The Princess Pose: The Modern Royals Series

by Ellis, Aven

  “Darcy,” he says slowly, his deliciously low voice rolling in the air between us, “is my cousin. We were born in the same year, grew up together, and he’s like an annoying older brother. We share a flat in Shepherd’s Bush.”

  I nod. That is a neighbourhood in West London, known for being multicultural, near the massive Westfield London shopping centre.

  Roman rakes his fingers through his hair, which causes it to stick up messily on his head. I find myself wondering if that is how he looks when he wakes up in the morning.

  “But I’m not telling you why Darcy thinks I’m crap with girls,” he says.

  “Oh, intrigue. Now you have to tell me.”

  He chuckles. “No, I don’t.”

  “Do you want me to guess?”

  “Oh, God, no,” Roman grimaces, but I see a playfulness in his eyes.

  “I’ll make a deal with you: I cannot ask why this infamous Darcy thinks you are rubbish with women, and you can’t ask me any questions about being a princess today.”

  Inwardly, I wince as the word princess escapes my lips. I glance down, staring at the lid on my cup. It sounds ridiculous that, in this day and age, I exist. I am a modern-day, real-life princess, something that seems like it should only exist in fictional Disney fairy tales, or in those TV movies that Clementine introduced me to this summer. But as I think about it, they never have princesses anyway. The heroine is, ninety-nine percent of the time, some plucky American who lands the heart of some prince who is from a fictional foreign country but speaks with a perfect British accent.

  I feel heat radiating across my cheeks now, which I’m sure matches the flush on Roman’s neck.

  “Damn, I’ve boxed myself into a corner. I was so hoping to hear about your tiara collection,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “But in order to avoid talking about my rubbish skills with women, I’ll forgo hearing about your royal jewellery vault.”

  I shift my attention back to him and find his eyes are shining brightly at me. Then he smiles, that brilliant, gorgeous smile that he is starting to bestow upon me more liberally now.

  My heart does that now-familiar zing once again.

  I laugh. “Ha! I don’t have a single tiara in my collection. I do, however, have a collection of adult colouring books I can tell you about, but somehow, I don’t think you care to hear about the specific brand of colouring pencils I’m obsessed with.”

  Roman’s eyes widen in surprise. “You colour?”

  I nod. “I love it. It’s one of my favourite things to do.”

  “What do you like about it?” he asks.

  “It makes me feel grounded,” I explain. “It requires focus. I lose myself in the colours and patterns. I love the sound of the pencil strokes. I usually do it at the end of the day as a form of meditation.”

  Roman nods. “I feel that way about planting. It’s just me and the dirt. I lay out the garden the way I designed, and I go to work, digging up the earth and watching things come to life. It’s peaceful. Quiet. I like that. I’m not always good with people. Plants are much more forgiving of my flaws.”

  My ears perk up. I wonder if that comment is connected to whatever his cousin Darcy told him about his skills with women, but my instinct tells me not to ask about that.

  “How did you get into gardening?” I ask instead.

  Now I see something new filter across his handsome face. His eyes are lit up, he’s smiling, and there’s joy expressed in his features.

  “When I was little, I spent a lot of time with my grandfather, Clive. He’s the head gardener here. My grandparents have lived here, at Cheltham House, as long as I’ve been alive. My parents aren’t into gardening at all, so when I’d come visit here on weekends, Grandfather would take me out and teach me things. He let me get my hands dirty. I could dig up stuff, pick up worms, all the things that little boys love. Grandfather has infinite patience, and he loves explaining things. He talked to me about respecting the land. He said, if we nurture it, we can be blessed by what grows from our efforts. I still remember the first garden I planted with him. It was the kitchen garden here. I was so excited to come each week and see if anything was growing. I was the proudest boy in the world to be able to pick tomatoes I grew.”

  My heart flutters as I see the little boy who knew his destiny early on.

  “I never outgrew that interest,” Roman continues, pausing to take a sip of his tea. “I found solace in the earth. I wanted to do everything Grandfather did, and I began working at Cheltham House as a teen. I would have been happy to go straight into work after completing my A levels, but Grandfather had none of it. He said I needed to go to university and study horticulture. He said he wanted me to take over for him when he retired, and he would only recommend me if I had a degree.”

  I smile. “Blackmail.”

  Roman laughs. “It was.”

  “Where did you study?”

  “I have a bachelor’s degree from the University of Glasgow. I did course work at the Royal Botanical Garden of Edinburgh, which was a fantastic experience. Now, I’m gradually taking over work for my grandfather. I think he should retire, but after losing my grandmother a few years ago, he needs the work to keep his mind busy. They were married forty years. She had Alzheimer’s and spent the last few years in a memory care home. Grandfather went every day, without fail, even when she didn’t know who he was.”

  “I know someone who lost her husband to the same disease,” I say, as the image of Jillian, the older woman Clementine used to live with, pops into my head. “It was incredibly hard on her.”

  “Grandfather tried to take care of her, but as the disease progressed, he couldn’t give her the care she needed. It gutted him to have to put her in a home. I think he’s only starting to come back to life now, and it’s been seven years.”

  “A broken heart can take time to heal,” I say.

  Roman studies me. “Have you had your heart broken?”

  “By a man? No. By my family? Yes.”

  The words come out so easily that I’m shocked to hear them escape my lips. Nobody—not even Clem or Lady Amelia Westbrook, my best friends—know that truth. It’s such a secret, such a hurt on my heart, that I haven’t shared the story with anyone. My sisters, Bella and Victoria, don’t even know what is going on behind the closed doors of St. James’s Palace, where my parents live.

  I feel Roman’s gaze on me. Once again, a deep blush colours my ivory skin. I know because my cheeks are burning.

  “You know, we’ve gotten way too serious here,” he says, as if knowing I cannot speak of what I alluded to. “I need to ask the important questions now, excluding any princess-type inquiries.”

  How did he know I couldn’t tell him my truth? I stare at him in a mixture of amazement and pure gratitude.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Green thumb or black thumb?” he asks.

  “Black of blackest death,” I say.

  “What is black of blackest death?”

  “Well, I moved into my cottage over the summer,” I explain. “I love fresh cut flowers, so I always make a point to get those when I do my shopping—”

  “You do your own food shopping?” Roman interrupts, obviously surprised.

  I can’t help but grin. “I even push my own trolley.”

  “You don’t have people for that?”

  I burst out laughing. “No, I don’t have those kinds of people. I do have a secretary, Cecelia Green, who is based at Kensington Palace. She handles my engagements and accompanies me if I need her to. She’s incredible. I’m always well prepared for my engagements with detailed notes and counsel from her. She has truly guided me into my role. Sameness and all,” I tease.

  Roman’s hand flies to his hair, and he quickly begins raking it again. “I’m such an arse.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re being real. I appreciate that. More than you could ever understand. People are incredibly keen, at least to my face, to tell me what they think I want to hear. They are also eq
ually keen to say terrible things about me on social media.”

  “This is why I like poinsettias,” Roman says, glancing at the baskets that hang overhead. “They don’t judge. But let’s come back round to the black of blackest death.”

  I groan. “I buy fresh flowers because I can replace them weekly. Unlike plants. I had houseplants. I say had because I forgot to water them. Then I watered them extra to make up for not watering them. And then—and this was a tragic day indeed—they all died.”

  Roman is grimacing.

  “You’ve put a stake in my gardening heart,” he declares, putting his huge hand over his chest.

  I study that hand, the large, strong hand that touched mine earlier, and with a ping in my chest, I realise I want it back over mine again.

  But I stay in the conversation instead.

  “Shall I gather my things?” I tease.

  Roman smiles. “No. My guess is you’ve had no gardening education, so you were destined to kill plants with precision.”

  “You make me sound like a murderer,” I giggle.

  “Aren’t you?” he teases.

  “I’ll have you know that I will not have a single poinsettia plant in my cottage for fear of killing it within days upon arrival. And I love them. They are my favourite Christmas flower. I love the red petals.”

  Roman smiles at me. “I think,” he says slowly, “it’s time for Poinsettia 101.”

  I watch as he stands. He moves around the greenhouse until he finds a hook, and then he removes one of the plants that is hanging overhead. He grabs the plant and places it on a work bench.

  “Come here, Liz,” he says.

  My heart does a zing the second my name escapes his lips. I unfold myself off the floor and move next to him at the bench.

  “What you think are petals,” Roman says, “are actually called bracts.”

  “Bracts?” I repeat.

  “These,” he says, putting his fingertips on one of the red bracts, “are not petals, but leaves.”

  His bare arm brushes against mine. A frisson of excitement shoots through me, causing goosebumps to sweep over my skin. As Roman leans in, I don’t smell any kind of posh cologne, or any cologne for that matter, but what I do detect is the lingering scent of sandalwood soap, combined with an outdoorsy smell. He smells like grass and dirt and sandalwood, and the scent of him—rugged and all masculine—is uniquely him.

  And all I want to do is drink it in, absorb it, and get drunk off it.

  “These are the actual petals of the flower,” Roman says, snapping me from my thoughts. “Right here.”

  His enormous hands delicately lift the centre of the bracts to reveal little yellow flowers. At the same time, I move my fingers to touch the flowers, and our fingertips collide.

  I suck in my breath as a jolt rips through me. Roman doesn’t flinch, nor does he remove his hand, but instead, he hooks his index finger over mine. I stare up at him. He’s already gazing down at me, the golden flecks in his eyes dominate now in his soft expression.

  “Liz,” he says, his deep voice sending an electric feeling through me, “is it wrong that it already feels right to touch your hand?”

  He begins rubbing his index finger lightly up and down mine. Heat spirals through me. The move is gentle and soft, and I feel like he’s taking care of me, like I’m something special that he’s discovering.

  “No,” I whisper in the close space between us.

  We remain silent for a moment, connected by the barest of touches but not willing to give it up.

  “You’re dangerous,” Roman says quietly. “You make me want to know you. I haven’t felt this way in a long, long time.” His eyes never leave mine as he speaks, and I know my gaze is as intent as his.

  “I haven’t either,” I murmur.

  The truth is, I’ve never felt this way. Only Roman has elicited this excitement in me. This desire to get to know him is unique to him, and him alone.

  “Is this crazy?” he wonders out loud. “You. Me. We’ve only talked about plants and lemons, yet I feel… I can’t describe it.”

  My heart bangs loudly against my ribs. Roman is feeling it, too. He doesn’t have to say it, but he’s known since that day at Kensington Palace. There’s something magnetic between us. We don’t know each other. I’m a modern-day princess. He’s a gardener. We grew up in completely different worlds. No matchmaker would ever put us together.

  “I don’t want what has been in my limited world,” I say, continuing my thoughts out loud. “I want something different. I think you do, too.”

  Roman’s finger travels down to my wrist, trailing across my pulse point. “Your pulse is fast,” he whispers. “It matches mine.”

  I suck in my breath. This is the most intimate moment I’ve ever had with a man, and we haven’t even kissed.

  “I need more time with you,” I say without thinking. “But nowhere public.”

  “No. You… you wouldn’t… um, want to come over for dinner, would you?” The flush sweeps up his neck again. “Mind you, my flat is probably the size of your wardrobe, and my cutlery doesn’t match, among many other things that could disappoint you.”

  I read between the lines. Roman is worried what Princess Elizabeth of York will think of his life outside of this greenhouse moment. As if I, Liz, will disappear.

  “There’s only one thing that could disappoint me about this invitation. Can you cook? Or do you at least have a good takeaway place nearby? Because food is all the things to me.”

  The flush fades from his neck. Roman’s other fingers encircle my wrist, grasping it gently and sending my heart fluttering. “Can I cook?” he asks. “Of course I can. Farm-to-table is my specialty. Lady Cheltham gives me full range of the kitchen garden, so I make use of what is in season.”

  Roman just became the sexiest man alive.

  Oh, who am I kidding? He’s been the sexiest man alive since the moment he removed his motorcycle helmet in front of me.

  “Shall I pick you up around six?” he asks.

  It takes all my learned princess restraint not to burst out in joy.

  “Yes,” I say. “Will you bring your motorbike?”

  “No,” Roman says, his voice firm. “It will be cold, and night riding is more dangerous. I won’t put you in that position. I’ll drive my car.”

  He’s protective. My heart flutters, seeing this trait in action for me.

  “All right. I assume casual dress?”

  A smile twitches at his lips. “What is casual in your world?”

  I allow my own lips to twitch back in the same flirtatious smile. “Jeans. How about in your world?”

  “Joggers. But I won’t wear joggers if you are my guest.”

  Roman could wear joggers and a T-shirt and be barefoot, and I’d be happy, but I keep this thought to myself.

  “So, jeans it is,” I say.

  “Will you wear a tiara?” he teases.

  “You insult me. I’m still Liz,” I chide.

  “I stand corrected. Liz wouldn’t own a tiara. I apologise.”

  I grin. Roman must think I have a collection of them back at the cottage, but the truth is, I don’t own a single one. Though I’ll save that jaw-dropping fact for later.

  “I’ll have you put your number into my phone,” he says, still holding my wrist and tracing circles along the inside with his thumb. “I’ll walk you out to your car in case that sleazy photographer is milling about.”

  Warmth fills me, the effect of his calloused thumb circling my skin and the fact that he’s so protective of me. When he releases his grip to retrieve his phone, regret surges through me.

  What are you doing to me, Roman? I think as I watch him move over to his jacket, withdrawing his phone out of his pocket. You are making me feel things I didn’t think any man could stir in me.

  He stands before me, typing on his screen. “Here. I’ve set you up. Enter your number, please.”

  I nod and take the phone from his hand. I glance down at th
e screen, and my heart stills as I see how he’s entered my contact information:

  Liz

  To my surprise, tears of happiness prick my eyes. Many people call me Liz, but they don’t see me as Liz. There’s always that title, my blessing and my curse, hanging over their impression of who I am, or why they want to get to know me.

  I glance up at Roman, who is watching me with a gentle smile on his lips.

  He is different.

  He wants to know me. Not the woman attached to the British monarchy, but me, as the real person I am underneath the title.

  And that is exactly who he will get tonight.

  Chapter 5

  Flat Number Five

  I’m a jumble of feelings as I let myself into Wren House, the two-story cottage that I call home at Kensington Palace. I drop my yoga bag on the floor and kick off my shoes the lazy way, by stepping on the back of the heel to pull them off so I don’t have to untie them. I stroll over to my oversized cream sofa and flop down backwards, sinking deep into it. I pick up one of the many cushions and cradle it over my heart, closing my eyes so I can visualise Roman like a favourite dream I want to revisit. I feel his fingertips against my skin. Smell the scent of soap and the outdoors on him. See the golden flecks in his hazel eyes.

  I have a date with Roman tonight.

  A squeal of joy bubbles up my throat, and my cheeks flush with excitement. I’m excited and nervous and eager. I’ve never, ever felt like this. Not because I didn’t allow myself to, but because no one ever elicited these feelings in me. I feel like a new princess now, just like Sleeping Beauty, who has been arisen by her prince from a deep sleep.

  Before Roman, I was sure all men would somehow disappoint me. I shut myself off from any who showed interest. Or at least that is what I thought. But maybe my head knew the right man hadn’t come along.

  Until I met him.

  He is the dangerous one, I think as I run my fingers over the fine-piped edge of the cushion. Roman is the man who made the impression my head couldn’t let go of. He is the one I want to take a chance on.