The Princess Pose: The Modern Royals Series Read online

  “What else are you picky about?”

  His mouth turns up in that teasing, “I’m not going to give in to that smile yet” way.

  “Do you honestly want to know?”

  “I do.”

  Roman pauses for a moment. “I’m picky about clothing. I feel out of sorts in a suit and tie. Restricted. I’m much happier in jeans and a T-shirt.”

  Restricted, I muse, absorbing his words. I imagine he would be restricted in an office job, wearing a suit and a tie and being in a building all day.

  With a sharp pang, a doubt comes to life in my heart. My life is incredibly restrictive. In what I can wear. How I can act. What I can say. Even how to stand on a balcony at Buckingham Palace is organised.

  Is it fair to flirt with the idea of something with Roman, knowing how much he would hate my life if we started to see each other? How on earth could he be happy in my world? Would it make him miserable? I couldn’t bear it if it di—

  “Your turn.” Roman’s deep voice interrupts my thoughts.

  I blink. I’m having dinner with him. That’s it. I need to, no matter how impossible it seems, not think five steps ahead and enjoy this evening for what it is meant to be.

  Which is sharing a cosy meal for two with this man.

  I steel my resolve to focus on the now and smile at him. “I’m picky about pens and pencils.”

  Now I get an amused smile from him, which sets my heart back to happy. “Pens?”

  “I don’t like light pens. I like a good, solid fountain pen. With a nib, you can write so elegantly. I sometimes will use multiple pens a day because I want different nibs. I have one I like for everyday writing, like in my diary, but if I’m writing a thank you note, I have a different preference.”

  Roman stops what he is doing and turns around to face me completely. “So, a fine evening for you might be studying nibs on a website?”

  I smile coyly and take a sip of my wine. “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?”

  “Only if I’m not on a pen forum talking about pens and answering questions for people new to fountain pens.”

  His beautiful eyes widen in surprise and amusement.

  “Pen forums?”

  “Oh, yes, they exist. There are pen meetups, too.”

  Roman tries to repress his smile, but he can’t.

  “You hang out with pen people?”

  “I do. I talk about pens, nibs, even coloured ink. It’s awfully exciting.”

  His smile reaches up to his eyes. “It sounds like it.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Do you think people have any idea that we like to spend our free evenings studying pens and heirloom seeds?”

  “No, but why make them feel inadequate for being out at a nightclub having cocktails? Only bitter jealousy would ensue.”

  I can’t stop smiling. “Did you think we’d be the same? Preferring to stay in and pursue our own interests?”

  “No,” Roman says, shaking his head. “I didn’t.”

  Our eyes lock again, and my breath catches as I see how he’s gazing at me. His eyes are full of surprise, happiness, interest, and attraction, and I know, without a doubt, they mirror the expression in my own.

  “Can I please help you?” I ask. “I feel wrong standing over here drinking while you work.”

  “No,” Roman says, shifting back to the task at hand. He picks up the parsnips and moves over to the oven. “I’m going to pop these in to roast. Then I’ll sauté the guinea hen and kale. Then we can sit down to eat.”

  He reaches inside the fridge and juggles a few things in his arms. I see one package is about to slip, so I rush forward to catch it. I forget about the wine in my hand, so as I do, I catch the butter but spill my chardonnay all over his chest.

  I watch in horror as the wine sloshes across his jumper and all over the food he has gathered in his arms. His hand instinctively takes a hold of my elbow, holding me close to him, with butter, mushrooms, cream, and parsley squished between us.

  For a moment, I don’t move. It’s bliss to be this close to him, to feel his touch, breathe in his scent, and gaze upon his beautiful face, which is now inches from mine.

  Bliss indeed.

  I’m snapped back to reality when I feel wine dribble down my jumper sleeve.

  “Oh!” I gasp, “I’m so sorry, Roman! I reacted without thinking.”

  His fingertips don’t move from my elbow. “Do I seem upset?” he asks.

  I blush. Furiously.

  “I appreciate your eagerness to help,” he says, letting my arm go. “Or your excuse to be near me.” His eyes are dancing. His mouth is curved up.

  The game is on.

  “You’re right. I was looking for any excuse to crash into your massive chest, and butter in a perilous state was just the invitation I needed.”

  “You’ve noticed the size of my chest?” Roman asks, twitching his full lips in amusement.

  I want to kiss that twitch right off his sexy face.

  “What if I have?”

  “You see me as a sex object then,” he declares, moving back to the worktop and shoving things around to make room for the new items.

  I furrow my brow. I wish Roman had more space to cook. It has to be hard to have to utilise this small space every night.

  “You know I’m teasing, right, Liz?”

  I lift my eyes from the worktop to his face, which is etched in concern that perhaps I took him seriously when, in fact, I was thinking about his kitchen. I’m about to answer when the sound of the front door opening catches both our attention.

  “Darcy,” Roman says, nodding. “Don’t worry, he knows to make himself scarce this evening.”

  Because you can see everything in this tiny flat, I keep my attention fixed on the door. It swings open, and in walks Darcy. I see so much of Roman in him. He’s tall, dark, and handsome, though not quite as tall as Roman, and his hair is longish and wavy. As soon as he sees me, he stops dead in his tracks.

  “My God, you are Princess Elizabeth,” he declares, his voice echoing with amazement. “I thought Roman was joking.”

  I feel Roman’s eyes land on my profile while Darcy remains frozen in the doorway. Nervousness seeps through my happy feelings. I’ve always been strong in my identity. I know what I was born into. I accept my position with great pride, responsibility, and patriotism. Unlike my cousin Christian, who wrestled with his position in life until he met Clementine and discovered his true self, I’ve been happy with my station.

  But now, at least for tonight, I don’t want to be Princess Elizabeth of York. I don’t want to be seen as a member of the monarchy. I don’t want to scare Roman off with my reality. Not tonight.

  Tonight, I just want to be Liz, a woman on a date with Roman.

  I decide to take action. I smile brightly, move across the living room, and extend my hand to a shocked Darcy. “Liz,” I say simply. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Darcy.”

  He stares at my hand as if it’s not real. He lifts his brown eyes—ah, another difference: they aren’t beautiful and unique like Roman’s, with all the flecks of brown, green, and gold—and he gawks at me, his mouth slightly open.

  “Please shut the door and shake her hand, Mr. Darcy,” Roman says.

  I repress a smile. I know from his tone that Mr. Darcy must be a name his cousin doesn’t like.

  “Shut up,” Darcy says, yanking the door shut behind him. He quickly extends his hand towards me. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, um, Your Royal Highness.”

  “Liz,” I repeat again, shaking his hand firmly in mine.

  “Er, Liz,” Darcy says. He drops his rucksack on the floor and rakes a hand through his hair, which makes the waves appear higher on his head.

  “My aunt Lisa named him after Mr. Darcy; I assume you know what I’m talking about,” Roman says.

  “All women know what you’re talking about,” Darcy says, slipping out of his coat and dumping it on top of his rucksack.

  I remember how Roman he
lped me out of my coat, then took off his, and neatly hung them on a coatrack next to the door when we entered the flat, as opposed to Darcy dumping everything on the floor. He reminds me of Victoria, who was a nightmare for the housekeeping staff at St. James’s Palace growing up.

  “Mum was a huge Pride and Prejudice fan, I take it?” I ask.

  Darcy flashes me a cheeky grin. A sense of relief sweeps over me. Conversation is reminding him I’m a normal human being.

  “God, yes,” he says, heading into the kitchen. He moves to the fridge and pokes around for a minute before pulling out a takeaway foil tray and standing back up. “Growing up, I hated it because everyone thought I was a girl with the name Darcy. Then it became Mr. Darcy. Now it’s to my advantage. Girls obsessed with Jane Austen love it.” He grins broadly at me. “Hmm, and you’re Liz. Short for Elizabeth. Are you the Lizzie to my Mr. Darcy?” he jokes, his deep brown eyes sparkling at me.

  “No,” Roman says, picking up the guinea fowl and giving it a hard whack with a meat cleaver, “she is not your Lizzie.”

  “Oh, he must like you. One, because you’re here—that’s a first—and two, he doesn’t like me joking about you being my Lizzie. I’m kidding, Roman. He,” Darcy says, leaning closer to me, “is a serious one. Loosen him up, would you?”

  I’m about to reply, but Roman beats me to it.

  “Don’t you have more books to read?” he says pointedly.

  “Yes, yes, I’m taking my cold sweet and sour pork and conveniently hiding in my room for the rest of the night to study,” Darcy promises. He smiles at me. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Liz. Surreal, but a pleasure.”

  I smile. “Nice to meet you, too, Darcy.”

  He takes a few steps towards his room but pauses and glances back at Roman, who is breaking down the bird with his knife.

  “Roman?” he says, and I see mischief in his eyes.

  Roman glances up.

  “Use the words ‘most ardently,’” Darcy says, referring to a phrase used in Pride and Prejudice. “Women love that.”

  “Shut up,” Roman says, his neck growing redder by the second.

  Darcy laughs, and Roman appears to be mortified by his suggestion. I have a feeling if his hands weren’t engaged in a bird, he’d be ruffling his hair right now in embarrassment.

  Or personally shoving Darcy down the hall to his room, I think with a smile.

  I move back into the kitchen, closer to Roman this time. “You’re flushed.”

  “He’s annoying,” Roman says, quickly cutting apart the bird.

  I take a moment to watch him work. Wow, he’s like a professional butcher. I can’t even get the leg separated from the thigh when I attempt to cook at home.

  He places all the parts on a new chopping board and moves to wash his hands.

  “I think you’re cute when you get flustered,” I bravely admit.

  Roman turns on the tap with the back of his hand and uses his wrist to pump soap into his open palm. “You must think I’m cute a lot when I’m around you.”

  Ooh!

  He scrubs his hands and dries them on a tea towel.

  “You say what you think,” I tell him. “I like that about you.”

  His honesty and openness with his thoughts is downright intriguing. I’ve never had a man be this honest with me. But I’ve also never cared until now whether they were or not.

  “Shall we reset now that Mr. Darcy is out of our hair?” Roman asks.

  I giggle at his annoyance with his cousin. They truly are like brothers. “Yes, and I believe you were about to tell me all about your ex-girlfriends when Darcy interrupted us,” I say, curious with how Darcy brought that up, as if it’s a novelty that Roman invited me home.

  And not because I’m a princess.

  Roman laughs deeply. “Oh, you lie. That’s a conversation for another night.”

  “Is it?” I ask, now extremely curious about the women in his past.

  “I’ll share that when you share your royal history. We’ll share our history another time. Tonight, I don’t want the serious past. Only the now. If you agree, that is.”

  Once again, his honesty touches my heart.

  “Agreed,” I say, nodding.

  Roman smiles. “Good. Now let me get this bird in the pan so we can eat.”

  * * *

  I can’t believe the evening has come to an end.

  I stare at Roman as we drive through the gates of Kensington Palace. It’s well after one in the morning, and I would have happily stayed in his flat until the sun comes up if it wouldn’t have been too imposing on him.

  I think of all the dinners I’ve had in my life, from Christmas Eve at Sandringham to elaborate state dinners at Buckingham Palace and feasts at the top restaurants in the world to meals prepared by private chefs, made to my exact specifications.

  But nothing, and I mean nothing, compared to having a meal with Roman.

  He prepared it for me as a sign of affection. I would have loved it if it would have been a simple toastie, but he is a chef. The guinea fowl was pan seared with truffle butter and was absolutely decadent. I had pureed parsnips with freshly grated parmesan cheese and kale with white wine. I savoured every moment of the meal, talking with Roman at the intimate table for two that he built himself.

  Once again, I found myself drawn to his hands. Ones of great talent. Ones he uses for things he cares about, like gardening. Cooking.

  And me, I think as my heart beats faster.

  We stayed at that table for hours, talking about our likes and dislikes and discovering more about each other. We’re both morning people. We get up early, have quiet time, and prepare for the day ahead. We both run. We’re both news junkies, but while I read everything on my laptop, Roman prefers to have a physical newspaper in his hands, which made me smile. We talked of our families, with me discussing my sisters and my parents and cousins, and Roman doing the same. His parents also live in Shepherd’s Bush, and he usually goes round with Darcy for Sunday lunch, while I normally have that at St. James’s Palace with my parents. I confessed to not having much of an affection for chocolate and having a mortal fear of spiders. Roman forgave me for not liking chocolate and told me spiders are important to the eco system and I should embrace them.

  We talked about world issues and politics. It was a luxury to have an opinion on the topic with another person, as I’m not allowed to give any hint of my personal feelings in public or in interviews. But as I spoke, I discovered our thoughts aligned. I shared my thoughts of the world we live in and how I wish things could change for the future. He did the same. I talked about my work and my causes for children, and Roman talked about his longing to protect the environment and raise awareness about sustainable farming.

  Our conversation confirmed what my heart hoped it would find this evening.

  Roman is a man who lives his beliefs, as I do. He’s true to who he is. He is passionate about things he loves, and he’s determined to know what goes on in the world around him. He’s a knowledge seeker, and his seed-loving soul seems matched to my fountain pen-loving heart.

  When we are parked outside my cottage, he asks in a low voice, “May I walk you up to your door?”

  Zing! “Yes.”

  The air is sharp and cold. Normally, I’d race down the path to my door to get away from it, but not tonight.

  Roman opens my car door, and once again, I feel that swoon from his manners.

  You are such a gentleman, I think as I tuck my arm around his and we walk, safe from wayward cameras now that we are inside the palace walls. I’m a bundle of nerves. Will he kiss me goodnight?

  Oh, how I want him to kiss me.

  Nothing is said as we reach the door. Roman unhooks his arm from mine, and I lick my lips as I gaze up at him. I lose my breath. He is so beautiful, from his chiseled features to his full lips, but his eyes are my undoing. They are unique and changing, and I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of looking into them.

  “Liz,” Roman s
ays slowly, “thank you for coming to dinner this evening. It was an honour getting to know you.”

  My stomach flips in excitement. My heart is fluttering.

  “I enjoyed it so much,” I say, nodding. “Everything about tonight was wonderful.”

  Because it was spent with you.

  His eyes lock with mine. I wait for him to lower his head, to put his hand on my waist or against my cheek. My pulse grows rapid in anticipation of this moment.

  Roman doesn’t move. Instead, he gently takes my hand. “I owe you nothing but honesty about what I’m thinking,” he says softly.

  My heart stops. My stomach drops with a huge thud.

  No, I think, my mind reeling. Is this where Roman, in all his honesty, tells me dinner is it? That can’t be.

  “I could tell you I’m going to text you later, but that would be a lie,” he continues, his voice low. “I would prefer to call you, so I can hear your voice.”

  My heart roars back to life, and I find myself grinning at him. “I’d prefer that, too,” I say.

  Roman lifts my hand to his lips again and turns it over so my palm is facing him. He gently presses a warm kiss against it, and heat shoots through me from the sensation. He turns it over again and presses another kiss against my knuckles, and the warmth of his lips, the softness of his mouth, and the thought of those lips against mine someday unravels me.

  “One more thing,” he says, lowering my hand but still holding it in his.

  “Yes?”

  “May I call you Lizzie?”

  While I detest it when the press does it, Roman would bring a thrilling new association to the name.

  The name that will be his and his alone to call me. “Yes, you may,” I say, my heart pounding in wild excitement.

  Roman releases my hand. “I’ll call you when I get home.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” I say.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he confirms. “I’ll say goodnight then.”

  “Okay.” I watch him as he walks up the path.

  Roman slips into his car and turns the engine on, and I realise he won’t leave until I’m safely inside my house. I take out my key and unlock the door, waving as I step inside.