he got to his office, he picked up his phone and called over to the prime minister’s office, to see if there was any kind of concrete plan. Fifteen minutes later, he hung up the phone with a long sigh. Why had he even bothered calling? No one over there seemed to know anything. At least he knew that if they got to Christmas Eve without any decision, he wouldn’t have to worry about this again until early January. There would be a real riot if the whole government had to cancel their holidays.

  Just then, a footman knocked on his open door.

  “This was just delivered for you, sir.” The footman handed him a folded piece of paper, and he flipped it open.

  Mr. Hudson,

  Would you do me the honor of gracing Sycamore Cottage with the pleasure of your company on the evening of Christmas Eve? Ms. Madeleine Forest, Julia Pepper, James Dogal, the rest of the Sycamore Cottage staff, and I would all be delighted for you to join our Christmas Eve festivities.

  Kind regards,

  Vivian Forest

  He read her note twice and realized how big the smile was on his face. He immediately reached for his notepad.

  Ms. Forest,

  I accept your invitation with pleasure. Would you do me the honour of riding with me again tomorrow? This time, we could even go outside the fences, if that idea is acceptable to you.

  Sincerely,

  Malcolm Hudson

  He buzzed for someone to deliver his letter to Sycamore Cottage.

  When he got back to his office after his meeting with the Queen, another note was on his desk.

  Mr. Hudson,

  Nothing would delight me more than to further my acquaintance with Polly. I look forward to welcoming you tomorrow at 2 p.m., if that time is acceptable to you. I cannot guarantee it, but there may be scones here to greet you.

  Kind regards,

  Vivian Forest

  He grinned down at the paper. Vivian had asked him the day before if he was married, and this minor interaction with her made him so relieved he wasn’t anymore. His ex-wife had always been irritated with him when he dropped his work facade to joke around with Miles, or to attempt to joke around with her. She certainly never would have written him notes like this, which he could tell amused both him and Vivian very much.

  As he reached for stationery to write Vivian back, his phone lit up with a text from his nephew.

  When do you get back to London? Mum is driving me batty. I wanted to escape and hide at your flat but I didn’t know if you were going to be there. Plus I can’t wait to tell you my news!

  Malcolm laughed. Like a true teenager, Miles only texted him when he needed something from him.

  He felt a pang of guilt that he’d just decided not to go back to London until Christmas Day so he could have Christmas Eve dinner with Vivian. He quickly brushed the guilt away. Miles could deal with his mother, and his news would keep, whatever it was.

  Ms. Forest,

  Scones would be very welcome, and if you please, could you save me some of the sandwiches this time? Smoked salmon is my favourite, but I’ll happily eat any sandwich prepared by Ms. Julia Pepper.

  All my best,

  Malcolm Hudson

  He got another note from her less than an hour later, scrawled a response and slid it into an envelope. He reached for the phone to summon a footman again but hesitated. The staff was awfully busy today, and running notes back and forth for him to a cottage a fifteen-minute walk away really wasn’t their job.

  He glanced at the clock. He’d been sitting at his desk for almost four hours at this point anyway; he needed to stretch his legs.

  He pulled on his coat. This one, he could deliver himself.

  Vivian was curled up in the most comfortable chair in the sitting room at Sycamore Cottage, a book in her hand and a cup of tea at her elbow. Maddie and the Duchess were doing some more fittings or whatever it was they did in the Duchess’s wardrobe room for hours, so she’d had all morning to relax and nap and read the book she’d been absorbed in the morning before.

  But this morning, she’d barely read a single chapter. She’d sent James over to Sycamore Cottage with that letter before she’d even had coffee this morning, and had been on pins and needles as she chatted with Maddie and drank coffee and ate the ham for breakfast that British people apparently called bacon. James—bless him—had waited until after Maddie had already left the breakfast table to bring her Malcolm’s next note. And ever since then the notes had flown back and forth.

  It had been a while since she’d sent the last one. Was he going to write back to her? Had it been too bold of her to start sending the notes in the first place? Or—she cringed—to ask him to Christmas Eve dinner? She’d basically just asked him out, without even really knowing if he was interested in her.

  And sure, he’d said yes, then he’d asked her to go riding again, but had he done that just to be nice? People said that the British always seemed nice to Americans, but that Americans didn’t understand that they were making fun of them to their faces. But Malcolm was a busy man; he wouldn’t choose to spend all this time with her just to be polite.

  They also said Americans were too direct for British people, and that was probably true, too—he’d seemed taken aback a number of times at her questions, like when she asked him if he was married. Was asking him to dinner too direct? Should she have just hinted around until . . . until what, exactly? Until he left Sandringham and they never saw each other again?

  Cultural exchange was hard. Especially if it seemed like you both spoke the same language but really didn’t.

  She glanced down at her book and burst out laughing at herself. She’d been sitting in this chair for at least the past hour and hadn’t read a word. What was it about Malcolm that had made her so giddy and distracted?

  She knew the answer to that question: Malcolm was attractive, fascinating, and clearly interested in her as a person; that’s what it was about him. She hadn’t encountered a man with all three of those traits in . . . well, far too long. Most of the men she dealt with these days were men who wanted women around to take care of them, who had no interest in who the women actually were, as long as they had breasts and could cook. Some of them were men she’d known for years, who were either newly single, or newly in their sixties and had their own mortality hit them in the face, and came sniffing around her, once all the women in their thirties they tried to hit on had rejected them.

  She’d even gone out on dates with a few of them, because she’d been lonely, and hell, a woman had needs. But she got so tired of them monologuing throughout an entire dinner about themselves and their jobs and their new cars and how important and successful they were, et cetera, et cetera, and not asking a single damn question about her. The night she’d gotten a promotion a few years back, she had a third date with a man she’d previously mostly liked, and when she’d sat down and told him about it, he said, “That’s nice,” and then charged right into a story
about the book he wanted to write someday. She’d wanted to throw her glass of wine in his lap and leave, but instead she just ordered the most expensive food on the menu, didn’t even pretend to reach for her wallet when the check came, and never responded to his calls again. She learned from one of her patients that was called “ghosting”—that man had deserved to be haunted, as far as she was concerned.

  So it was refreshing for a man to ask her questions about herself, and actually listen to her answers. And to hell with it: she only had a few days left in England, so she was going to let herself be excited as much as she wanted to be.

  She’d hesitated to invite Malcolm to Christmas Eve dinner for only one real reason: Maddie. She and Malcolm weren’t dating, but they were both clearly attracted to each other, and she knew Maddie would sense that and get all in her mother’s business about it. But she was an expert at deflecting Maddie; she could handle this. Not even Maddie would think there was any future with a man who lived thousands of miles away. Plus, she was on vacation, for God’s sake—everyone did something a little out of character on vacation, didn’t they?

  Anyway, whether or not she got another note back from Malcolm today, she was going to see him and go riding with him again tomorrow, then he was going to come to dinner at Sycamore Cottage for Christmas Eve the next day, and she had all of that to look forward to. And after that, she and Maddie had a cozy Christmas Day planned, then they would head to London for a few days before they had to fly home, and she would get to walk by Buckingham Palace and know she’d met the Queen a few days before. She smiled. This vacation was unlike any she’d ever had before.

  She glanced at her watch. Julia had said she’d have lunch ready at one, and it was almost that time. She should make her way into the kitchen.

  She stood up and winced. How was it that she’d spent less than an hour on that horse, but her whole body hurt? Could she really handle doing it again?

  She went through the front hallway on her way to the kitchen, and just as she walked by, James opened the front door.

  “James, hello,” a now-familiar voice said. “I have a note for Ms. Vivian Forest, if you would be so kind as to—”

  Vivian stepped forward.

  “Ms. Vivian Forest is right here,” she said. Had he been delivering the notes to her all morning? She assumed he’d had someone else deliver the notes, but she had no real idea.

  “Oh!” he said. He looked adorably confused to see her standing behind James. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

  Oh God, did she look okay? She’d obviously gotten dressed in actual clothes and put on makeup this morning; no matter how nice the Duke and Duchess were, and how much they told her to treat this house as if it was her own, she was still staying in a house with royalty, for God’s sake. She couldn’t walk around braless and without her hair done in a house with royalty. But she hadn’t gotten dressed and put makeup on with the intention of seeing Malcolm right away. And after her accidental jet lag–induced nap, she had no idea what her hair looked like. Plus, she definitely didn’t have lipstick on.

  James opened the front door wider and stepped back, so Malcolm had no choice but to come inside.

  “I believe that’s for me,” Vivian said, and reached out for the note in his hand.

  James faded away into the back of the house.

  Malcolm handed the note to her.

  “It is,” he said. “I’m sorry to disturb you. If you’re in the middle of something, I can just . . .”

  Vivian shook her head.

  “No, I wasn’t, but if you’re busy, I can . . .”

  She stopped, only because she didn’t know what the end of that sentence was supposed to be. She could what? Go hide away in another room and read her letter and smile at it instead of smiling at him? That’s what she would have done if James had brought her the letter, but now that Malcolm was here in person, she wanted to see him, not just his handwriting on the page.

  “Oh no, I have some time, if you wanted to . . .” He also trailed off just like she had.

  They looked at each other and smiled, and she made a quick decision.

  “I’m just about to have lunch. Would you like to join me?” she asked. “Julia made some sort of soup, and I’m sure it’ll be delicious.” There, she’d done it again. If he was too busy or just didn’t want to, he could say no, but she didn’t want him to walk back to his tiny office at the top of that enormous house; she wanted him with her.

  He bit his lip. He was going to say no, wasn’t he?

  “As charming as Julia’s soup sounds, I have a better idea. You haven’t seen much of the area yet, other than the Sandringham Estate. Would you like to go into town for lunch?” He looked at his watch. “I have a phone call at two thirty, so we can’t linger too long, and maybe you’d rather stay here, but . . .”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll get my purse and my coat.”

  She ran up two flights of stairs to her bedroom, her book under her arm and Malcolm’s note gripped between her fingers. The first thing she did when she got into her bedroom was look at herself in the mirror. Thank God, all of her frenzied feelings of the morning hadn’t made her hair as disheveled as her emotions felt. Then she opened Malcolm’s note, read it, and laughed. She tucked it into the pocket of her suitcase where she’d put the rest of his notes, and put some lipstick on.

  Maddie would tease her forever if she knew she was going out with Malcolm again. Vivian hadn’t told her yet that she’d invited Malcolm for Christmas Eve dinner, even though she had cleared it with Julia first. She’d almost held back from inviting him to dinner; she knew her daughter would never let her live it down.

  But, as her mother always used to say, life is short. Between her sister’s illness, her work colleague who had died suddenly the year before, and other crises that had hit her friends and family members, that maxim resonated a lot with her after the past few years. It was one of the reasons she’d given in and had come on this trip with Maddie. You never knew what could happen. She’d gotten the chance to flirt some more with an attractive British man. She wasn’t going to let this slip through her fingers.

  Malcolm was still alone in the front hallway, thank goodness. James appeared with her coat, just as she was about to look around for him. She was pretty certain that man was magic.

  “Thank you, James,” she said. Malcolm took her coat from James and helped her slip it on. She thanked him, like this was a normal and everyday thing for a man to do and not something making her swoon inside.

  “Thank you.” She turned to the front door and then back around with a start. “Oh no, I need to apologize to Julia for missing lunch. Do you want to wait for me here?”

  Malcolm shook his head.

  “I’ll come with you. We can go out through the kitchen door.”

  Vivian led Malcolm through the house to the kitchen and came upon Julia stirring something in a big red pot. It smelled delicious.

  Before she could say anything to Julia, Malcolm stepped in front of her.

  “Julia, please forgive me, but I’m stealing Vivian here away for lunch. I hope it doesn’t ruin your plan.”

  Julia looked up at them and shook her head.

  “First you come and steal all of my scones, then you steal my guest away. What are you going to do next?” She waved them out the door. “No hard feelings, this time.”

  Vivian looked at Julia. She still felt guilty for bailing on her for lunch, when they’d discussed the soup just this morning.

  “I’m so sorry, Julia. I don’t want you to think . . .”

  Julia brushed her apologies away.

  “Go, and have a great time, and come back and tell me how much better my food is.” She grinned at Malcolm. “Glad you can join us for Christmas Eve. Unfortunately, there are no scones on the menu.”

  Malcolm opened the back door for Vivian.

  “I take that as a personal slight. I hope you realize that.” Julia’s laughter rang out at them
as they walked out the back door.

  Malcolm put his hand on her back to guide her to the right when they got outside. She felt that small touch throughout her body.

  “This is the easiest way to get to my car.”

  It was colder than the day before; Malcolm put his hands in his pockets and hunched against the cold. She really couldn’t hold out against the hat any longer, could she? She took a few bobby pins out of her coat pocket and twisted and pinned her hair into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. With a sigh, she pulled her hat on.

  “How close is the town?” she asked.

  “Just about ten minutes away. It’s an easier commute than when the Queen is in London or Windsor, that’s for sure. The traffic from here to there—especially at this time of year—is almost nonexistent.”

  “Commute?” She realized she hadn’t thought of that. “Where do you stay when you’re working out of Sandringham?”

  He glanced down at her, and a smile spread over his face. Was he smiling because of how she looked in her hat? She knew she shouldn’t have put this thing on.

  “At a nearby hotel,” he said. “I’ve stayed in one of the rooms in the house once before, and never again. That was the most uncomfortable few days in my life.”

  She laughed at the look of reminiscent horror on his face.

  “Why? What was so terrible about it?”

  He held up a hand.

  “You feel how cold it is right here, outside, walking into the wind? That’s how cold it is inside that house at night when you’re trying to sleep. It was built in the 1800s, there’s no central heating, and every window somehow has at least four drafts in it, even though that doesn’t make sense. I knew all of that going in, of course, but I didn’t understand what it would feel like. I even brought an extra blanket, but I should have brought an entire tauntaun to cut open and get in the middle of.”

  When she laughed, he shook his head.

  “Oh, I’m not done. It’s worse during the holidays, because the whole family comes for Christmas, so any staff who has to be up here—and even some of the family members—get assigned to old servants’ quarters. And one thing that people really did not care about when building homes in the 1800s was the comfort of their servants.” He led her into a small parking lot. “Now, I stay in a nice, small hotel in town, where the woman who owns it loves the royal family and therefore treats me with an overwhelming amount of respect because I work for the Queen. Normally, I hate that, but for a hotel, it’s ideal. I’m never bothered when I don’t want to be, the temperature in my room is always perfect, and I can get meals whenever I want, which is all I need from a hotel.”