The Royal Romantics

I lean my head back against the plush leather seat, and close my eyes. János makes a call, speaking in the dialect of my mother’s homeland, a language I’ve never really got the hang of, but even I can tell it sounds like damage control. My thoughts drift, not really settling on any one thing. I think of how proud Nick was of that damned car, and how he always drove too fast. Has my mother heard the news yet? She wasn’t home when I arrived earlier. And my sister Jemmy? She’s away on a business trip in New York, so most likely not. I hope they don’t hear of Nick’s death through the media. Though it’s unlikely they’ll grieve much. Nick burned a lot of bridges with the family these last few years.

János’ voice drones on in the background as he makes phone call after phone call. Since I barely understand half of what he’s saying, I don’t bother to listen in.

The drive from Hertfordshire into the heart of Belgravia takes over an hour, but I only open my eyes again when the car slows for the congestion of London’s narrow streets. Beyond the air-conditioned bubble of the car, the city seems to shimmer with the summer heat. I left London just a few hours ago to escape its humidity and the press of tourists. I really didn’t plan to be back so soon. I rub a hand over my eyes. The weariness that is my constant companion these days weighs even heavier on my shoulders than usual. Perhaps because now it’s more than just weariness. There’s guilt mixed in there too. I roll out the tension in my neck, but it doesn’t help.

The limo pulls to a stop outside the elegant Georgian townhouse that has been the embassy and London bolthole of the Erdély royal family since 1938, when my great-grandfather brought the family here to escape the Austrian Anschluss. Apparently it was considered an act of cowardice, and his people never forgave him, but I personally am rather grateful. My grandfather, just in his early twenties when the war started, was an outspoken critic of the Nazis and he would almost certainly have been killed if he’d stayed, and then I wouldn’t have been born. Suffocating as my life has become lately, I’m rather attached to it.

Uniformed guards swing open the gates and the car rolls forward, up the short drive to the imposing front entrance. There are no photographers at the gate so clearly the news hasn’t broken yet. It won’t take long, I’m sure. When a young playboy prince dies, it’s headline news, even if he was hereditary prince of a country most people have never even heard of. That, at least, is a small silver lining to Nick’s death – by tomorrow, there’ll be quite a few people Googling Erdély to see where the hell it is. The tiny principality sandwiched at the junction of Austria, Hungary and Slovenia is about to get famous for all the wrong reasons.

Another uniformed guard opens the limo door, and yet another holds open the front door for us. János stands back, waiting for me to enter first, so I step over the threshold into the cool, marble-floored entrance hall. I find the hall just as intimidating now as I did as a kid when we visited my grandfather here.

“His Royal Highness is in the library,” the footman at the door says over my shoulder to János. His use of English is no doubt for my benefit.

The library is a double-volumed room at the back of the house, overlooking the neat lawn where Nick and I used to play cricket. We hit a cricket ball through one of its high, stained-glass windows a lifetime ago. There’s no sign of the damage now.

My uncle, looking considerably greyer than the last time we met, stands before the window, staring out at the garden as if he isn’t really seeing it. He cradles a whiskey tumbler in his hands, though it isn’t yet noon and he’s never been a big drinker. Unlike his son.

I step further into the room and János shuts the door behind me, leaving us alone. I can’t remember when last I met my uncle alone, if ever.

“I am so sorry,” I say. The words feel inadequate, but what else does one say to a man who has just lost his only child? “How is my aunt?”

Uncle Lajos turns slowly to face me. His eyes, so similar to mine I’ve been told, are grave. “She is sleeping. We had to make her take a strong sedative.”

I nod. Aunt Sonja adored her son, blindly.

Lajos sets down the tumbler. “We spoiled him. We let him do as he pleased.”

Since a response clearly isn’t expected of me, I wait for him to get to the point.

“Nicholas was my heir,” the older man says needlessly. “Erdély will need a new crown prince.”

It seems callous to be thinking of who is next in line, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that thought hadn’t already crossed my mind during the long drive here. “Mátyás is next in line,” I answer promptly. Though my other cousin is five years younger than me, his mother was the elder sister.

“Your cousin Mátyás is cut from the same cloth as my own son. Too indulged and too self-absorbed. Erdély cannot afford any more public embarrassment.”

He looks at me intently, as if trying to look deep inside me. I choke on an intake of breath as realisation dawns. “You called me here to make me your heir? But Mátyás …”

Lajos shakes his head. “Our laws state that the Fürst of Erdély may choose his own successor, as long as his choice is a blood relative.”

I feel like a fish trying to breathe out of water. “I don’t even understand the language!” And I most certainly don’t want this! I don’t even want the job I already have. I have no idea what I want.

“You’ll learn it soon enough.” Lajos’ voice is calm but brittle.

Under any other circumstances, I would have thought my uncle was having me on. After all, grief makes people do crazy things, doesn’t it?

I’m just as indulged, just as selfish, as my cousins. Okay, so I dialled down the partying a little this last year, but I’m still not exactly princely material. I haven’t achieved anything of value with my life, and I’m hardly likely to start now. I’m not sure I even have the energy to try.

Lajos stands taller, looking very much what he is – the ruler of a nation. “You have a job in your father’s firm, and I hear that you are even good at it. You achieved a first in your MBA so you clearly have brains. You’re one of the few people Nicholas ever listened to, and you’re the least likely of my nephews to drink himself into an early grave.”

For a moment, grief etches lines into his face before he regains control of his expression. I take just a little longer to recover from the sudden slash of pain in the vicinity of my heart. Nick’s isn’t the first violent death I’ve known. It’s not the first I feel part-way responsible for either. But I can’t think of that now. “If you can choose your successor, then my sister would be a far better choice,” I manage at last.

“Jemima is an admirable young woman, and undoubtedly would make a far better ruler than either you or Mátyás, but the law is clear: only a male may inherit.”

“That’s positively archaic.”

“If you feel strongly about it, then when you are Fürst you may attempt to change the laws. I have had other battles to fight.”

I’m well aware what those battles have been. There have been calls for Erdély to scrap its royal family since my great-grandfather’s day, and Lajos has had a hell of a job convincing the people his title is still worth something. It’s only been since his accession a couple of decades back that women have been granted the right to vote, and gay marriage was only legalised mere years ago. Lajos was instrumental in passing both pieces of legislation. The tiny principality hasn’t been in any hurry to join the twenty-first century. Yet another reason I want nothing to do with the place. I like my twenty-first century comforts.

“I haven’t been to Erdély in years! I don’t even remember the place,” I protest, aware I’m scrabbling for excuses.

“Again, that is something that is easily rectified.” My uncle reaches for the whiskey tumbler and takes a long sip. His hand shakes, betraying unexpected emotion. “I will not force you to accept this role. Mátyás will no doubt be delighted to accept, should you decline.” His lips purse together, just as János’ did earlier. Is that an Erdélian thing? “But I will ask that you at least consider my request. By law, when Nicholas’ funeral is over, I must announce my successor. We can delay the funeral by one month, but no longer. You have until then to let me know your choice.”

One month to decide my entire future? If it were that easy, sometime over this last year I would have figured out what the hell I want to do with my life. And my uncle isn’t offering me a job I can walk away from if it doesn’t work out. There’ll be no trial period if I accept.

I’m pretty sure I know already what my answer will be, and it’s a very easy decision. No, thank you. I may be bored with my current life, but I’m still rather attached to doing what I want, when I want to seriously consider one day carrying the burden of an entire country on my shoulders, for ever and ever until death us do part.

But I can’t tell him that now, not here or like this, and certainly not until I’ve figured out how to politely decline his offer.

So I shrug. “Sure. I’ll think about it.”

***

The drive back to Hertfordshire seems to take even longer. Perhaps because it’s now Friday afternoon and the mad commuter rush out to the suburbs has begun. At least I have the back of the car to myself, and the chauffeur still has the dark glass up. I need time alone to process everything. Nick being dead. That other, long ago death that sometimes still knocks the wind out of me when I remember. And my uncle’s offer.

I’ve spent a lot of time this past year trying to picture my future, and not one of those scenarios featured me being a prince. And certainly not a future ruler. Not that it bothered Nick much. He hardly ever visited Erdély because he said it was boring (by which I presume he meant there wasn’t any good gambling), and he’d never shown the least interest in being responsible for anything, but if I say yes to Lajos’ crazy offer there’s no way I’ll be treated with the same leniency. I’ll need to step up, and that’s the one thing I am really not good at doing.

But if I say no, what will I do with the next fifty plus years of my life? I went to work in the family business after uni because I’m good with numbers and have a natural flair for talking clients into trusting me with their money, but it’s pretty obvious to anyone who really knows me that my heart isn’t in it. If I’m still there in another five years, I think I’ll need a straitjacket.

If I were a better person, I guess I’d do something useful with my life, like build houses for the homeless in South America, or bring clean drinking water to villages in Africa. But I like the comforts of home far too much. I even briefly toyed with the idea of doing what my best friend Rik does these days: sail the Caribbean. But I gave him my yacht as a wedding gift, and couldn’t be bothered going shopping for another one.

And yes, I am fully aware how self-indulgent and entitled that sounds. Poor little rich boy. Has enough money to do anything he wants, but nothing appeals. Maybe being a crown prince would be a lark … But I don’t even know what the job entails. I’m an investment broker, for heaven’s sake. I could ask Max, Rik’s brother. He’s archduke of another of those tiny European principalities no one has ever heard of. But at least Westerwald has vineyards. And a city.

And thinking of Max I groan out loud. I was really looking forward to his bachelor party next week – but how will it look now if I go partying with the Archduke of Westerwald when I’m supposed to be in mourning for Nick? Though Nick would be the first person to tell me that life is for the living and to go to the damn party.

***

Even though I have my own loft apartment in the city, Hartham Manor still feels like home. It’s more than four times the size of the Belgravia townhouse I just visited, but with its mellow red brick façade and wildflower-filled gardens it feels far more welcoming. While my maternal great-grandfather ran away from his country in its time of need, my paternal great-grandfather was an East End nobody who, with nothing more than his own gumption, made himself into a somebody. He bought this stately home in his quest to move up the ranks of England’s strictly hierarchical society. Even with his big dreams of joining the aristocracy, I don’t think he imagined for even a moment that his grandson – my father – would be a respected member of the old boy network, or that he’d marry a princess. I stifle a laugh, wondering if his great-grandson will one day inherit a nation. That would have made the old man proud.

The title of Fürst of Erdély might be obscure, but for those who care about these sorts of things it’s a very ancient and noble title. Back in the Middle Ages, the title of Fürst – Imperial Prince – was given to princes who had the power to elect the next Holy Roman Emperor. Once upon a time, my mother’s ancestors literally had the power to influence European history. I may not have been to that backwater country since I was a kid, but my mother drummed Erdélian history into both me and Jemima before we were barely old enough to walk. Other kids got Jack and Jill and Humpty Dumpty, and we got medieval politics.

When I stride into the drawing room my mother is waiting for me, and I can tell from her face that she’s heard the news.

Krisztyna Eszterháza de Erdély Hatton doesn’t look like what you’d expect of a princess. There are no twinsets and pearls in her wardrobe. She’s short and plump and maternal, prefers jeans and riding boots to ballgowns, and tends to smell more like the horses she breeds than Chanel. I have absolutely no clue what drew her and my vain, Savile Row-suit-wearing father together but, whatever it was, it clearly works. They’re headed for their fortieth anniversary.

Her over-excited beagle starts to yap and dance in circles as I approach. My mother rises and holds out her hands. “You’ve been out riding?”

I squeeze her hands, then, out of habit, bend to scratch the dog’s head while she pours tea for us both from the fresh pot that is steaming gently on its silver tray – though I could do with something a great deal stronger. “I was. Until Uncle Lajos sent for me.”

She frowns as she settles back in her favourite armchair and accepts the teacup I hold out to her. “János just called with the news. Sonja must be devastated! I tried to call her, but her secretary said she was sleeping.”

“They sedated her.”

“Miklós was always so headstrong.” She always insisted on calling Nick by the name on his birth certificate, even though he hated it and even his parents called him by his Anglicised name. “And he wasn’t fit to be crown prince. He had no interest in Erdély’s culture or traditions, let alone current policy. But what will my brother do now? Mátyás is a money-grubbing leach who’ll probably sell everything of value in the country to the highest bidder. But if there isn’t an heir, then Erdély defaults back to the crown of Hungary.”

“Which hasn’t existed since Hungary came under Austrian rule in the fifteen-hundreds,” I point out, rather pleased with myself for having remembered that, and equally keen to divert her from this line of thinking.

“Exactly! What will become of us?”

I shake my head. She’s lived in the UK her entire adult life and yet still thinks of herself as Erdélian. Besides, does it really matter what happens to some tiny, backward country halfway across Europe? It could become a province of Hungary for all I care. Not that I’d say that out loud anywhere my mother can hear.

She sips her tea, then looks at me sharply. “Why did Lajos want to see you?”

Damn. I really hoped she wouldn’t ask, and she knows me too well to let me get away with a lie. I clear my throat. “He offered me the opportunity to be his successor.” Not that it’s much of an opportunity. More like a life sentence.

My mother’s eyes shine. “Yes. That would be an excellent solution. My sister won’t like it, of course, and Mátyás will be spitting mad, but that would be the sensible thing to do.”

Sensible for who? Certainly not for me! And I am no different from my cousins. I am vain and selfish enough to put my own interests ahead of Erdély’s, and I’m not going to pretend any different, not even to spare my mother’s feelings. But I choke back my retort and instead I say, “He has asked me to think about it, and to give him an answer by the time of Nick’s funeral.”

Her gaze sharpens on me and she frowns again as she senses my lack of enthusiasm. “Promise me that you will at least give his offer serious consideration.”

Shit. I really don’t want to make that promise. “I promise,” I say.

Chapter 2

Khara

“I want you to be my bridesmaid.”

“Am I experiencing déjà-vu, or is this for real?” I’m stretched out on a towel beside the local public pool, my textbook open in front of me. Though it’s a weekday and the place is pretty empty, there’s a kids’ swimming class on the go and the kids are screaming and laughing. I have to cover my other ear so I can hear my friend’s reply.

“For real. Big white dress, cathedral, the whole nine yards.”

I have to pinch myself. My friend Phoenix is married to a prince. About to marry a prince. I’m one of only three people other than the happy couple who know that they married in secret a year ago and this big royal wedding is just for show. It’s a long story – the kind that can only happen right here in Vegas.

“Let me get this straight: you want me – a waitress who still lives with her mother in a double wide – to be your bridesmaid at a royal wedding?”

Phoenix’s chuckle doesn’t sound at all princess-like. “Of course I want you to share this moment with me. You were there for me first time round, and you should be there this time round. The only difference is that this time you’ll need a passport.”

Yeah, sure. As if a royal wedding is going to be anything like the quickie Vegas chapel wedding Phoenix and Max had first time round. For one thing, I don’t think any cathedral will allow glitter guns.

Luckily, the crackle of the long distance call (or is it my cheap, bottom-of-the-range cell phone?) masks the fact that my laughter is really hysteria. I am so not the kind of girl who should be a bridesmaid at a royal wedding. I’ve never been outside the state of Nevada, let alone out the country. I don’t even own a passport.

“It’s all taken care of,” Phoenix says. “We have an embassy in DC. They’ll help you get a passport, visa and sort your travel arrangements. The invitation’s for you and your brother, since you were both there to witness our first wedding. And his girlfriend, of course.”

“Calvin won’t come. The baby’s due around then, and he won’t travel without Aliya. But he’ll be so thrilled to be invited.” Certainly more thrilled than I feel right now. Nope, the emotion I’m feeling is terror.

“Just you then. Come spend the rest of the summer, until school starts. You’ll love it here! Westerwald is unlike anything you can imagine.”

She’s told me a lot about the little fairy tale kingdom tucked in between France and Germany, a place of castles and vineyards and rivers, and I’ve dreamed of one day seeing it for myself. I just didn’t think ‘one day’ would come so soon. Or ever.

“I can’t take all that time off work,” I protest. “Frank’s a sweetheart, but he’ll never be able to hold my job open that long.” And I can’t afford to lose this job. I still have a final semester’s tuition to pay for, and every day I spend in Westerwald will be a day I won’t be earning.

“You won’t need to work. We’ll take care of everything while you’re here, and I promise you won’t need to worry about your tuition when you get back home.”

My back stiffens. “I won’t take your charity.”

On the other end of the line, Phoenix huffs out an exasperated breath. “Don’t be an idiot. This isn’t charity. This is me, needing your help to get through what is going to be the biggest and most nerve-racking month of my life. I need you here, and I’ll do anything to make that happen. Please, Khara. For me?”

Even though I only knew her a few months before she met Max and traveled to Europe, Phoenix is the closest friend I’ve ever had. I’d jump through a ring of fire for her.

“How many other bridesmaids will there be?” I ask. If it’s a royal wedding, surely there’ll be a big entourage. Maybe I won’t stand out so much if I can hide in a crowd.

But when was I ever that lucky? “It’s a European-style wedding,” she says. “One bridesmaid, one best man, a couple of flower girls. We want to keep it simple and classy.”

Classy. I choke on that word. My idea of class is paper napkins. “This really isn’t a good idea. Isn’t there a duchess or something you could ask?”

“You can’t seriously turn down an all-expenses-paid trip to Europe and free board in a palace, now, can you?” Phoenix continues. “Consider it an educational experience.”

I press my eyes shut. Her invitation is tempting. So tempting. But … whoever heard of a royal bridesmaid with blue hair?

“Think of it this way: one whole month away from your mother,” she says.

And that right there is all the argument I need. “Okay. But I’m still paying my own tuition.”

***

Love is a lie we tell ourselves. It’s really nothing more than chemistry. That tremor we feel when we meet someone’s gaze and think ‘This is it’? Yup, that’s just hormones. What it really means is that we’re looking at a guy and thinking ‘Yeah, I’d like to do him’ – and then, to make ourselves feel less slutty, we tell ourselves we’re in love.

But I’ve never been one to lie to myself. So in this moment I’m looking at the best man and thinking ‘Yeah, I’d like to do him.’

You can call me slutty if you like. I don’t care. At least I’m honest.

He hasn’t seen me yet, which is just as well, since I wasn’t expecting company and I’m not wearing any make-up. What I am wearing is a ratty old Vegas 51s sweatshirt and tracksuit pants. It might be summer, but Europe is chilly compared to Nevada, and this palace’s heating system must be at least two hundred years old. The creaks and groans of the pipes at least make me feel a little less like I’m inside a Disney fairy tale.

Unlike all the other girls I grew up with, I never wanted to live a fairy tale life. I never dreamed of fame and fortune; all I ever wanted was to belong right where I am. I believe in honest hard work, not glass slippers and fairy godmothers. Besides, I’ve seen what chasing unrealistic dreams does to people. No, my dream isn’t to live in some draughty palace with a prince, but rather a three-bedroom bungalow in the suburbs with its own yard and a garage, with an honest, steady, dependable man. And don’t tell me men like that don’t exist, because they do. Men like my stepfather and my brother. And like Max.

The two men on the level below me move to sit in armchairs close to the empty fireplace – high-backed leather armchairs, the kind I’ve only ever seen in the movies. Behind them is a glassed-in wall of old-fashioned books, all in matching sets, which look as if they’re just for show.

I’m up in the gallery, a carpeted walkway above their heads which circles the enormous high-ceilinged library. Phoenix suggested I look here for entertainment if the jet lag kept me awake and since my body has no idea what time it is and clearly doesn’t want to sleep, here I am. And she was right – these books hidden from public view are definitely more my kind of books. They look just like the shelves in my favorite second-hand bookshop.

Neither of the men has looked up and noticed I’m here, and I plan to keep it that way. I crouch down behind the wooden railing and edge over a little so I can see them better. The back of Max’s armchair is turned to me so all I can see of him is his fair hair catching the low yellow light. That same light falls directly onto the man seated in the armchair across from him. The best man.