The Princess Pose: The Modern Royals Series

by Ellis, Aven

  Wonderful, sexy, slow, sizzling wine kisses that are now seared in my memory.

  And in my heart.

  So much so that Antonia’s voicemail—I’ve been summoned to tea on Wednesday to discuss “proper engagement etiquette”—didn’t even make me mad. I was able to put it in perspective. Meaning, while this tea is code for “don’t ever show me up again, you millennial twit,” and she added a veiled warning that she hoped to see me in a more “appropriately-coloured” dress for my reception tonight, it wasn’t the most important thing in my life. Even a summons from Her Majesty couldn’t ruin my blissful state of mind.

  Instead, I filed her away to be dealt with in a firm, yet respectable way over tea in china cups and watercress finger sandwiches. Rather than plot out what I will say, when I will say it, and what expression will be on my face, I went back to thinking about Roman. A first for me.

  I come back to the present and drop my gaze to his mouth, and the soft lips that caressed mine until the moment Darcy picked him up. The second I think about kissing him, my pulse quickens.

  True to his word, Roman returned this morning at six for breakfast. It was a night of little sleep, but I feel exuberant.

  “The gardener and the princess,” he says, shaking his head as he reaches for his mug of tea. “Sounds like you got the wrong end of the fairy tale.”

  I watch as his mouth curves up as he taps the top of his egg with a spoon. This is something else I’ve learnt about him. Roman takes his tea black and likes dippy eggs with toast. He eats one slice with butter—the dipping piece—and another with marmalade.

  My gorgeous gardener has no idea that I have found the man I didn’t think could exist until I met him. The truths I whispered to him last night were ones nobody else knows. I let him inside not only the walls of Kensington Palace but inside of my heart, too.

  “How can you say this is a fairy tale? I didn’t have Darjeeling tea or lime to give you at breakfast. This is a nightmare.”

  Roman chuckles, and my pulse quickens at the magical sound.

  “So, you have an event this evening?” he asks.

  I nod. “Yes, a formal reception at Buckingham Palace for a young entrepreneur group,” I say. “I’m presenting the awards to the top five entrepreneurs.”

  Roman shakes his head. “I could never do what you do. Get up in front of people and speak like that? No. Noooooooooooooo.”

  I laugh. “I actually like giving speeches.”

  Roman shoots me a repulsed look. I grin.

  “Is that it?” I ask. “Will you delete my number from your mobile now?”

  “No, you’d have to do something more offensive. Like kill a poinsettia.”

  I reach for his phone on the table. “Then I’ll do you a favour and delete myself now.”

  Roman grins and snatches his phone back. “I won’t let you kill a poinsettia. In fact, I believe in you so much, I might bring you one.”

  “I’m terrified. For the poinsettia.”

  “I have complete faith that after my lesson, you will not kill it.”

  “When can I expect this lesson?”

  “When’s the next open date in your diary?”

  Zing!

  “I’ll be home tomorrow night.”

  “Who do I call at St. James’s Palace to get an appointment with you in the evening?” Roman says.

  I want to kiss those lips that tease me with a hint of the smile I know he’s suppressing.

  “Well, seeing as how I’m a modern royal, I’ll handle that engagement request directly.”

  “I’d like to request seven o’clock.”

  “Confirmed,” I say, taking another bite of my lemon bar.

  Roman appears thoughtful. “Can we meet here?”

  I nod. While we are getting to know each other, Kensington Palace is easier for privacy.

  Where I can protect him, I think determinedly.

  “Yes. What takeaway sounds good to you?” I ask.

  Now I get the full smile.

  “Let me handle dinner,” Roman says. “Do you like seafood?”

  “Now I get to let you in on more weird things about being a royal,” I say. “Did you know I’m not supposed to eat shellfish while travelling or dining out because of the risk of food-related illness?”

  Roman wrinkles his brow. “You aren’t serious.”

  “Oh, I am.”

  “They tell you what to eat?” he asks, incredulous. “That is so… three centuries ago.”

  I laugh. “We can’t afford to be sick in public or on tour. But I do love sushi, lobster, mussels, all the usual suspects.”

  Roman nods. “Well, maybe I’ll make something with seafood.”

  “I’m already looking forward to it.”

  He smiles at me. “Me too.”

  Before I know it, Roman needs to head to work. I picture how his day will be, all rugged, digging in the dirt, and how hot he must look doing it. He retrieves his helmet, which has remained on my console since he left it there last night, and I walk him out to his motorcycle.

  “Have a good day at work,” I say, putting my hands on the lapels of his leather riding jacket. I laugh. “Wow, I sound incredibly old and domesticated saying that.”

  “No,” Roman disagrees. “It’s hot when you say that.”

  I blush. He chuckles.

  “Come on, Lizzie. We like seeds and pens. Conversation about having a good day at work is sexy.”

  I smile. “I agree.”

  Roman leans down and drops a kiss on my lips. “Call me after the reception is over?”

  It is ridiculous how giddy I am at this moment.

  “Yes.”

  He steps back from me and is about to put on his helmet when he stops. “Not that you would ever take my advice on anything related to receptions, but I don’t think you should wear white tonight,” Roman says, his hazel eyes growing darker with intensity. “Your aunt might be the queen, but you are Liz. I see all the colours in you, and so should the rest of the world. No matter what her majesty dictates.”

  Then he puts on his helmet, straddles his bike, and zips away.

  I watch Roman until he’s out of sight, my heart full of joy knowing he sees me as vibrant and passionate.

  And ready to show the world my true colours.

  I hurry back down the path and into my cottage. I return to the dining room table and retrieve my phone. I have a meeting with Cecelia at St. James’s Palace this afternoon to go over all the details for this evening, but I managed to convince her we didn’t need to meet with Sydney about the headlines comparing me to Antonia. That leaves this morning free.

  I pull up Amelia’s contact info and tap on the message icon. I type:

  Super short notice but are you free this morning to go shopping? I want to get a different dress for my reception appearance tonight, preferably by a British or commonwealth designer/design house. Would need alterations done on site. Am I crazy?

  I hit send as I pick up my mug and head back into the kitchen for a fresh tea bag to make another cup. Amelia loves formal wear and bridal gowns, and I’ve never seen anyone as obsessed with the show Say Yes to the Dress as she is.

  While I wait for her to respond, I check my other messages. I smile when I see the ones Victoria sent yesterday, approving the fact that I wore pink and usurped Antonia. The jumper I chose is already sold out online. I wonder if my wearing colour will have an unexpected impact on designers and fashion houses, with consumers demanding any eye-catching pieces because I have worn them.

  Next, Bella texted me with concern, saying I shouldn’t cross Antonia in any way as my position is so new. She thinks I should take care of myself and not incite any kind of response from her.

  I take a deep breath and exhale. Out of the three of us, she is the most vulnerable. Bella is a sensitive soul, and she reminds me of Christian. She’s hiding away at university, where the press respects her privacy, and I think, deep down, she’s terrified of what will happen when she graduates
and becomes fair game for the media. Right now, she’s happily cocooned in Scotland with her study of history, but I worry about what will happen when she leaves the protected walls of St. Andrews.

  My phone vibrates, interrupting my thoughts. It’s Amelia with a response:

  YES YES YES, Liz! I know the place to go. It’s in Teddington, and the stockist strictly carries UK designers. I’ll get us squeezed in—obvs they’ll make time for Her Royal Highness, ha ha! Shall I pick you up around 9ish?

  I can practically hear Amelia squealing with joy from her flat in Chelsea at today’s prospect of shopping for a formal dress. I confirm that is perfect and put my phone down to prepare my tea. I glance down at the time on the phone. It’s quarter past seven.

  I move back into the dining room, the warming cup of tea in my hand, and glance down at the name on the pastry box that held my lemon bars.

  The Biscuit Cutter

  The address and hours are printed underneath the logo. It’s located in Belgravia and opens at eight. That’s perfect. I take a seat and peruse the website on my phone, selecting an assortment of themed biscuits, and choose the option for delivery so I can surprise Clementine with a gift in honour of her first charity engagement and walkabout this afternoon. Then I read the morning news on my phone, as I always do, and yes, there is tons of press for SCOUT 4 GIRLS because of my decision to wear a pink jumper and coat. I’m amazed, but if I can further my message and help my patronages by wearing colours, I’ll do it.

  I take a sip of tea and consider Roman’s words. I was so certain I had to be safe, to make optimistic white my colour. It was a way of building my presence, but by remaining colourless, I was hiding myself.

  As I skim through the pictures from Antonia’s appearance, I notice she is so carefully restrained that her choices are never wrong, but boringly safe. She’s a stunning woman, and she would be beautiful in jewel tones, but that is not in her crafted image.

  My eyes widen as I realise the truth.

  By sticking with white, I was following in Antonia’s image, although my brain refused to see it that way. There’s no difference between her neutral sheaths and coats and my hues of white.

  It’s all manipulated.

  I blush in shame. Then I sit up straight and square my shoulders. I’m changing this. I’m going to wear colours of my choice. I’m going to show more of myself to the world through my fashion choices. I know some will be criticised in the press and talked about by the public. I can’t control that. But at least I’ll know the woman outside of the palace walls is closer to the one who lives inside them.

  Today is the start of something new for me. The idea of turning things on their head tonight with a shocking choice of evening gown is not terrifying to me. Thanks to Roman’s words, it’s exciting.

  And I can’t wait to get to it.

  Chapter 13

  Flowers and Butterflies

  Amelia is chatting away as she drives into Teddington. She has been talking non-stop since she picked me up this morning.

  “They have the most exquisite wedding gowns at Beautiful Days,” she says, referring to the by-appointment-only bridal and evening gown boutique that she is taking me to.

  I listen as I scroll through my phone. When Amelia is excited about something, she talks a mile a minute, going into fantastic detail about the topic of interest. I glance at her. Her dark hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and her green eyes sparkle as she goes on about one of her favourite designers, who has amazing fabrics and techniques that make women look elegant.

  “The bodices have such incredible attention to detail, and all of the work is done in London, down to the delicate hand-embroid—”

  She abruptly stops speaking. “Liz! I’m so sorry, I’ve been rambling on forever about silks and bodices and all the designers this stockist has, and I know this isn’t your thing.” She stops at a traffic light, chewing the inside of her lip anxiously. “I’m so sorry.”

  “A, would you stop?” I say, smiling at her as I use my favourite nickname for my dear friend. “I’m relieved you know fashion down to the last detail. I know if I’m going to change things up tonight, you will make sure everything is fitted appropriately and in fabrics that flatter my frame.”

  “Gowns make me happy,” Amelia says simply. “The stories and memories that each one can create for a woman take my breath away. If I didn’t have the title in front of my name, I would have studied something in fashion.”

  A long sigh escapes her lips. I frown. Amelia has been told since she was a little girl that Westbrook women have a great legacy of service to the world and must prepare accordingly. It’s weird. In some ways, her family is more archaic than mine. She was given a list of “Westbrook-approved” studies for her university years, and fashion wasn’t one of them. It’s one of the things we bonded over: being born in to a world of amazing privilege, with such restrictive boundaries in return.

  My phone vibrates in my hand. I’m overjoyed to see it’s a text from Clem, and from the picture, I can tell my gift from The Biscuit Cutter has been delivered to Buckingham Palace, where she and Christian are preparing for their visit and walkabout this afternoon.

  “Clem got the biscuits,” I say happily, staring at a basket of the most elegant bespoke iced biscuits I have ever seen.

  “What did she say?”

  I laugh softly. “That as soon as the appearance is over, she will dive in and eat all of them to relieve her stress. And that the one of Buckingham Palace is her favourite.”

  “I need to go with you to this shop,” Amelia says as the traffic light changes.

  “I want to see it, too,” I reply. “I picked out my items on the website, but I must visit in person soon.”

  “I have no talent for baking,” she says. “We always get our Christmas cake from a bakery and decorate it ourselves.”

  An idea hits me as Amelia navigates towards the shop. I need to get a Christmas cake for Roman. I think of his grandmother, of how much he misses that tradition of port-induced decorating, and I want to give him that tradition back.

  And make a new memory of doing it with me.

  “Here we are,” Amelia says, driving her Volvo down a tiny street. “Isn’t it adorable?”

  I stare at the shop, which is tucked into a quaint building, with a gorgeous bridal gown on display in the window. I groan. “If I’m snapped going into a bridal shop, the media will have a field day,” I say, thinking of what stupid, far-fetched stories will soon pop up, with ridiculous headlines to match.

  “No, they’ll merely say you are getting another white gown,” Amelia teases.

  “That stops today,” I say firmly. “I don’t need white as my security blanket anymore.”

  Amelia keeps her eyes ahead as she searches for a parking spot. “Thanks to a gardener with an eye for colour. And you.”

  My face instantly burns as she teases me.

  “Look at you, blushing over a man,” she says, surprise in her voice. “I never thought I’d see it, Liz. Since I’ve known you, you’ve always pushed them away. Now you’re blushing at the mere mention of one.”

  “You know what’s weird? I knew he was different the first moment I met him. I just knew it. Have you ever felt that way?”

  Amelia appears thoughtful as she waits for a car to reverse out of its spot. “No. When I first met George,” she says, referring to her last boyfriend, “we were friends first and kind of fell into dating. There was never this knowing moment. Obviously, or we wouldn’t have broken up. I think we dated because it was easy… What is this woman doing? Knitting a jumper while she reverses? Come on!”

  “Roman has stirred up feelings in me that I didn’t believe could exist,” I say as Amelia impatiently strums her fingers on the steering wheel. “When you meet someone like that, Amelia, it’s not like what you had with George. Not that your relationship with him was wrong or bad, but the feelings are intensified. Your senses are alive. You can spend hours with him, and it’s not enough.
But I’m comfortable, too. We sat in front of the fireplace sipping wine and talking and holding hands, and it was magical.”

  As the car slowly begins to back out of the space, Amelia studies me. “You’re going to fall in love, aren’t you?” she asks, her voice incredulous.

  If she had said that to me with any previous man who came near me, I would have snort-laughed, rolled my eyes, and hit her playfully on the arm.

  “I hope I do,” I say out loud.

  Amelia’s eyes widen at my confession. “You’re serious,” she says, parking her car.

  “I am. I never wanted to date seriously. Nor did I want to fall in love and end up being disappointed by the experience. But now I do. And it’s because of Roman. He has changed my mind on everything I thought I wanted.”

  “You know that after two dates?” she asks.

  “I do. I’ve realised it’s not that I didn’t want to take a chance on love before, like I thought. I just needed Roman to come into my life to wake me up to the beauty of it. He makes me want it, and he’s worth risking disappointment. Roman,” I say firmly, “is the only man worthy of this risk.”

  Amelia turns off the engine and shoots me a beaming smile.

  “I feel two things right now.”

  “Oh, please, share,” I say, dropping my phone into my bag.

  “My heart is giddy to see you happy with a man who is worthy of you.”

  I take a moment to check my surroundings before exiting the car, grabbing my tote bag of shoes to try on with the different dresses. “And the second?”

  We both exit the car, and Amelia comes round to join me on the path. “The other,” she says, her eyes twinkling, “is that I want what you have. You are glowing.”

  “That’s compliments of my face mask from last night,” I tease as we begin to walk. I see people approach us on the street, but nobody recognises me. Yet.

  Beautiful.

  “It’s not your face mask,” Amelia declares as we walk in the direction of the shop.

  I laugh. “No, it’s not. And the way I feel, I might never need a mask again.”