Royal Attraction Read online

  No one ever recognized us here because they weren’t expecting royalty to walk through their doors. These were everyday people. The kind who made all our problems seem feeble and shallow. They didn’t see us because they would never think to look. Sometimes it was as simple as that. Of course, there were also the wigs and the prosthetic noses and fake beards. Ollie couldn’t get enough of the dressing up. I swear if he weren’t currently third in line for the throne of England, he’d be a famous actor. Dressing up as someone else was almost as fun as the beer drinking.

  I didn’t think Mrs. Wright had known about our secret rendezvous.

  What other secrets does she know about?

  I force the thought from my brain. I plan on enjoying the relative peace of the pub. Minus Mrs. Wright’s diatribe, of course. Because in a few short hours, I’ll be back in London, and there will be no peace after that.

  From relative obscurity rocketed back into the spotlight.

  It was like those divers who came up from the deepest, darkest depths of the ocean too quickly and got the bends. At least Mrs. Wright acknowledged I would need some time to adjust to being back in this life. I figured that’s why she picked the pub for our pre-wedding-palooza chat. Once we entered the royal grounds, privacy—hell, normalcy—was pretty much nonexistent.

  On my own I was just plain little Alexandra Ryans, but the minute you placed me next to a Dudley, I became an enigma everyone wanted to decipher. Fame was something I had never wanted. I wasn’t foolish enough to think that what I went through was anything compared to the public scrutiny faced by the boys, but it still haunted me all the same. Even far from it, hiding in my dorm room at my university, I’d still worry about walking out my door and running straight into a swarm of reporters. It’s why discovering my true feelings, feelings that had been there all along despite my tendency to overlook them, had been so painful.

  Because wanting Oliver meant a lifetime of being chased by reporters. Unlike his brothers, who avoided the press if possible, Ollie did everything he could, whether intentional or not, to draw their attention. The partying. The women. The charismatic way he had with anyone he talked to.

  Neither he nor the press could help it. They were each other’s drugs.

  Besides, it had been three years since I’d even seen him, and despite that one fateful afternoon, I had no proof he had any of those nausea-inducing feelings for me.

  So, yeah, the next few weeks are going to be real fun.

  At least I have these few quiet moments in the pub.

  And then I pull out the dress Mrs. Wright picked out for me, and I’m back to thinking she’d give Professor Umbridge a run for her money. A hideous pastel floral print with a high neck covered in lace. For the love of Anne Boleyn.

  Twenty-two years, nine months, and twenty-three days, and I’m wearing a dress with freaking ruffles!

  After changing into the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen, I beeline it out of the bathroom. I’m midway through my internal stream of cuss words when I run straight into a human brick wall. My forehead plows right into some man, who, coincidently, has quite the muscular and broad chest. Even through his earth-tones plaid shirt and tweed jacket I can tell, feel that. As if I am suddenly possessed, my hands reach up and gently press against the man’s chest, slowly roaming across the great expanse of his shoulders to his very He-Man bulging arms in order to stabilize myself.

  Of course that’s the reason I groped him. Stability. Not lust. Not a prolonged yearning that every sport I played failed to quench. And I play a lot of sports.

  “Dry spell” wasn’t the word for my lack of…well, lack of just about anything romantic as of late. But that was for the best. Even if it meant I casually groped men I ran into in pubs.

  I hear the slightest intake of breath as I look up at my victim. His eyes go wide and something about them, even though they belong to a face unknown and rather unremarkable, makes my cheeks flash red.

  “Where’s the fire, lass?” he asks, his shock, or whatever it was at seeing me, quickly transforming into a grin paired with a gentle teasing lilt to his voice.

  I clear my throat, finding it hard to stop staring at those eyes. Losing myself in them. They’re comforting. Warm. Safe. I raise my hand up and point toward where Mrs. Wright sits. Mystery man follows with his eyes and chuckles. “There is something very infernal about the way that lady is staring you down.”

  Something about the timbre of his voice makes the hair on my arms stand on end. There is nothing truly remarkable about him besides his build. A crooked and slightly too large nose. A scar that runs from under his eye, down his cheek. Hair that is too wild and too red not to be properly trimmed. And yet…

  “You have no idea,” I manage to mumble.

  “Somehow, I bet I can imagine. You probably shouldn’t keep her waiting. Seems a bit barmy.”

  I sigh. “You’re right about that. Sorry about the, you know, running full steam into you. I wasn’t really looking. Don’t quite have my bearings yet,” I explain, hoping that like most British men, he’d forgive all my mistakes after hearing my American accent partnered with a coy smile.

  The British version of the Brawny man takes a deep breath as he watches the smile slide across my face, a strange sort of static silence filling the space between us. He gives a small shake of his head and chuckles again. “Of course, how could you with that waiting?” he says, motioning to Mrs. Wright, who now sits glaring at both of us, her arms crossed over her chest.

  I roll my eyes. “Wish me luck.’

  “Good luck,” he says with a grin.

  I barely catch his words, still entranced by those eyes. With my brain all mush, I smile and shake my head, offering a weak wave as I move past him.

  When I manage to make it to our table, Mrs. Wright leans back in her seat, continuing to glare at me without speaking. She, no doubt, expects an apology, as if I purposely ran into the man on the way out of the bathroom just to keep her waiting.

  Knowing sass will get me nowhere, I plaster on the prettiest smile I can. The one I used to save for photo ops with my father. Royal functions. State dinners back in the U.S. That time we went to the White House to see the tree lighting. The smile that said I was the daughter of a foreign ambassador—the one filled with grace and virtue; the one where I pretended I was destined for great things.

  The one that hid what I would really become—a monumental disappointment.

  “Don’t I look just lovely in this dress you picked out for me?” I ask, patting down the ruffles at my neck that threatened to choke me.

  “Stop being so cheeky, Alexandra!”

  “But I—”

  “Now, let’s talk about the family’s expectations of you for this trip. You will attend all the wedding functions. The rehearsal dinner. The tea. The ceremony, of course. As a citizen of our closest ally, you will be expected to not only represent your country but also the strong relationship between our two countries. The people expect you to be there, and your absence has been noted by many of the news outlets.”

  If only they knew why I had been away…

  “You not being there, not being around the family, cannot be a story. You owe it to Freddie to not upstage his big day with whatever foolish drama you have going on.”

  I sit up a little straighter, lifting my chin. “Of course I won’t mess it up. I love Freddie. I wouldn’t want to ruin anything for him,” I argue. And that was the truth. Freddie, second in line for the throne of England, was the kindest, sweetest person I had ever known. My anxiety over returning had nothing to do with love lost for him. It was because I loved him that I hadn’t come back. The last thing I wanted was to upstage his day with my drama. Especially since all of the drama was foolish and entirely my fault.

  “The British people watched you grow up with these boys. They have always treated you like family. Loved you like family. So, whatever has caused this strife will become nonexistent until the wedding is over. You owe them that much. You owe your fath
er that much. Do I make myself clear?”

  I nod numbly.

  Suddenly, a pint of beer appears in front of me. Mrs. Wright arches an eyebrow. “Really, Alexandra? Don’t you think you had enough at the airport? You smelled like Richard Burton when you walked off that plane.”

  “I di-didn’t order this,” I stammer, feeling small.

  The waitress clears her throat. “The bloke behind you did,” she explains, casting a wary eye toward Mrs. Wright. I turn around to find the mystery run-in man sitting directly behind me, his back dangerously close to my own. Upon hearing the waitress, he turns around and holds up his glass, toasting me. I manage a thin smile before mouthing a “thank you” and turning back to face Mrs. Wright.

  My cheeks burn as I wonder how much of the conversation he heard. The pub, while cozy, is rather cramped, and it wouldn’t take much for him to listen in on Mrs. Wright’s tirade. She had been careful not to once mention the word “royal,” but her condemnation of me would come out loud and clear to anyone who was listening.

  I clear my throat. “Besides, that’s what people do in pubs, Mrs. Wright. They drink. If you wanted to publicly flog me, maybe we should have had this meeting in the Tower,” I reply drily.

  Ignoring my outburst, Mrs. Wright reaches forward and pulls away the pint before I can take a sip. “Now, Alexandra, I need to know if there is anything I should be made aware of. Anything that might come out and cause a scandal. It’s better if I know these things upfront. Just because transgressions might have taken place on another continent doesn’t mean they won’t make their way over here.”

  I bite down hard on my bottom lip, running a hand through my hair. She’s right, of course. Mrs. Wright always had a way of being right. Infuriating, really. I reach forward and snatch my pint back from her. If she were going to get my soul, I’d at least get to keep my beer. I tilt half the glass’s contents back before Mrs. Wright clears her throat. “Alexandra Ryans, put that glass down and answer the question.”

  The man behind me chuckles.

  I slam the pint down and level my eyes with hers. “Fine. Where should I begin? With the fact I had an affair with a professor, who happened to be, unbeknownst to me, married?”

  A loud crash startles the deathly silence that has fallen between Mrs. Wright and myself. I spin around in my seat to find pint-buying man hurriedly wiping his table clean from where he dropped his glass and spilled his beer.

  That’s what he gets for eavesdropping.

  And I’m not even done yet.

  “Or should I start with the fact that I failed out of college. Because as we always expected, I’m an idiot. I mean I really failed. Or about how there is a rather rampant and vicious rumor that I slept with said professor to try and get my grade raised?”

  I brace myself for Mrs. Wright’s harsh words. Her condemnation. Her disappointment. But none of it ever comes. She reaches forward and grabs my hand. “Alexandra,” she says gently. “Whatever is going on with you, dear?”

  The softness of her words undoes me. My eyes fill with tears. I pull my hand away from hers, resting my elbows on the table as I place my head in my hands. I can’t look at her when I’m like this. I was prepared for harshness, but I never thought of what it would feel like to see her look at me with pity.

  “Alexandra.”

  “I don’t know,” I say quietly. Because I don’t know. I left England because everything got ruined. I ran. I had hoped that by putting distance between the boys and myself, my life could assume some sort of normalcy, but that never came. If anything, being away from my home, here, has made everything worse.

  I am lost.

  “Look at me, girl,” Mrs. Wright demands. I take a deep breath and lift my head. She offers a small, sad smile. “Are you going to be able to handle this?”

  I take another deep breath. “I’m going to have to be able to. Aren’t I?”

  Mrs. Wright presses her mouth into a thin line and nods. There’s no getting out of this without causing a story. Living up to expectations. Playing the role. That was part of being in this world. One of the reasons I ran from it in the first place. No one could protect me from that. At one time, I had been foolish enough to think Aiden could; he’d ride in like Prince Charming and shield me from all of it. If I could convince him that I was something more than what the world saw me as, I could convince anyone. I wouldn’t have to fear the press. But in the end, he hadn’t seen those things in me.

  Even though I now realize how silly I had been to think I’d loved the future king of England, his refusal, his distance, still broke me.

  I wasn’t good enough for him.

  Which meant I wasn’t good for any of them.

  A commoner.

  A dropout.

  And loving Oliver, the boy whose outlandish behavior and exploits draw the press like flies to honey, would show the rest of the world that deep, dark secret as well.

  Mrs. Wright pulls a handkerchief from her purse and hands it to me. I dab under my eyes. “Time to get yourself together, Alexandra. There will be cameras outside of the palace, and we want you looking your best.” She pulls out a compact from her purse and slides it my way. I open it and work on fixing my now-running mascara.

  “You know, I thought Oliver was right daft for insisting I stop with you here before taking you to the palace. I guess he knew you would need time to acclimate back to this life.”

  Ollie had been the one to suggest bringing me here? Of course it had been him. Thinking about the gesture causes something in my chest to tighten.

  Without warning, or maybe she had said something and I was lost in my thoughts of Ollie, Mrs. Wright stands up, snapping her fingers for me to follow. Once I’m up, I press down any possible wrinkles in my dress and smooth away a few loose strands of hair. Hoping I can look more together on the outside than how I feel on the inside.

  The pub has grown noisier since I sat down with Mrs. Wright, and a small crowd has formed near the door, but she doesn’t appear to notice. She’s frantically texting on her phone. No doubt, letting her assistants know we’re on our way and to expect a disaster in the form of one Alexandra Ryans. I look back to wave at mystery man, but he’s no longer there.

  I follow behind Mrs. Wright, who charges through the crowd like a general leading an army. She swings the door of the pub open, briefly looking back at me to make sure I haven’t cut and run.

  And then all hell breaks loose.

  Cameras flash and click away like an explosion in a fireworks factory.

  “Alexandra! Over here! How long has it been since you’ve been home?”

  “Alexandra! Smile for us! We’ve missed you!”

  “Alexandra!”

  “Alexandra!”

  “Which designer will you be wearing to the wedding?”

  “Are you bringing a date? Maybe some American playboy?”

  A wave of nausea hits me. With every flash of a bulb and click of a shutter, I feel the air get caught in my throat. The crowd of reporters jostles about, moving closer and closer with each second of silence from me. I’ve never been good at this. The cameras. The having to think on your feet. I’m two seconds from puking and Mrs. Wright, who stares at me wide-eyed, knows it.

  Suddenly, from behind me, a hand grabs onto mine. Readying myself to punch a reporter, I spin around to see mystery man. “Follow me,” he insists. And even though I shared less than two minutes of conversation with this man, I nod. Anything is better than facing those reporters. The thought of answering their questions makes my skin crawl. Mostly because it never stops with one question. Once you give them a little something, they want all of you. I have too much to hide to risk it.

  The man pulls me through the pub, which seems way more crowded than before. People are up and out of their seats trying to see what all the commotion is about. My hero barrels his way through, clutching on to my hand so tight I think it’s about to fall off. We make our way through the kitchen and exit into an alley. It’s only then that
he stops. He places his hands on my arms and gently pushes me against the wall, peeking around the corner to see if the coast is clear.

  When he looks back down at me, I find a real fear has settled into his eyes, and I’m left wondering how he could feel so strongly for a girl he just met. He reaches up and tucks a strand of loose hair behind my ear. I know I should be appalled by the intimacy of it, especially since he’s a stranger and all, but, instead, I find myself leaning into his touch. “It’s going to be all right, lass,” he assures me. I nod, choosing to believe him against all odds.

  He reaches down and pulls a cell phone from an inside pocket of his jacket. Quickly, he starts texting away and mumbling to himself. I can’t quite hear all that he’s saying, but I hear bits of curse words and, “how the hell did this happen?”

  I squint and stare down my rescuer. There’s something so familiar about him, and, yet, I’m sure this is our first meeting. He shifts his attention from his phone and looks back at me. “I have a car waiting down the road. The press hasn’t thought to look at the back exit yet, but they will.”

  Before I can reply, he frames my face with his hands, and my heart starts to beat so fast I think I might be having a heart attack. My lips go dry, and I lick. His eyes spot this small movement, and I watch as he swallows. Hard. The moment traps us together. I’m not sure what it means, but we’re both entranced by it.

  Now is totally not the time, Alexandra.

  As if sensing my internal dialogue, he removes his hands from my faces and grabs my hand. “We’re going to have to run, Ryans.”

  I nod. And then it hits me. Ryans. He called me Ryans.

  There is only one person who has ever called me Ryans.

  Oliver “I’m going to murder him” Dudley.

  For the love of Anne Boleyn!

  We full out sprint down the street, but don’t get very far before a pap yells out that he’s spotted me. The patter of hurried feet against the pavement chases us from behind, but we’re faster. Ollie only slows down once he’s spotted his car. Outside of which waits a man dressed in black standing arrow-straight tall.