Not Your Cinderella: a Royal Wedding Romance (Royal Weddings Book 1) Read online

  “Yeah, what’s up with that? I keep thinking it’s the police. It’s like being back at work. Speaking of, did you see the Boss?”

  Clodagh’s face flamed a little. “Jamie? No, why would I?”

  “I meant the Queen. Nice speech, I thought. Slightly pointed mention of some of her grandchildren ‘beginning to choose partners’ though. Did you notice the photos?”

  “On her desk? Yeah. I’d be well pissed off if I were him.”

  The Queen had the wedding portrait of her oldest son Prince Frederick and his wife Louisa, who had celebrated forty years of marriage this year, and of Victoria and Nicholas, who’d done a Commonwealth tour, and of Edward and Annemarie and their children. There was no picture of Jamie. Probably unbalance the table to have a single on there.

  “Or the others.” Davood shrugged. “I mean, she does have eight grandchildren, and there was no mention of Princess Isabella’s daughter.”

  “True.” Apparently all families had their favourites.

  “What’s so special about first-borns, anyway?”

  The first one is always special. The memory, as unwanted as it had ever been, stabbed her like a knife.

  “I mean,” Davood began. Then he glanced at her face and winced. “Shit. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Clodagh sucked in a breath. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago. I was someone else then.”

  He nodded, and changed the subject to his favourite terrible Christmas songs. Clodagh leaned her head against the cool glass of the window and watched the ugly Christmas lights flicker and flash as they passed by.

  She dozed for most of the journey, having spent two sleepless nights on the sofa again, and woke to Davood shaking her arm. “We’re back.”

  She opened her eyes. It was fully dark now, the bulk of Lady Mathilda College a familiar and welcome sight against the night sky. She took a deep breath and let it out.

  “You okay? I’m sorry I said…”

  “It’s fine,” she assured him. “I only…”

  I saw the pictures of Jamie and Olivia in the papers even though I tried not to look, and I know it’s probably nothing, that they really are just friends, it’s just…

  …what if they’re not?

  “Is everything okay between you two?” Davood asked.

  “Yes. Yeah, it’s fine,” she said distractedly.

  “Does he know we went out?”

  She nodded, still staring at the dark walls of the college. She could just make out the little light of a security camera above the gatehouse door.

  “What did he say?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing.” He’d been weird though. Because she was dating his security guard? Because she was dating anyone? Did he not see her as the kind of girl who went on dates? Didn’t he think she was desirable enough? Did he even see her as anything other than a lame duck to be rescued?

  “Nothing at all?”

  “I… kind of interrupted him. With Olivia.”

  An infinitesimal pause, then, “Ah.”

  “Yeah. You reckon the rumours are true?”

  Davood said nothing, until she swung round to look at him. In the darkness, she couldn’t see much of his face.

  “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear,” he said. “Go on, get inside, I don’t have my own parking space near here. I’ll see you soon.”

  He leaned across, but instead of kissing her on the mouth he kissed her cheek, and she smiled awkwardly and got out of the car.

  The PPOs in the gatehouse greeted her with seasonal wishes and told her Jamie had arrived home that afternoon. She set off across the lawn, trying not to feel like a kid who’d been caught skiving off school, and let herself in.

  “Jamie?”

  “Clodagh. Happy Christmas.”

  “Happy Christmas.”

  He had a log fire burning and a video game paused on the big TV. From here, all she could see was the back of his head as he slouched on the sofa. She couldn’t see Olivia anywhere. She put away her outdoor things—no impeccably tailored size eight coats in there, or glossy high heeled boots—and started through the dining room, pausing as she saw the gift she’d left for him still there, unwrapped.

  Slowly, she went into the living room. Jamie appeared to be alone, a hamper from Fortnum and Mason open and raided on the table. Curled up on the hearth rug was the cat they called Bustopher.

  Sitting on the coffee table was the present he’d left addressed to her.

  “Good Christmas?” she said warily, sitting down on the other sofa.

  Jamie sprawled on the sofa in sweatpants and a Star Wars t-shirt with mince pie crumbs on it. His glasses were smudged and his hair looked like he’d been pulled through a hedge backwards. He resumed gameplay, not even glancing at her.

  “Yes, marvellous,” he said politely. “And you?”

  “Oh, fabulous. As usual.”

  “Not full of nosy relatives asking when you’re going to settle down and get married, or small children doing their best to break priceless Victorian tree ornaments, or two church services, or five outfit changes a day?”

  Clodagh raised an eyebrow. Well, if that’s how he wanted to play it… “Turkey wars between my mum and her friends,” she began, ticking things off on her fingers, “which means she has to get the biggest one she can even though it doesn’t fit in the oven, so I have to saw it in two with a blunt breadknife. Ten adults, one of whom announces she’s going vegan with immediate effect on Christmas morning and doesn’t like any vegetables.”

  Jamie’s mouth twitched. He shot down an enemy soldier on screen.

  “Eight children under ten, two of them in nappies—”

  “Your sister had the baby?”

  “Nope.” Clodagh smiled. “My sister spent the entire time lying full length on the sofa complaining her back ached and that she thought she was having hyperemesis gravidarium, only I won’t try to explain how she pronounced it, and no, she would not accept that this was unlikely to suddenly occur in the eighth month. The eighth child belonged to my brother Scott, who neglected to tell any of us that three years ago he knocked up a girl from Roydon and he’s been paying child support on a toddler called Chidi.”

  Jamie’s eyes grew wide. He paused the game.

  “I know,” Clodagh said. “He was hiding out at my mum’s house because the girl’s dad had just tracked him down and threatened him with a machete. At least that’s what he said. Meanwhile—”

  “There’s a meanwhile?” Jamie picked up a mince pie and bit into it.

  “Two of my nieces got the same doll—one of those ones you feed from a bottle and then it wees into a nappy and poops out little bits of plastic—” she read the horror on his face and grinned manically. “Oh yeah. Cue a lecture on indoctrinated gender roles and why baby poop isn’t really made of little colourful bits of plastic. Anyway one doll has two more pieces of plastic poop than the other, so a screaming match ensues which basically goes on for the entirety of Christmas Day. And no, Nevaeh will not give one of her pieces of plastic poop to Keisha to even things out. Nevaeh, in case you’re wondering, is ‘Heaven’ spelt backwards, which maybe gives you some idea of her character.”

  Mesmerised, Jamie ate another mince pie.

  “What else? Oh yes, the tears over the wrong kind of Christmas lights, because flashing emergency-services blue is the only colour to have, unless you can have multicoloured and flashing. Or both. Why not both? The house across the road looked like someone had eaten Christmas and vomited it up all over them.”

  “Are you making this up now?” said Jamie. He reached for a bottle of port, took a swig then offered it to her.

  “Cross my heart and hope to die. Which is more or less the state in which I ended Christmas Day. Didn’t even get to watch Doctor Who. Would you like me to start on the argument I had with Scott’s girlfriend—not the mother of Chidi, the other one—about vaccines and autism?”

  “Between which there has been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt to be no lin
k whatsoever?” Jamie said, rolling his eyes.

  “Yeah. Apparently that’s just what Big Pharma want us to think so they can sell us their vaccines.” She took a slug of port, which was richer than she’d expected and went down very nicely. “Anyway. What’s the royal goss?”

  Jamie held out the tray of mince pies and she took one. The pastry seemed to be mostly butter and it was ridiculously good.

  “Aunt Penelope is only and precisely as sick as it suits her to get out of things she doesn’t want to do. Annemarie on the other hand can barely walk and has been told to never have another baby. Victoria and Nick still aren’t pregnant and will physically attack anyone who asks about it. Someone tried to get into the church with a paintbomb and the security team had to take him down with tranquilliser darts like you use on rhinos, but thankfully the chorus of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing drowned out the noise and the only evidence was a pink stain on a gravestone. His Royal Highness Prince Alexander thinks poo jokes are hilarious, as does my grandfather, incidentally, so the two of them get on like a house on fire. And a house on fire is precisely what I’d have preferred to be in after every single one of my relatives asked when I was going to announce my engagement to Olivia.”

  He held out his hand for the port and Clodagh, her stomach suddenly threatening to reject the buttery pastry, handed it over.

  “And? When are you?” she managed to ask.

  “Sometime between Never and Not Going To Happen. That bloody picture, Christ. You should thank your lucky stars you weren’t out with us that night or it’d be you Twitter would be storming over.”

  That didn’t help her stomach much.

  “I’ve got Peaseman drafting a statement to the effect that Lady Olivia and I are like siblings and not the kind you get in Game of Thrones. No engagement. No marriage. No snu-snu. None of it.”

  Clodagh looked at the port bottle, which was half empty.

  “Snu-snu?”

  “You don’t watch Futurama? They land on a planet where there are no men and they’re sentenced to death by snu-snu, which they find out is actually being shagged to death by sex-starved Amazons… it’s a geek thing. Never mind. I’m not doing it with Olivia is all that matters.”

  “Oh,” said Clodagh. Jamie held out the bottle and she swigged from it again, warmth spreading through her. “Good to know.”

  “Isn’t it?” He stared at the screen for a moment, where an enemy soldier was frozen at the point of death. “And you? Enjoying your snu-snu with PPO Khan?”

  He must be drunk. Clodagh couldn’t imagine Jamie asking about anyone’s sex life sober.

  “Ugh, forget I asked. Sorry. Too much port. None of my business.”

  Clodagh drank a bit more port and eyed him over the bottle. She must have had too much of it now as well, because she said, “I’m not sleeping with PPO Khan.”

  Jamie didn’t look at her, but she could see his chest rising and falling rapidly. “No?”

  “No. No snu-snu.”

  “Oh.” He rolled his head to look at her. “I’m sorry?”

  “Try it again without the question mark.”

  He smiled contritely. “I’m sorry. That was invasive and I… you can sleep with who you like. I mean, not here, obviously, because violation of security rules…” His attention wandered off, then landed on the present on the table. “Don’t you want to open that?”

  Clodagh looked at it, then got up to retrieve his. “I was waiting for you.”

  “Oh.”

  Jamie moved to sit upright, straightened his glasses and ran a hand through his hair, as if opening presents was a serious business one had to smarten up for. Probably has a special dress code at Sandringham.

  “Okay, go.”

  He still waited for her to open hers first. It contained a book, and a print-out. The book was titled Latin Primer. The print-out was confirmation of purchase for a course of lessons in Latin.

  Clodagh looked up, thoroughly confused.

  “For your course,” Jamie said. He looked nervous. “They look for an aptitude for languages and Latin opens doors to a lot of them. And it looks good on your application.”

  Clodagh stared at the book and the paper. Confusion gave way to something warmer, and it spread inside her. “You actually think I have a shot at getting in?”

  He blinked. “Of course you do. I’ve read your blog. You’re good. You’re engaged and articulate and you have an eye for detail and nuance.”

  Clodagh stared at the book until the title blurred. “And there’s always positive discrimination,” she said. “Black girl, state school, no GCSEs, all that.”

  “Fuck that,” said Jamie. “You’re getting in on merit.”

  Clodagh felt tears burn her eyes. She scrambled off her sofa and onto Jamie’s and wrapped her arms around him.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. It wasn’t for the book or the course. It was the belief she could do it. Jamie, so clever she didn’t even understand his PhD subject title, thought she could get into the same university as him.

  I am so into you it scares me.

  He put his arms around her, slowly, and she felt his chest move as he breathed. “Coconut,” he murmured.

  “What?” She straightened away.

  “You’re a nut. Shall I open mine?”

  Clodagh bit her lip. “It isn’t as good.”

  “Hey, as long as it isn’t a singing plastic fish I’ll be happy.” He pulled off the cheap wrapping paper and shook out the garment inside.

  She’d had it printed specially from a place online. You could choose the logo and the text and the colour, and she’d sneaked into his room to check the labels on his shirts for the right size.

  Jamie took in the royal purple t-shirt with its golden direwolf and the legend HOUSE WINDSOR in the Game of Thrones font, and a smile spread across his face.

  “Clo, I love it.”

  “Really?” He was probably really good at pretending he liked presents.

  “Yes, really. It’s perfect.” He hugged her, and she let herself enjoy it. He was so warm, and his arms felt good, like they’d keep her safe, and his hair was soft where it tickled her cheek.

  I’m so glad you’re not marrying Olivia.

  He pulled away as she thought that, and for a moment Clodagh was terrified she’d said it out loud, but all he did was move over the stool she used to keep her ankle elevated so she could stay beside him. He even plunked a cushion on it.

  Clodagh smiled warmly at his consideration, and he smiled back innocently, because he’d no idea what his kindness meant to her. He settled back to pick up the TV control, switched the TV inputs and started scanning the listings.

  “Now then. Exquisitely acted but depressing historical drama, documentary about polar bears, or Big Fat Quiz of the Year?”

  “Big Fat Quiz of the Year, of course.”

  “Of course.” Jamie switched to Channel Four and glanced critically at the bottle of port. “There’s some fizz in the fridge if you want some.”

  What the hell. Clodagh nodded, Jamie fetched it, and she unwrapped some champagne truffles to go with it as he popped the cork. They drank from that bottle too, getting pissed and giggly. Jamie kissed her on the forehead when she got a stupidly tricky answer right, and left his arm around her.

  She woke up some time later, head on his shoulder. The TV was silently talking to itself. Jamie was asleep, head resting against hers. Oh damn.

  Oh damn, this felt right.

  There was more heat in this simple embrace than there had been in Davood Khan’s whole kiss.

  “Oh damn,” Clodagh whispered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jamie had his usual arrangements to ski with Olivia and her family over New Year, and Clodagh had her equally usual arrangements to work in the Prince’s Arms. He figured she’d got the better choice. He loved Olivia, but her family could be hard work. The one upside was that none of them believed any of the silly tabloid stories about him and Olivia getting married.
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br />   He drank champagne and sang Auld Lang Syne while fireworks went off over Verbier, and then he texted Clodagh.

  There weren’t many days when he didn’t text Clodagh.

  He thought he’d fallen asleep with her on the sofa on Boxing Day, but she’d gone when he woke in the early hours of the morning. His t-shirt smelled like coconuts though, so maybe he wasn’t imagining it.

  He wore his House Windsor t-shirt, which confused the Duke and Duchess because there were no wolves on his coat of arms. Olivia’s irritating brother tried to make some joke about it being from that “Games of Throwing” TV series which fell flat. Olivia just gave him a knowing look, and said nothing.

  “By the way, darling,” she said as they took their seats to fly home. “Belated Crimbo pressie. Chap at work does the accounts for a couple of music venues and guess whose name just happened to pop up?”

  Jamie had no idea, and told her so.

  “Crowded House, darling. And I remembered you’re a huge fan even though it’s really dorky, so I got you some tickets. They’re even in Cambridge. End of the month. Is the Corn Exchange a good venue?”

  Jamie stared at her. “I love Crowded House,” he said dumbly.

  “Yes, I know, that’s why I got them for you. Now, I have cleared it with Peaseman. Mentioned it ages ago actually but he couldn’t confirm it until now. You have the evening off. It’s all arranged. The PPOs can draw straws as to who gets to listen to the mellow stylings of Neil Finn and friends.”

  She was mocking him, but only lightly. “Are you coming?”

  “Alas, I’m in Paris then. Such a shame. Take Clodagh?”

  He nearly missed it in his excitement. The slightly over-casual tone would have been missed by someone who didn’t know her quite so well.

  “Clodagh?”

  “Yes.” She looked at him expectantly. “Pretty girl. Leg in a cast. Lives with you. You must remember.” She peered at him. “Did you hit your head when I wasn’t looking?”

  He swatted her away. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

  “Doing what?” Her eyes were wide and innocent.