Royal Pain (10 page)

“Oh good God. So he really is already a marquess?”

“Well, Bron, I mean, it’s a courtesy title really, kind of a polite placeholder until he becomes the duke.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Well. In any case, here’s his British cell phone number and his parents’ number at Dunlear Castle…” Bronte took out her small silver pen and miniature pad of paper and jotted down the numbers, trying not to dwell on the word “castle” as it careened around her skull like a pinball in a metal bucket.

“All right, then. Thanks, Willa. I don’t know where any of this leaves me, but I can at least get in touch with him if need be. And tell David thanks for the caveman advice, but for the first time in my ill-fated love life, I may have finally underplayed my hand.”

“Oh, Bron—”

“Never mind. I am going to beg off if you don’t mind. I’ll be back in touch soon, and if you happen to see Max before I talk to him, please,
please
do not mention this conversation. Ciao.”

Bronte hit the off button on her phone and simply stared at the screen. In a moment of weakness a few weeks ago, she had foolishly changed her screen saver from a black-and-white photo of a Zen rock garden to a goofy picture of Max and Bronte on Navy Pier with the Ferris wheel in the background all golden and sparkling from the reflected sunset. They looked like two ridiculous tourists: he with that goddamned
More
Cowbell
T-shirt on, and Bronte gazing up at him like some lovesick fool, and the old Japanese man who was taking the picture repeatedly telling them to get closer, and Max pulling her tighter and tighter around the waist until she was practically dry-humping the side of his jeans and gasping for air, and they were both laughing and it was so good.

And she was such an idiot.

What an idiot.

She looked down at the small pad in her hand and realized the numbers were starting to smudge as two stupid, slow tears dripped from her cheek. Wiping her face resolutely, she punched in Max’s British mobile phone number and waited for the call to go through. It went immediately to voice mail, and his voice on the outgoing message was quick and sounded more British somehow. It sounded so formal.

“This is Max. Leave a message.”

She was still savoring the sound of his voice when she realized the beep had already sounded and she was in that silent void, recording empty air into his voice mail.

“Uh, Max, it’s Bron… Bronte. I got your UK number from David and Willa. I hope that’s okay. Um, I just am kind of in shock. I mean, fuck, it’s not about me, I get that. So, anyway, I hope you got home safely and that your father is okay, and if you want to talk, you know my number and well, I’m rambling so… I miss you. It’s not so cut-and-dried… I’m sorry… but you could have told me about all the royal stuff… brutal honesty, remember? I guess it doesn’t matter now… but I hope you are okay… okay… bye…”

She cut the line then took a deep breath to regroup, gathered her courage, and dialed the number for Dunlear Fucking Castle.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. “Dunlear, may I help you?”

Staff. Duh.

“Yes, please. My name is Bronte Talbott and I am calling to speak to Max… Heyworth, please.”

“Is he expecting your call?”

“Not exactly, but—”

“I am sorry, miss, but I have been asked to take messages just now. May I please have your information and I will pass it on?”

Bronte breathed out slowly in an attempt to stifle the urge to rip someone’s throat out with her new werewolf claws.

“My name is Bronte Talbott.
B
-
R
-
O
-
N
…” As Bronte methodically spelled out her full first and last name, she felt herself slipping into a morass of loss and self-pity. By the time she had given her cell phone number, she did not think the woman on the other end of the line had much more patience than she did. She didn’t bother with any message and just asked the maid to make sure she told Max that she had called, maybe placing a tad too much emphasis on
make
sure
, resulting in what may have been a little harrumph from the maid, who was obviously insulted at the implication that she would not, of course, pass on the message.

Bronte ended the call and then smiled ruefully.
So
let
me
get
this
straight
, she thought to herself, with a wicked sense of divine retribution being hurled her way from Mount Olympus,
yesterday
at
this
time, I had a first-class, VIP, all-access, backstage pass to the heavenly body and intricate mind of one royal Max Heyworth, and now I have… nothing
.

Fucking brilliant. Just fucking brilliant.

She shook off the bitterness and put her phone back in her bag. Bronte crossed the park and set about discovering the calming effects of high-end retail therapy on Oak Street along with an inner pep talk. She did
not
have nothing. She had her own life, which she had built. An education, which she had paid for. So what if he was basically the perfect man?

Fuck. All right. Let’s try that again.

She started to feel the wave of depression and self-pity that had defined the previous months, after she’d broken up with Mr. Texas. She clenched her fists and tensed her arms, as if she could ward off the encroaching misery like a sorcerer casting out a demon.

“No!” she barked out loud, then smiled at the older woman who passed her on the sidewalk, who was now probably wondering whether Bronte was sane.
No
, she repeated to herself silently. It had been a measly eight weeks with Max. It wasn’t
nothing
, but it didn’t have to be
everything
either. Bronte would have to carve it out like a lump. Or, barring that possibility, at least lock it up tight. The whole deal. It had to be objectified, that eight-week interlude. She had to distance herself from her own desperation.

If she granted herself even the slightest crack in that fortress of denial, she would be a wreck. There was no way in hell she could stop at a quick reminiscent thought of his sparkling gray eyes… without letting her mind wander to the wit and depth that resided behind them. And the man he must be when he was really in his element. In a castle. Strong. Authoritative. In some enormous Elizabethan four-poster bed… sexy as all… fuck.

Then again, it must be something miserable and pale, that life, if he wasn’t even willing to share it with her in the retelling. He must be bogged down with a string of meaningless ribbon-cuttings and charity fund-raisers. What a bore. (
Did
a
duchess
get
to
wear
something
new
to
every
event?
her treacherous mind wondered idly.)

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself. The saleswoman at Jil Sander was giving her the fisheye.

After a few mind-numbing hours pawing cashmere and silk and leather at Hermès and Jimmy Choo, Bronte met up with Sarah James at Le Colonial.

“You look really bad, Bron.”

“Gee, thanks, Sarah,” Bronte said in a deadpan voice as she cast a jealous stare at her friend’s perfectly coiffed blond hair, sexy figure, and impeccable wardrobe.

The waiter opened the bottle of Chablis that Sarah had ordered and poured a taste for her. Bronte set down her shopping bags and hung her purse on the back of her chair. Sarah spoke in perfect French to the tall, handsome waiter, and then he poured the crisp wine into Bronte’s glass, topped off Sarah’s, and set the bottle in the standing ice bucket near the table.

“I hate that you are all international like that.”

“I am not ‘all international like that,’” Sarah replied, but she smiled and took a sip of the expensive wine. “Well, maybe just a little. I may have inherited a bit of a penchant for the finer things in life from my grandmother, but there are worse legacies. Who am I to complain?”

“You’re right,” Bronte said as she raised her glass. “I’m not complaining.”

Bronte sipped her wine and continued to look across the narrow table at her elegant friend. She silently marveled at how Sarah had retained an air of grateful innocence that was completely at odds with her cosmopolitan adolescence, when she had lived in France with her wealthy grandmother. “Don’t change a thing,” Bronte added. “All that breezy sophisticated ease is going to make you a star.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Sarah said. “I mean, I hope people love my shoes in New York as much as they seem to like them here in Chicago, but you know, who knows?”

“I do. You are going to kick ass, Sarah. Seriously.”

“What did Cecily say? Was she furious?”

“No. She sort of assessed the situation like she does, then saw the beauty of it. She wants me to open BCA in New York.”

Sarah raised her glass. “Here’s to you and your victorious return to Gotham.”

Bronte raised her glass and smiled, then started crying involuntarily. “Oh my God.” She put the wineglass down and brought the napkin up from her lap to dry her eyes. “Oh my God. This is so unprofessional. I can’t believe I am crying right now.”

Sarah reached across the table and held Bronte’s free hand in hers. “It’s okay, Bron. You can’t be a machine all the time. From the first time we met, I had hoped we’d become friends. Are you sad about your British chap? You knew it was coming, didn’t you?”

Bronte took a deep breath and a deep gulp of ice water. “Of course, I knew it was coming. That was the whole point. Transitional Man. No heartbreak. But—” She closed her eyes and tried to let the emotion fade a bit. “But I guess I just didn’t anticipate the… reality.”

“Yeah. Reality can be… not what we anticipate,” Sarah said. “I don’t know if you know much about my family. I mean, I know you know about my dad and the stores and all that, but when my mother died, well, I kind of came to accept that reality is not to be trifled with.”

Bronte smiled and took another sip of wine. “I told you I was going to need a glass of wine.”

“I know. That’s why I had it cooling when you arrived.”

They talked for a few minutes about what they were going to order for lunch, then spoke to the waiter and got back to their discussion.

“So tell me more about the British guy. Couldn’t you try to do a long-distance thing?”

“I don’t think so. He asked me to go back to London with him.”

Sarah nearly choked on her sip of wine. “What? Did he ask you to marry him? Oh my God. Are you in love with him?”

Bronte laughed. “Sarah, you are like a puppy! No, he didn’t ask me to marry him. Really. How old are you?” Bronte held up her palm face out. “No! Don’t answer that; I know I am only five years older than you are, but you make me feel ancient. It’s not something I want to dwell on right now. We will market the hell out of your youth and exuberance, but just now it makes me feel grumpy.”

“I’m not sure being what my dad would call a dingbat is really a marketable skill.”

“That’s a laugh.”

“Well, you know what I mean. I never even went to college.”

“You know more about shoes than most scholars know about Shakespeare. That counts.”

“I know, I mean, I am proud of what I’ve accomplished, but the point is, oh, I don’t know what the point is!” She laughed and waved her hand. “I just want to hear more about the romance.”

“Well.” Bronte exhaled slowly and decided to keep the bulk of the royal details private. “The bottom line is that he lied to me and that was really the only thing I had told him was my total freak-out, crazy-making, do-not-go-there red flag.” Bronte knew it was a broad interpretation of the truth, but it helped to cast a little blame at his feet. “From the first time we got together, I told him that I had just gotten out of a hideous breakup and the only way I was going to heal, or whatever”—Bronte rolled her eyes at the foolishness of such a thing ever being possible—“was that I needed him to be totally honest with me.”

“Was he sleeping with someone else?”

“God, no. Nothing like that.”

“Then what? I thought you told me that you sort of loved how he didn’t care about your parents or where you grew up. That you two were sort of in a romantic vacuum.”

“I guess that was all partially true. But the thing he didn’t mention was bigger than any of that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s a fucking royal duke.” So much for discretion.

Sarah clapped her hands together and grinned with delight.

“How could you possibly have that reaction?” Bronte asked. “He totally lied to me. That is not just some detail he forgot to mention—that’s actually who he
is
.”

“Oh my God, is it Harry?”

“Of course it’s not Harry!”

“But isn’t he the only royal duke?” Sarah put a finger to her lip. “Wait, I don’t think he’s even a duke yet. And Andrew’s too old for you—”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I mean, your guy may be royal and he may be a duke, but I don’t think he’s a royal duke.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? What difference does any of that make?”

Sarah gave Bronte a taunting smile. “Exactly. What difference does any of that make, Bronte?”

“You are evil.” Bronte took another sip of wine. “Look. I guess he is technically still a marquess, I guess, and his grandmother was related to the Colin Firth king, so that’s why he’s royal. I don’t fucking know. It’s a courtesy title or something.” Bronte waved her hand again, as if those were considerations she’d never have to entertain again anyway.

“Oh, this is just too good.”

“Sarah.”

“Seriously. You had an affair with royalty.”

“And that is good because?”

“Oh, stop it with that. Just admit that it’s every little girl’s dream come true, you shrew. Admit it!”

Bronte smiled. “Okay, I admit it. He was pretty amazing. But”—her face fell again—“he was amazing when he was just a British guy finishing up his doctoral work at the University of Chicago. Why wouldn’t he just tell me the truth?”