Royally Remembered by Emma Chase
(23 years after Royally Yours)
“His father used to look at his mother the same way—like she was
the Eighth Wonder of the World.”
~Queen Lenora, Royally Screwed
Lenora
I SIT AT MY VANITY, checking my reflection in the mirror. Hair, lipstick, straighten the emerald pendant on the lapel of my snow-white cashmere coat.
“Are you all right?” Edward asks from across the room, his arm resting against the thick wood mantel. “You seem fidgety.”
I take a deep breath.
“I believe I’m nervous.”
He grins, teasingly. “You? I guess there really is a first time for everything.”
I swivel around on the cushioned bench. “Do you think . . . do you think she’ll like me, Edward?”
Edward checks the time on his pocket watch. “If history is any indication, I think she’ll be terrified of you.”
I roll my eyes, turning my back on the impossible man. But he approaches, standing beside me and trailing his knuckle slowly down my cheek and across my neck in a velvet caress.
“You are so beautifully imposing.”
Heat blooms in my stomach. Because even after twenty-six years of marriage, that’s what he does to me—my dashing, dirty, devastatingly handsome husband still turns my insides to jelly.
“And once she gets to know you, she’ll love you, Lenny.”
“Yes,” I agree, meeting Edward’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “She’s perfect on paper, you know. Impeccable looks, educated, talented, excellent pedigree.”
“You had security do a full background check on her, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. She’s the first girl Thomas has been truly serious about. What mother wouldn’t?”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “One who doesn’t have an army of secret service agents at their beck and call, I imagine.”
“Thankfully, I am not one of those.”
The shrill ring of the telephone on the table beside the sofa pierces the air. Edward picks it up, listens, then replies, “We’ll be down shortly.”
Anticipation bubbles in my stomach when he glances back at me.
“They’ve arrived.”
I was born at Ludlow Castle, then visited frequently throughout my childhood—and yet, the beauty of the estate at Christmastime is still wondrously magical. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla waft from the kitchens, and crisp pine permeates the air in each of the common rooms where enormous hand-cut trees, trimmed with glowing lights and sparkling ornaments of red and green, gold and silver, wait to delight all who enter. The doorways are embellished with fresh hanging greenery, red and ivory poinsettias adorn every tabletop, and all the windows are bedecked with lush wreaths and big, floppy satin bows. Snowflakes perpetually drift down from a dove-gray sky, covering the rooftops and treetops in a sugar dusting of shimmering white.
Edward and I step out into the front brick courtyard just as the shiny black car pulls up. The driver opens the rear door and our son emerges first.
To see him after a time never fails to take my breath away. He is our joy—the holder of our hearts, and the very best of both our souls.
Thomas is tall, handsome, and broad like his father, with my thick dark hair, and has the perfect blend of gray-green eyes that can be studious and serious one moment, shining with laughter the next.
He holds out his hand, assisting his guest from the car. A moment later, she stands beside him—and the photos from the security reports did not do her justice.
She’s only a few inches shorter than my son, but delicately boned, slender and lithe, with a natural grace. Her hair is honey blond, her gaze wide-eyed and blue-green. She wears an elegant black overcoat with a knee-length red dress peeking out the bottom, sensible but stylish black low-heeled shoes, and an adorable black wool bucket hat on the crown of her head.
She looks . . . well . . . like a princess. And the two of them together are straight out of a storybook.
They walk to us, smiling—Thomas hugs Edward as my husband pounds his back.
“You’re looking well, son.”
“You too, Dad.”
Next, he leans over and kisses my cheek warmly.
“Mother.”
“Welcome home, darling.”
Then my son takes a step back, and the girl takes one forward. With a mixture of pride and tender adoration, Thomas says, “May I present Lady Calista Earhart.”
She bows her head and sinks into a curtsy, slow and elegant, and altogether perfect.
“Your Majesty. Prince Edward.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Calista,” Edward says, signaling it is acceptable for her to rise.
She folds her hands in front of her, eyes sparkling with sincerity. “It’s an honor to meet you both. I’m so pleased to be here—I know it’s not usual. That you typically spend the holiday with immediate family.”
It’s true. Even my sister, Miriam, knows to bring only official fiancés or husbands home for Christmas—as plentiful as they tend to be for her.
“Yes, well . . . Thomas insisted.” I shrug.
I don’t mean to sound cold or flippant . . . it just seems to come out that way.
“You must be tired from the drive,” Edward says.
“There are refreshments,” I tell them. “Come along.”
With his hand on the small of her back, Thomas guides Calista up the steps and holds her hand as we walk through the castle.
After cider and sandwiches in the great hall, Thomas takes Calista on a tour before settling her into her room for a rest.
In the evening, we gather in the dining room for a late supper, and though it’s casual, I can tell my son has educated Calista on the formal etiquette of dining with the Queen. She doesn’t begin her meal until I have, and she respectfully sets her silverware down the moment after I do, so the servants can clear one course and serve the next.
Our conversation flows easy and light, as if the girl is already a part of the family.
“Miriam is scheduled to arrive late tomorrow afternoon,” I tell my son, in response to
his inquiry.
Thomas grins at Calista. “I can’t wait for you to meet Auntie Miriam, Lis. She’s an
absolute hoot.”
“That’s one way to describe Miriam,” Edward says.
“Calista, we should go for a drive around the estate tomorrow morning,” I say. “Just the two of us, to get better acquainted. I can drive us.”
“When did you start driving, Mum?” Thomas asks.
“Just recently. Your father taught me.”
“Teaching,” Edward amends. “I’m teaching you.”
“Such a useful skill,” I go on. “I should have insisted on learning ages ago. And so invigorating—it feels almost like flying.”
“Perhaps a bicycle ride would be better, Lenora?” Edward suggests. “Or a nice long walk?”
“No, that won’t do. A drive will give us a better opportunity to chat.”
“We did agree that I would be in the car with you when you drive, my dear.”
I smile at Calista, lest she get the impression I’m not an excellent driver.
“He worries so.”
Edward grins, but there’s an edge to it.
“I am a worrier.”
“But you shouldn’t be concerned,” I tell him. “I’m ready to drive on my own now—I’m certain of it.”
Edward takes a drink of his wine. “I’m glad you’re certain. Although there was that time not too long ago, with the deer . . .”
“That could’ve happened to anyone.”
“Yes, but it happened to you.”
I meet Thomas’s eyes, explaining, “One moment the road was perfectly clear and the next the poor thing was right in the middle of it. Couldn’t be avoided.”
“And the incident with the tree . . .” Edward recalls.
“A tree?” Thomas pipes up, looking worried. “There was a tree? Were you hurt?”
I wave my hand.
“It was just a little tap.”
“Or some might say,” Edward laughs—a bit wildly now, “a major collision.”
“Tomato-tomahto.” I shrug. “We have several cars on the estate, so there was no harm done.”
Edward stares at me pointedly.
“And the lake, Lenora.”
I glance away for a moment . . . remembering. Well, there’s really no way to put a positive spin on that one.
“Yes, the lake was unfortunate.”
Edward pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he asks, “Do you ride, Calista?”
“I do, Your Highness. Though not as often as I’d like.”
He raises a brow at me. “You have that beautiful new stallion you haven’t taken out yet.”
“That’s true,” I concede. “Calista, would you prefer to go riding tomorrow?”
“I would genuinely love that, Your Majesty.”
“Splendid!” Edward claps his hands—a bit too quickly. “So, it’s settled—riding it is.”
And only then is my husband able to finish his supper.
After dessert, Calista bids us good night. Before walking her to her room, Thomas quietly asks to speak with his father and me privately in the library. Edward pours three brandies, and we’re sitting in the high-backed chairs that bracket the fireplace when Thomas finally walks through the door. He retrieves his brandy from the tray and sits on the sofa opposite us, one arm draped across the back of the sofa and one ankle resting on the opposite knee.
“So?” he begins. “What do you think?”
Edward raises his glass.
“I think she’s completely delightful. An excellent match for you in every way.”
Thomas nods softly. Then he turns his attention to me.
“I know you’ve been checking up on her, Mother. And since I’ve brought her here for Christmas to meet you, I suspect you already know what I’m going to ask next.”
There are few pleasures in life as sublime as seeing your child truly happy.
“But I want to hear you ask anyway. Indulge me.”
Thomas smiles. “I want to propose to Calista on Christmas Day. And I want to do it with Grandmother Anna’s ring. I know the ring means a lot to you. It will be a sign to the press and the public that she has your highest approval.”
“And you’re certain, my boy? You only get to do this once, you know.”
Thomas nods, his voice solemn and slightly astounded. “I love her. I love her more than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone. I love her so much . . . sometimes I wish she’d leave me.”
“Why would you say that?” I ask. “She’s lucky to have you.”
“Yes, but it’s not just me she’s getting. It’s all the rest that comes with me.” He gestures to his father and me, and then around the room. “With us. And sometimes . . . I think about how life would be so much simpler for her—better—if she had fallen for an average man. And I love her so much, I want that for her. A life without all the . . . baggage.”
“Your mother came with the same baggage as you.” Edward’s dark-green gaze alights on me tenderly. “And there’s never been a moment that I’ve regretted marrying her.”
Even being born the heir to a throne, I didn’t consider myself truly blessed—truly fortunate—until the day Edward came into my life.
And I have every single day since.
“I’ll have Mother’s ring brought here tomorrow,” I tell my son.
His smile is wide and full. “Thank you.”
He takes a sip of his brandy.
“Now that that’s settled,” I say, “on to more logistical matters. Is Calista still a virgin?”
Thomas coughs—choking on his drink.
“Mum!”
“What?” I glance at Edward. “What did I say?”
Before he can answer, Thomas asks, “Do you have any understanding of how inappropriate that question is?”
“Well, given your position, it’s a perfectly valid question. There’s no need to be squeamish. It’s not as if I’m asking to . . . what’s the expression, Edward? Get my stones off?”
“Rocks, Lenora,” Edward chuckles. “You’re not asking to get your rocks off.”
“Precisely.”
But Thomas is still affronted.
“All right then, tell me—were you a virgin when you and Dad married?”
I blink at him.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything. I’m a queen—the law doesn’t care who sired you, as long as I’m the one who bore you.”
“Fun fact.” Edward nods.
“But since you asked, yes, I was a virgin.” And then, in the spirit of openness and full disclosure, I add, “Technically.”
Thomas groans, covering his ears.
“No. Never mind. I don’t want to know—you cannot imagine how much I don’t want to know.”
When it seems safe, Thomas lowers his hands and sighs.
“Yes, Calista is a virgin. Technically. Are you satisfied now?”
“Quite.” I nod. “It will make things much easier going forward.”
“I’m aware.”
“And now I’m off to bed.” I stand, giving my son a peck on the cheek. “Good night, darling.”
“I’ll be up shortly,” Edward tells me.
As I leave the room, I hear my son laugh with exasperation.
“For God’s sake, Dad.”
My husband laughs as well. “Count your blessings. It could’ve been much worse.”
On the morning of Christmas Eve, Calista joins me in the stables and we set off for our ride. It’s a beautiful day, my favorite kind—no wind and the air so crisp the horses exhale tiny white clouds with every breath.
Calista is an accomplished rider, in form and stamina. After warming up the horses with a gallop across the field, we slow to a walk and speak easily.
“My son tells me you’re studying music at University?”
“Yes, Queen Lenora. I adore everything about music—listening to it, learning the history of it, and I dearly love to play.”
“What is your favorite instrument?”
She thinks for a moment, her lower lip clasped between pearly teeth.
“I can’t choose just one. It’s a tie, between the violin and the piano.”
“Thomas had violin lessons as a child.”
“Yes, he tried playing for me once.” She glances at me sideways and her voice lowers, as if she’s telling a dirty secret. “He was very, very bad at it.”
She giggles. And I laugh with her—because the sound is infectious. There’s a genuineness about her, a goodness that radiates from her, that I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered before.
It makes me like her immensely. But more than that—it makes me want her for my son. Eager for her to wrap him in her goodness, to surround him in her gentle loveliness.
Because there will be dark, cold days in his life—of that I am certain.
And he will need her light to comfort him.
We leisurely ride side by side up a hill.
“How did you two first meet?”
I already know the answer, but I want to hear her telling of it.
“Well . . . I was outside the library one evening, waiting for my ride. The rain had been coming down all day, but it was just tapering off. A lorry drove by and splashed a muddy puddle on me.”
“Oh, dear.”
“It was horrible,” she laughs. “Just like in a movie. I pushed my wet hair out of my face and my books slipped from my hand. And then Thomas was there—picking them up for me, and asking if I was all right.”
“Did you know who he was?”
“Yes,” she answers shyly. “Though the professors call him Pembrook, as he’s asked them to, everyone on campus knows who he is.”
I nod and she continues.
“As he’d handed me my last book, I thanked him—and a photographer snapped a photo of us. I asked Thomas if the picture might end up in a paper, with me looking like a drenched rat—and he said probably, but that I needn’t worry because I was the most beautiful drenched rat he’d ever seen.”
Cheeky boy. He gets that from his father.
“Then he insisted that I let him take me to lunch the next day. To make up for having my photo taken. I said yes, and . . . that was that. We haven’t really been apart since.”
I bring my horse to a stop at the top of the hill, overlooking a rushing stream below.
“How do you feel about my son, Calista?”
Her eyes meet mine and her voice takes on the same solemnity as Thomas’s last evening.
“I love him, Queen Lenora. I love him so very much.”
“Why?”
She grins in the way one does when a silly question is asked. When the answer is so abundantly clear.
“He’s funny and smart, adventurous and honorable. He’s romantic and sweet but also bold, and sometimes a bit wicked. He’s good. Not perfect, but so very good down to his core. And I love that he can be silly with me—that he can just be with me. That I’m able to give him that.”
“If things continue to progress between you and my son, it is not an easy life you are signing up for,” I tell her. “You must understand that.”
“I do.”
“There are people who will hate you. Passionately. For who you are, whom you’re married to, and at times for no reason at’all. Are you strong enough to bear it?”
Calista looks at the reins in her hands, contemplating my question before lifting her eyes to mine.
“Every life has hardships, Your Majesty. I have no illusions that Thomas and I will be immune to that. Whatever trials come with who he is . . . he’s worth it. The way he makes me feel, the way I make him feel . . . that is worth anything.”
“It’s just that simple, is it?”
And the only daughter on earth I will ever have tells me, “Yes. When it comes down to it, it’s the simplest thing in the whole world.”
Calista
I’m awakened on Christmas morning by the feel of Thomas’s lips pressed against the crook of my neck. He slides his mouth upward, his breath tickling my ear as he whispers into it. “Happy Christmas.”
I turn onto my back so I can look up at him. With his green eyes dancing and his smile devilish, he is almost too handsome to be real. I run my hand across the broad expanse of his shoulder and down the muscular swell of his arm.
“Happy Christmas, Thomas.”
He kisses me then, his mouth warm and firm, making my body tingle decadently—making me yearn for his weight and the touch of his hands. Thomas has such wonderful hands.
When we arrived, the staff provided me with a full schedule of our visit. Today it’s breakfast in the dining room at nine, then the exchange of presents under the tree in the blue drawing room, clay pigeon shooting on the grounds, then a fireside tea in the great hall, and finally a formal Christmas dinner this evening.
But it’s early still and Thomas seems well aware of this, as he tugs at the ribbon that holds my satin nightgown together.
“Of all the presents on all the Christmas mornings I’ve received, I’ve never unwrapped one as glorious as this.”
He parts my nightgown, the cool air brushing my bare skin. And my breathing turns to pants as he kisses slowly across my collarbone.
And I don’t want to break the mood, but can’t resist saying, “I’ve been thinking . . .”
He hums hungrily against my skin.
“Me too. I’ve been thinking all sorts of filthy things while waiting for you to wake up. You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”
He licks a wet path along the soft swell of my breast, dissolving my thoughts.
But eventually they reconstitute, as nagging thoughts tend to do.
“I worry, Thomas.”
He pauses, lifting his head and stroking my hair.
“Worry about what, love?”
“About your parents. They are . . . traditional.”
He snorts. “If my conversation with them the other night is anything to go by, they may not be as traditional as they seem.”
“But still, this is their home, and I’m their guest. And they’ve given us separate rooms. I worry it’s . . . disrespectful that you’re sleeping in mine and not your own.”
Thomas kisses my cheek, moving toward my ear.
“But remember, this home has forty rooms. It’s not as if they’ll ever know I’m sleeping in here.”
At that moment, a knock comes at the door.
And then the sound of Thomas’s mother’s voice.
“Calista? Are you awake?”
Thomas groans into the pillow beside me.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
And panic grips my throat.
“You said she wouldn’t come to either of our rooms,” I hiss.
“She never does this,” he whispers, flustered. “I swear!”
And the knock comes again.
“Calista?”
“Coming, Your Majesty,” I call back in a voice that’s unnaturally high-pitched. “Just donning my robe.”
Donning?Did I really just say that?
I pull my nightgown together and leap from the bed.
“You have to hide!” I mouth to Thomas.
“Where am I supposed to go?” he whispers back. “This bed’s an antique—I won’t fit under it. They made men smaller in the old days!”
I flap my hand at him.
“Shhh!”
Then I fling the blanket over his head.
“Just stay under there. And don’t move!”
The Queen knocks again—making me jump. I shove my arms into my robe and dart to the door.
With time for only a single deep breath, which does nothing to settle my nerves, I open the door. Because this is the first time that I’m seeing her today, I dip into a quick curtsy, then pop back up—smiling so wide my face hurts.
“Apologies, ma’am. I’ve only just woken up.”
Her eyes peruse me. They’re astute and all-knowing—and for a moment, my lungs seize. So much terrifying in such a little woman.
“The apologies should be mine, for coming by so early,” she says with a tight smile. “But I wanted to tell you personally that a photographer will be here this afternoon, to take candid shots. For posterity.”
“How nice.” I tilt my head and cock my hip in a feeble attempt to obstruct her view of the bed.
“And . . . I’ve arranged a stylist to meet with you after breakfast. She’ll bring several outfits; choose what you like best. She’ll also take care of your hair and makeup—simple, but elegant, you know.”
“Lovely,” I squeak. “Thank you.”
The Queen’s gaze travels over my shoulder, making a beeline through the small window of space that exists between myself and the door.
“But Christmas breakfast is casual. Wear whatever you’re comfortable in.”
I nod—no longer able to speak.
And just as she’s about to depart . . . a sneeze comes from under the bed linens.
And I want to die. I actually might. I may very well self-immolate from the humiliation that’s scorching my cheeks.
The Queen raises a brow. Then she calls, “That goes for you as well, Thomas.”
I glance back as Thomas pushes the blanket off his head.
And waves.
“Morning, Mum. Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas.” She looks him over a moment, then gestures to his head. “Do be sure to run a comb through your hair before you come down, my boy. Casual is one thing, but we can’t have you walking around looking like you’ve stuck your finger in a socket. It’s undignified.”
He gives her a thumbs-up.
“Will do.”
Her Majesty’s lips twitch, almost as if she’s holding in a laugh.
“I’ll see you both at breakfast.”
“Yes, Queen Lenora,” I manage to say. “See you then.”
She glides away and I close the door. Then I turn, pressing my back against it and covering my face with both hands.
“I can’t believe that just happened!”
I hear the rustle of the blankets as Thomas gets out of bed and moves closer.
“Lis, it’s fine.”
“She probably thinks I’m a whore!”
Thomas laughs shamelessly. “No, she doesn’t.”
“She does!” I wail. “And I really wanted her to like me!”
Thomas tugs my hands off my eyes.
“My mother was born without the capacity for subtlety. And she doesn’t have a shy bone in her body. If she didn’t like you, you’d know for certain because she would’ve said so to your face just now. Instead, she said she’ll see you at the breakfast table.”
His confidence and humor soothe my embarrassment.
“You’re sure?”
“Completely sure.”
I sigh, and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing against his warm, strong chest—comforted by the thrum of his heartbeat beneath my cheek and the kiss of his lips on the top of my head.
“It won’t really matter after this afternoon, anyway.”
I lean back, looking up at him.
“What do you mean?”
Thomas’s eyes search mine.
“What do you mean, what do I mean?”
“I mean, what’s this afternoon?”
He takes a step back, worry beginning to cloud his features.
“Well . . . I invited you home for Christmas, to my parents’ castle.” He laughs anxiously. “To introduce you to them. I thought it was obvious. When you agreed, I . . . I thought you understood.”
He says each word with emphasis, as if they hold a deeper meaning that I’m supposed to comprehend.
But it’s a strange thing to have seen the romantic history of your boyfriend play out in living color, on television and in the gossip magazines. Thomas isn’t a full-on playboy, but he’s dated—a lot. He’s had relationships with starlets and singers and all types of stunning women.
To protect myself, I’ve tried very hard not to expect or anticipate—not to hope or dream. To take him at his literal word, to take each day as it comes and cherish our time together, however long it lasts.
“Yes, it’s a big step. I do understand.”
Thomas gazes down into my face.
“You really don’t have any idea, do you?”
“Don’t have any idea about what?”
“Shit.”
He begins pacing and rubbing his forehead.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Ah . . . nothing, really. I’m just a hell of a lot more nervous than I was ten seconds ago.”
“Why would you be nervous?”
He stops pacing in front of me.
And slowly sinks down onto one knee—stealing my breath away as deftly as he’s stolen my heart.
“Because I want to ask you to marry me . . . and I’m suddenly very worried that I’ll muck it up.”
He’s adorable. Perfectly, utterly adorable—with his dark, unruly hair, and his beautiful bare chest and rumpled navy pajamas.
“You won’t,” I tell him softy.
“You’re sure?”
“Completely sure.”
“I have a ring!” Thomas points at the door. “It’s in my room.”
“I don’t need a ring.”
“It’s an exquisite ring, Lis.”
“Give it to me this afternoon. Right now, just . . . tell me what you want to say.”
Thomas Pembrook, the Crown Prince of Wessco and the love of my life, takes my hand and gazes up at me—his eyes earnest and his smile true.
“I want to share my days and nights with you, Calista—all of them. I feel selfish asking, because there are aspects of my life that will be difficult. But I will do everything I can to make you the happiest woman on earth, because you make me the happiest man. Every day.”
My heart pounds and my head goes light.
“When we’re done with school, I want us to travel. I want us to see the world together; we have the time to do that. And I want us to have babies—beautiful rowdy children who we’ll raise with joy and patience, and who will grow up to do amazing things. And eventually, one day, I want you to . . . watch over the country with me, beside me. I want us to grow old together, loving each other madly the whole time. Will you marry me? Will you be my wife and my queen and my love?”
Tears fall like raindrops on my cheeks as I laugh and nod—because I can’t tell him fast enough.
“Yes, yes, Thomas. I love you and I will marry you. Yes, to all of it.”
And then he’s sweeping me up into his arms and spinning us around and around, bathed in the morning sunlight shining in from the window, as we kiss slow and deep.
It’s a perfect moment. A most precious memory.
There will be other cherished memories made in the years ahead. When we tell Thomas’s parents a grandchild is on the way, the sounds of our boys’ excitement at discovering presents under the tree, singing carols as a family around the piano as I play . . .
But that one was especially lovely, because it was the first.
Our very first Christmas at the castle.