The Princess Pose: The Modern Royals Series

by Ellis, Aven

  “Are the gardening staff working today?” I ask, hoping against hope that she says yes.

  “Oh, no, you’ll be let in by the yoga instructor, dearie,” the older woman says sweetly. “Our gardeners don’t work weekends. Well earned, I say, as they are here working before I even get my morning coffee brewing.”

  I’m taken aback by how disappointed I feel at this news.

  Roman Lawler isn’t here today.

  “That’s all you need; have a lovely time,” she says, urging me to move forward in her own way so she can take care of the rest of the customers in the queue.

  “Right,” I reply, nodding.

  So, this is where my no-regrets journey ends. Not the romantic movie version I scripted in my head, where I saw him, he saw me, and something magical happened, proving the moment we exchanged months ago was meant to be something more. I resolve to bury the letdown feeling. I took the opportunity presented to me, and it wasn’t meant to be.

  Yoga in a greenhouse, however, is.

  I gather with the small group of people set to take the yoga class. It was limited to ten, and while Roman was my motivating factor, I am lucky to have received a spot before it sold out.

  A woman on my left accidentally bumps into me. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says quickly as the strap to my yoga bag slides off my shoulder, dangling oh-so-ungracefully off my arm.

  “It’s quite all right,” I assure her, adjusting the strap. I meet the deep brown eyes of a woman my age. Her brow wrinkles as her eyes meet mine.

  She’s in recognition-mode. Either I seem familiar, but she doesn’t know from where, or she’s about to ask if anyone has ever told me I look just like Princess Elizabeth.

  “I’m Jessica Lui,” she says, smiling at me. “Greenhouse yoga virgin.”

  I chuckle. “Liz, also a greenhouse yoga virgin.”

  Her eyes widen. I’m guessing her suspicion has been confirmed by my name.

  “You are her,” she says, dropping her voice as to not draw attention to me.

  “I am,” I confirm.

  This is always the point where things get interesting. I have had people freak out, act shocked that I’m real, or stare at me in disdain as a worthless waste of taxpayer money. What will it be today?

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jessica says. “I hope they let us in soon; it’s so cold out here. I can’t believe how cold it is. Ha, isn’t this stereotypical British conversation? Remarking on the temperature.”

  I smile. She is treating me like anyone else she might have bumped into.

  “Or how damp,” I joke back, following British conversational norms. “Since it’s morning, and I can’t say the typical ‘I can’t believe how dark it is’ comment, I’ll go with, ‘I can’t believe how damp it is.’”

  Jessica flashes me a wicked grin. “Or you could ask how much a Freddo is,” she says, referring to the Cadbury chocolate bar shaped like a frog.

  “You must have seen the same ‘Things British People Say’ post on Instagram that I did,” I reply, giggling.

  Jessica cocks an eyebrow. “You have an Insta?”

  Crap. Nobody knows I have a secret Instagram except the squad: my sisters, my royal cousins, and Clementine.

  “I had a friend show me,” I lie.

  Then I think how stupid it is that I have to lie about having an Instagram account. Millions of people around the world have them. Doesn’t it make me human to have one and allow the world to see it?

  Determination sets in. I think I’m going to approach Arthur about being the first working royal with a public Instagram account—not the one run by the palace, but my own. A personal account of my life as Elizabeth of York.

  It’s time.

  More than time.

  “We haven’t ticked off everything on the list,” Jessica says, moving ahead with the conversation. “We need to comment on how fast the year has gone and that Christmas will be here soon.”

  I’m about to reply when a tall, willowy woman approaches the garden gate from the estate side. “Hello, is everyone here for greenhouse yoga?” she asks. “I’m Lydia, and I’ll be your teacher.”

  The first thing I notice is that her voice is incredibly mellow and soothing. Hmm. Combine her voice with the warmth of the greenhouse, and not only will I be incredibly relaxed by the end of class, but I’ll also, quite possibly, be asleep on my yoga mat during the final relaxation exercise.

  She leads us through the private gate and down a path. My stomach tightens as I peer out over the carefully manicured estate, wondering what part Roman played in this. I see evergreens and carefully sculpted topiaries. There are hedges with not a single leaf or branch unclipped, every row kept in perfect, uniform shape.

  A flash of his hand touching mine fills my head again. Did those hands create this living art I’m looking at?

  My cheeks grow hot as I remember how large and strong his hand was, and how warm it was when it grasped mine. I really had never in my life felt a hand like Roman’s.

  Perhaps that’s why it’s so hard to let the memory go.

  I shift my thoughts back to the class as I walk behind Jessica. We stroll down the narrow path, and as the drizzle begins again, I shiver inside my light warmup jacket. Lydia is talking about embracing the beauty around us, the blessings of nature, as she leads us down a private section of the estate, marked off for employees only. We step through the area, and I spot the greenhouses. There are three in total, and Lydia explains that one has been reserved for us this morning.

  I am grateful as we enter the greenhouse to be warmed by the rush of tropical heat. The centre of the greenhouse is cleared for us, but potting benches are filled with bulbs being forced in pots, no doubt to decorate the inside of Cheltham House for Christmas. Poinsettias in hanging baskets are overhead, and assorted large palms and house plants surround us. My mood instantly brightens from the surroundings.

  “I ask that you disconnect from the outside world now,” Lydia says. “Please turn off your phones and leave all your personal possessions at the back of the room. This is an hour not for your outside life, but for you to connect with your body and mind.”

  My bright mood becomes as strong as the sun in the Outback. I don’t have to worry about anyone trying to sneak a picture of me during class now.

  Complete freedom.

  I unzip my jacket and peel off my T-shirt, revealing a black-and-white, piped, cropped yoga top that matches my athletic leggings. I carefully remove my baseball cap, pulling my hair back into a top knot after I do. A few more eyes widen in recognition, followed by whispers. I continue to smile as I place my mat next to Jessica’s at the back of the class.

  “In case I think of more completely British things to say,” I explain, sitting down next to her, “it will be easier to share them with you.”

  Jessica returns the smile, and we chit-chat as everyone gets situated for class. I find that I enjoy talking to Jess, as she has asked me to call her. She is from London and teaches at a nursery school, so we have a love of children in common. She’s funny and down to earth, and she reminds me of Clementine, who has become one of my best friends since she came into Christian’s life.

  Clementine. Guilt twinges through me. She has no idea I’m here at her former place of employment. She used to be a tour guide and antiques specialist here but renounced her position after her engagement to Christian was announced.

  She offered multiple times to reintroduce me to Roman, but each time I declined. I didn’t want Roman to do it as a favour to Clem; I wanted to meet him again on my own, to gauge his actual interest in me.

  I repress a small smile. Clementine was incredibly frustrated by me and my total stubbornness on the issue. My stubbornness, one of my greatest attributes, is also one of my biggest weaknesses, according to her. But I didn’t want Roman to feel like he had to meet me. I wanted it to be natural.

  Apparently, natural means not meant to be.

  “Let’s start,” Lydia says, instruct
ing us to stand up on our mats, and we all comply, following her melodic instructions.

  As I go through the movements to get into chair pose, I hear shouting outside the greenhouse. “Tune out the outside world,” Lydia says without missing a beat, but I can’t help but look, along with a few of my other classmates.

  My stomach drops as I see a photographer with a huge lens on his camera. I know he’s here to photograph me. A picture of the princess in workout clothing would be a huge score for a tabloid.

  Anger surges through me. If that’s what he wants, I’ll give it to him. I’m a woman taking a yoga class, and if the world is going to go mental over it, so be it. He can have his picture, but it will be outside the greenhouse. I’ll leave the class if I must. The one thing I won’t do is let him ruin this yoga class for everyone else.

  Fired up, I rush outside, ready to confront him, but I stop dead in my tracks.

  “You’re invading their privacy,” a baritone voice says in a low, warning tone. “You will leave. Now. I will escort you out. You will not take those pictures without consent. This is a private class. You are violating that with your camera. It’s disgusting, and I won’t permit it.”

  I stare at the back of the man in front of me. He’s dressed in jeans, a work jacket, and Wellingtons.

  The man with the voice I can’t forget.

  My heart thunders against my ribs. I don’t care about the soft rain falling on my skin, how cold I am dressed in only my yoga outfit, or that I’m standing barefoot on the icy, wet path. I’m only aware of one thing.

  The man standing in front of me, the man furious at this paparazzo, is one I know.

  It’s Roman Lawler.

  Chapter 2

  Her Royal Highness

  “I don’t care about the class; Her Royal Highness is the prize I’m after,” the photographer sneers. I don’t recognise him from the usual pack of paparazzi. “And there she is. Liz, how about a smile so you’ll look pretty online later?” He’s trying to get a rise out of me as he raises his camera to his eye.

  Roman turns around. The second he sees me, his eyes widen in complete surprise.

  “Liz?” he asks, his voice resonating with shock.

  I shift my attention to the photographer, who is moving to get Roman out of his frame. Roman follows my gaze, and as I’m about to tell the photographer he can take a picture if he promises to leave, Roman whirls back around, quickly grabbing my hand and using his huge frame to shield me from the lens of the camera.

  I gasp as Roman, in a flash, has me behind him. One hand is spread out to hold the photographer at bay while the other has a grasp on my wrist, drawing me close to his back.

  “No. You’re not taking a picture of her,” he says, his deep voice defiant.

  I’m so stunned by Roman protecting me that I can’t even formulate anything to say.

  “Aren’t you a ballsy one, grabbing a hold of royalty?” the photographer says.

  Roman’s fingertips flinch against my wrist, as if he’s suddenly aware of what he has done. I hold my breath, wondering if he will release his hold on me.

  But he doesn’t.

  “Get out,” he orders the man. “Now.”

  “I’m not leaving unless you throw me out,” the photographer tosses back.

  “You do not,” Roman warns, his voice rumbling, “want me to do that.”

  “It’s not necessary,” I say, not wanting Roman to get into an escalation on my behalf.

  Roman shifts and, still shielding me, moves me back towards the second greenhouse, making it impossible for the photographer to get a shot of me that isn’t completely obscured.

  “Your Royal Highness, please go into the greenhouse,” Roman commands, glancing over his shoulder at me.

  In shock, I open the door and slip inside, once again wrapped in the scent of flowers and heated by warm, tropical air. Roman shuts the door, and I watch as he strides back to the photographer, towering over him. I hear Roman’s voice again, and there is no mistaking his patience has run out. The photographer steps back from him, and as Roman looms over him, I see the photographer is nervous. The photographer suddenly leaves, but Roman tails him, probably to ensure he is kicked off the grounds and not allowed back in.

  I whirl around, pressing my back against the door, my heart thundering against my ribs, my brain whirling.

  Roman is here.

  I begin to pace across the floor, moving around the bags of potting soil and organic fertilisers, eager for him to return. Scared for him to return. I grabbed this moment and took this chance, but I have no idea what will happen next. Do we have anything in common? Will he want to talk to me, other than brief chat about the paparazzi and our initial meeting because of them following Clementine?

  I stop walking and touch my wrist, where his fingertips were a few moments ago. He didn’t hesitate to protect me. My pulse is still galloping at the spot where he held me. I draw an anxious breath as I realise Roman is the only man who has ever elicited this kind of response from me.

  Merely from the touch of his hand.

  The doorknob rattles, and I lift my head in the direction of the sound.

  It’s Roman.

  If I thought my heart was wild before, it has gone crazy now. It’s pounding so loudly, and I can feel it against my ribs. The blood rushes to my head, and my throat goes dry as he steps inside and closes the door gently behind him.

  I drink him in with all the thirst of someone who hasn’t had water in days. My memory of him didn’t fail me. The tall frame, the thick, espresso-brown hair, the olive skin with the shading of thick, dark stubble on his face.

  Roman approaches me. My nerves accelerate with each step he takes. Finally, he’s before me, gazing down into my eyes. I notice how his eyes are more brown than green, but now that I’m close, I can see flecks of a golden honey colour in them.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, his voice gentle as those unique eyes lock on mine.

  “Yes. I’m so sorry you were put in that awkward position because of me.”

  “What? No,” Roman says, shaking his head. “You were the one who had your privacy violated.”

  “Well, I ended up having it protected, thanks to you,” I say, smiling softly at him.

  “Where was your protection officer?” he asks.

  I laugh, and Roman appears confused.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I don’t have protection.”

  Roman’s eyes widen. “What?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not that important in the royal line of succession. There is pretty much zero chance of me ever being Queen Elizabeth, so I don’t have them. No need to spend money to protect Princess Elizabeth of York.”

  “That’s not right,” Roman says firmly. “You’re important to the monarchy. Look at all the work you do for children. You are a famous figure. You bloody well should have a protection officer. What if that photographer had been a stalker? You shouldn’t be put in that kind of vulnerable position.”

  “I’ve had self-defence training,” I say.

  “Liz. That’s not acceptable.”

  “I promise you, I prefer it. I couldn’t bear to have someone follow me around at all times, or live in my house. No. I’m too independent for that. I’d rather learn how to throat punch someone and gouge eyes out with my fingernails than have a protection officer with me twenty-four hours a day for the rest of my life.”

  The corners of Roman’s mouth twitch, as if he’s repressing a smile.

  “What are you about to smile at?”

  “How do you know I’m about to smile?” he challenges, those hazel eyes shining teasingly at me.

  “The corners of your mouth are curving up. Do you not believe I can throat punch? Because I can.”

  “No, because you are the same as when I met you the first time. You are quite the firecracker off the public stage, aren’t you?”

  My breath catches. He does remember me, and for more than being Her Royal Highness.


  “There are certain ways I’m expected to be when I’m in the public eye,” I say. “But that’s only one part of who I am. It’s hard, though, for people who only see me in that forum to believe I’m otherwise human. Like how I am now, standing before you barefoot and in yoga clothing.”

  Then I remember that I am in form-fitting yoga clothing, with a cropped workout top showing off my midriff. Something that I was willing to pose in for that idiot photographer now leaves me feeling almost vulnerable in front of Roman.

  As I say the words, his eyes flicker over me, moving over my body and causing me to grow hot as a result. His gaze is intense and lingering, but abruptly, as if the move was instinctual, he quickly brings his gaze back to meet mine.

  “My jacket is in the other greenhouse,” I explain. Then I wince. “Along with my bag and my mat.”

  “Would you like me to retrieve them for you?” Roman asks, as if knowing I don’t want to interrupt the class any more than I have.

  “Thank you,” I say. “My mat is at the back of the room, next to a girl with long, jet-black hair in a yellow-and-black outfit. My bag has my royal coat of arms on it.”

  Roman nods. He’s so earnest, I burst out laughing.

  “I do not have a yoga bag with my coat of arms; I’m teasing.”

  He rubs his hand across his jaw. My pulse leaps when I see once more how large and masculine his hand is. What I wouldn’t give to feel that protective hand on my skin again.

  “But it is a Sweaty Betty bag,” I offer.

  Roman stops rubbing his jaw and furrows his brow.

  “The royal coat of arms would be infinitely more helpful.” Then his mouth twitches again, toying with me, as if maybe, just maybe, I might be rewarded with a full smile at some point.

  “It’s a black quilted bag, with a zipped compartment on the bottom. That should help.”

  “Right,” Roman deadpans. “Easy.”

  “I have infinite faith you will find the right bag,” I tease.