A NEW PARAMOUR FOR THE PRINCE?-5
928 Words
AMELIA WOKE THE NEXT day to half a dozen emails, sent by her brothers, her lab mates, and even Priya. They all contained the same thing: A link to an article about her appearance at the garden party at Buckingham Palace.
The Palace had released official pictures of the event, which included photos of Amelia and Arthur during their brief conversation — complete with inset zoomed-in shots of Arthur holding her hand — as well as ones of King Henry and Queen Cecile talking to Amelia.
Seeing herself in multiple photos with royalty was peculiar enough. The text that accompanied the shots was even stranger. Someone, very much not the Palace, had done their research and what appeared was a lengthy profile of Amelia including her family background, where she’d gone to school, what she was studying in university, and what her parents and brothers did.
Amelia deleted all the emails and cleared the website from her browser history. It felt like having a live grenade in her bag, carrying that around.
Lectures that day were full of turned heads and whispers that followed her wherever she went. Doing homework with other people staring at her was far more than she wanted to cope with, so instead of going to the library after her last lecture, Amelia went to the gym. An hour on the treadmill didn’t exactly clear her head, but endorphins were wonderful things. By the time she was finished she was too worn out to worry about her classmates, her parents, Prince Arthur, or anyone else.
She had just left the gym and was trying to stuff her water bottle back in her bag when someone on the street shouted her name. She looked up, startled, and was caught completely off-guard as a flash went off in her face.
By the time she had blinked the spots out of her eyes, the photographer was gone. Amelia stood on the sidewalk, gritty London snow from a week ago in slushy piles around her, feeling far, far colder than the winter afternoon.
For the rest of her walk home, she jumped whenever anyone stood too close to her at intersections. Which, given that it was London and the streets were always busy, was frequently. Amelia was annoyed at herself, but she was more angry at the intrusion into her life that had made her so. What gave anyone the right to just do that to someone?
Back at the flat, Amelia made herself a cuppa with hands that were still shaking, then collapsed on the couch with her laptop. She didn’t bother to shower or even change out of her workout clothes.
Priya found her hours later, half a cup of cold undrunk tea on the floor beside her and a half-completed lab report open on her stomach.
“What happened to you?” she asked as she took in the scene.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Amelia said dully.
“Nuh-uh. House rule. If you’re making the sofa gross you have to tell me how it got that way.” Priya folded her arms and gave Amelia a judgmental look.
“That house rule is so you won’t shag guys in the living room,” Amelia pointed out.
“Yeah, like that’s stopped me.”
“Priya!”
“Relax, you weren’t here. And it was just the one time — my life isn’t as exciting as you think. Regardless the rule is still applicable. Even though the premise of it is flawed because it assumes I have shame. Which I do not. But you, apparently, do.”
Amelia sighed. She could deflect Priya, but not forever. Eventually she was going to need to talk to someone about what was going on. “You saw the article about me,” she said.
“The article? There are dozens now!”
Amelia let her head fall back against the arm of the couch. “Shit.”
“What did you expect? You’re dating the Prince of Wales! Which, by the way, when were you going to tell me?”
“We’re not dating,” Amelia said automatically.
“Really? Is that why he was making eyes at you at a royal garden party and introducing you to the King and Queen?” Priya shoved Amelia’s ankles off the couch to make room for herself.
“He didn’t introduce us.”
“No? His and Her Majesty just decided to stop and say hi to you for no reason?” Priya folded herself onto the couch and grabbed a pillow to hug to her chest.
Amelia put her hands over her face and moaned. “Nothing I am about to say is going to make this less weird.”
“So? Spill!”
“Prince Arthur is looking to marry again,” she said, her hands still over her face. “Because of the monarchy. The Commonwealth. The continuation of the kingdom. The Prince of Wales is looking for a wife, and I’m the best candidate he could find.” Amelia finally peeked at her friend from between her fingers.
“What?!”
“Apparently, the peerage isn’t exactly teeming with eligible ladies. It seems I’m the lucky winner.”
“I thought he was just propositioning you to be his next fling.” Priya looked as though that wouldn’t be a bad outcome.
“No. Although Charlie thought the same thing. Prince Arthur wants to marry a girl from the north to unite the country.”
“That’s a really odd angle for him to work,” Priya said.
“He’s really odd. He also said we could make history.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“The gorgeous tragic playboy Prince wants to marry you and that’s all you tell him?”
“I needed to figure out if I was crazier to say yes or crazier to say no.”
“So why are you all sad and mopey today?” Priya gasped. “Tell me you didn’t say no!”
“No,” Amelia said. Though she wondered why she hadn’t. “I’m annoyed. Because pursuing a destiny that will eventually make me the first northerner to sit on the throne since Richard III means coping with the paparazzi.”
“You know Richard was kind of a prick, right?”
Amelia sighed. He had been. But history was complicated and York had so few heroes. “Not to York he wasn’t.”
- Writer
