“Maybe you’re right,” Nick said suddenly. “Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe we just stop running.”
“You mean, go public?” I asked, my jaw swinging open wider than was strictly ladylike. “Are you ready for that?”
“I guess this is as ready as I’ll ever be,” was his reply.
Not the answer I’d hoped for, but it was all he said.
Chapter Six
Very few people in this world look, in person, exactly as you imagine them. I, for example, am told I look taller and not nearly as American, whatever that means. David Beckham, conversely, is more compact than expected, but also sexier, which evens it out. The first time I stood in a room with Queen Eleanor, I expected a similar revelation—albeit not about her level of sex appeal—but the surprise was that there was no surprise. She is one of the rare public figures who looks the same in the papers, on TV, and in your mind, as she does in the flesh: supreme, authoritative, every inch the icon that she is on the postage and the pound.
Then again, maybe it’s unsurprising that I reacted that way, given that my first encounter with Eleanor was on her turf—Buckingham Palace being the ultimate home-field advantage. Before Nick’s party I hadn’t done anything more than whiz past Buck House in a cab, because I felt weird taking the pricey tour when I was suspected of dating someone whose birth had been announced on a placard in the courtyard. Suspected, but still not confirmed: Word from The Firm was that no personal gossip could take precedence over the dawn of the Navy career that represented the next phase of Nick’s fastidiously plotted life. I hadn’t honestly expected them to give us the green light the first time Nick asked, but that didn’t make it any easier to know that on a night when I’d loved to have celebrated with him, I’d have to settle for near at best.
At least I’d have my parents, who’d jumped at the chance to fly over for the party. My mother would have brought lemon bars to a ritual human sacrifice if the Queen had invited her, but this gala legitimately tickled her fancy bone. Proving that Lacey takes after her, Mom promptly invested in a library of etiquette books, studying them and the potential guest list to the exclusion of everything except her trips to the Men’s Wearhouse Big and Tall section, to make absolutely sure Dad—who laughed at the price of the Burberry tux she’d been eyeing—had the right clothes.
“Are you nervous? I’m nervous,” she tittered as our Mercedes sedan inched forward.
“Don’t be nervous. You look beautiful, Mom,” I said.
“Queen Nancy of Muscatina,” Dad joked. “Most fun shopping spree I’ve ever been dragged on.”
“Oh, pish,” Mom said, but she was beaming.
I had no doubt that a hefty percentage of people expected the King and Queen of Coucherator, Inc., to be tacky, vulgar Americans, but Mom looked sleek and elegant in her midnight blue gown with beaded bolero. Dad’s tux fit to suave perfection. And Lacey had outdone herself: Her red sweetheart-neckline gown, matching lip, and delicate finger waves gave her an Old Hollywood glamour-girl look, flashier than I’d expected but still somehow pitch-perfect. When our car finally turned into Buckingham Palace’s giant iron gates and crept toward the porte cochere, I felt an intense wave of affection and appreciation for what they were doing—putting themselves on display, up for judgment. All because of who Nick was to me.
“Before we get out, I just…I don’t really know how to, properly, but I want to thank you guys,” I said, beating back tears. “For being here. For the flat. For these clothes. It’s beyond generous. I mean, when will we ever need these gowns again?”
“Well, when will Dad ever need those dueling pistols?” Lacey cracked.
“You never know. Let’s see how tonight goes,” Dad said.
“You know what I mean!” I said. “We should’ve borrowed stuff somehow.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Mom said, patting my knee. “What’s the point of inventing what Hammacher Schlemmer called ‘The World’s Foremost Seating-and-Cooling System’ if you can’t spoil yourselves with…well, the spoils?” She gave me a loving, and more serious, smile. “Besides, you needed the best tonight.”
Impulsively, I grabbed her hand. “I love you,” I said. “I don’t know how to repay you.”
“You can stop biting your nails,” was her reply, though she squeezed me back.
Our car ground to a halt, the door swinging open as if by magic, and I caught myself hanging back as if I were about to trespass. Buckingham Palace is so symbolic that you almost forget it’s a real place with plumbing and heating, linen closets and washing machines, and the occasional creaky floorboard. It felt like a transgression somehow to step inside and solve some of its mysteries. The magnitude of my luck hit me then—followed by my sister’s hand, nudging me forward. I felt eyes on us as we climbed out, and mentally blessed Lacey’s hairdresser for my romantic, low, loose bun, and the Harrods tailors for making sure my dress wouldn’t need a public hoiking. My gut roiled, but my exterior, at least, looked the part I needed to play.
We were ushered directly into the Grand Entrance, a sunken rectangular room that appeared to be constructed entirely of cream marble, columns, and gold trim. Some of the statues that usually live there had been replaced for the bash with festive topiaries, including a giant one of an archer drawing his bow.
“That’s in honor of Saint Nicholas,” Clive said as he materialized next to me, dashing in his tux, and an endearing nick near his ear from his efforts at a close shave. I hugged him, relieved to see a friendly face that might depressurize this occasion.
“Where’s your other half?” I asked, craning my neck. Clive’s dalliance with Gemma Sands had, as Nick had predicted, proven so short-lived that I never met her, and he’d rebounded with another glossy girl from an upmarket family. Philippa Huntington-Jones made up for her lack of personality with a vintage Aston Martin that she let him drive around London. The two of them looked like a Cartier ad in it.
“Philippa is coming with her parents.” He cringed slightly. “I’m trying to wriggle out of that one, to tell you the truth. The other day she asked about our family land holdings.”
“Speaking of family,” I said, “have you met my parents?”
“Delighted,” Clive said, shaking Dad’s hand and then kissing my mother’s. “You are as stunning as your daughters.”
“Hey, thanks,” Dad said. “I try my best.”
“I was just going to tell Bex that Nicholas is the patron saint of archers, hence the massive shrubbery up there.” Clive grinned. “He’s also the patron saint of repentant thieves, but that’s harder to capture in horticultural form.”