Romancing the Throne by Nadine Jolie Courtney
dedication
For Erik and Aurelia.
You are my everything.
one
My serve has been my secret weapon ever since I mastered it at Wimbledon junior tennis camp two years ago. The moment I arch my back and feel my racket make contact with the ball, I know Libby is done for.
She runs for it, almost tripping over herself in her haste to get to the corner. The ball slices right and smashes into the hedges. She’s not fast enough.
Game, set, match.
“Damn!” She stops at the net, her chest rising and falling heavily from the sprint. There’s a ring of frizz around the crown of her curly brown hair. “You never practice—it’s not fair you’re so good!” She tucks her racket between her knees as she wipes her brow with her forearm. The morning sun is unusually harsh, even for August.
“If you got it, you got it,” I say, grinning. “Don’t feel bad, Libs! You’ll catch up with me someday.”
The joke is my sister has no reason to feel insecure. She’s an academic rock star, just like Dad was at school, but at least I inherited Mum’s sport gene.
And it’s nice to know there are still things I can beat my big sister at.
She pulls down her scraggly ponytail, the hair falling around her slim shoulders. “Let’s play again. I know I can beat you.”
“Dream on.”
“Scared you’ll mess up your makeup?”
“I’m not falling for that trash talk. I need to get ready for the party, so I am worried I’ll mess up my makeup, as a matter of fact. I guess you’ll just have to survive knowing you’re second best,” I tease.
Libby bounces the ball on the other side of the court. “C’mon . . . one more set. We’ll be done in ten minutes. That’s all I need to beat you,” she says, smiling.
“Tempting, but no.” I shake my head and swat a ball across the net. It sails into nothingness, making a satisfying whomp as it hits a wall draped in lilac-colored wisteria. “My train leaves at one thirty and it’s going to take me at least an hour to get ready. Thank God I’m already packed. Although I would kill for a quick dip in the pool.” My parents have been doing renovations little by little since buying this house, and the Olympic-sized swimming pool—my mother’s dream ever since she was a girl—was finally finished at the beginning of the summer.
“All you do is lie out by the pool and play with that damn beauty app,” she sighs. “We’ve only played tennis twice this summer.” Libby starts walking around the court, gathering the scattered balls.
“Hey, my tan’s not going to top up by itself,” I say, adopting a more serious tone when I see her disappointed face. “But I’m sorry. We should have played more.”
“Nah, I’m not angry. I’ve been distracted, too.” She bops her racket against her heel, anxiety creasing her delicate features.
“Greene House?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Over the summer, rumors started that Libby’s headmaster had been taking bribes from parents in exchange for high marks. Libby made me promise not to tell Mum and Dad. If the rumors turn into something real, it could ruin Libby’s last year—universities might look at all the top students coming out of Greene House as suspect.
I try to distract her by making light of it, gathering balls and dumping them in the hopper. “I never understood why you wanted to go to an all-girls school in the first place. No man candy? Cringe!”
“What a novel concept,” she says, smiling. “Picking a school for the academics. What was I thinking?” She walks around the net and smacks me on the bum with the face of her racket.
“Whatever.” I make a big show of looking exasperated. “Sussex Park is just as good as Greene House. We’re fifteen-time field hockey champions.”
“We send more women to Oxbridge universities than any other school in England.”
“Our graphic design program smokes yours.”
“The prime minister’s wife and the Queen of Jordan went to mine.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, Prince Edward goes to mine. Boom.” I make a mic drop gesture with a tennis ball and we both start giggling. “I wish we’d gone to the same school from the beginning. If the Greene House stuff gets really bad, you should transfer to Sussex Park.”
“It’s not that easy.” Libby looks around the court, which is now empty. “I think we’re done here.” We turn and start to make our way across the court and through the gate, turning up the wide, sloping lawn toward our house. We’ve been living here for four years—not only do we have a tennis court and a pool, but we have acres and acres of fields, and the house itself is gorgeous. It’s a three-story Tudor with brick, stone, and wood half-timbering and a gabled roof. I only spend the summers and holidays here, when I’m home from boarding school, but I still can’t believe this is ours.
It’s so smart that it even has a name: Wisteria.
“It’s exactly that easy. Sussex Park loves sibling legacies—double the tuition. Mum makes a few phone calls, writes a check, and voilà!”
“In my last year of school?”
I shrug. “Why not?”
Libby shakes her head as we walk up the low stone steps leading to the pool and back garden. “I like Greene House. All my friends are there. I’m already signed up for all my A levels. Hopefully everything will be fine and I won’t have to worry about it. New subject. Excited for the party tonight?”
“Obviously. India’s house makes Downton Abbey look like a cottage. They even have a garden maze.”
“Sounds terribly smart.”
“You could act a little more sincere. Be happy for me!”
Libby laughs. “What do you want from me, Lotte? That’s amazing! I am positively astounded! This party is guaranteed to change your life—forever!” She raises an eyebrow. “Is that better?”
Libby keeps her sarcastic side hidden from most people, but I secretly love seeing it. “Fine. But I’m super excited. Did you know India’s grandfather is the Duke of Exeter?”
“You don’t say. I only heard you telling Mum and Nana and whoever you were chatting on the phone to earlier.”
“Oh, stop pretending you’re above it.” I lean down as we walk by the pool, splashing a little water on her. She squeals.
“Your friend’s grandfather could be the Duke of America for all I care. It’s not like we don’t know people with titles and nice houses. Both of our schools are full of them. And Wisteria is hardly a shack.”
“Yeah, but this is different. You’ve never met India. She’s amazing.”
“Preparing to be amazed.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Besides, she’s good friends with Prince Edward.”
“That’s two mentions in two minutes. Somebody’s got him on the brain,” she teases.
“I do not.”
“India’s a regular girl, and Edward’s a regular boy. There’s nothing special about either of them.”
“So wrong.”
“You know it’s not important what people like that think of you, no matter how posh they are, right? What matters is how you see yourself. You’ve got to be comfortable with you,” she says, her face turning serious.