Authors: Sophie Page
To Marry a Prince
One night is about to change Bella’s life for ever…
Bella Greenwood isn’t a fairytale girl. If pushed, she’d probably tell you that her perfect wedding would involve a handful of close friends and family. But as she’s never met anyone she’d like to marry, it’s a moot point.
Until, in a midnight garden, Bella is helped out of an embarrassing situation by a tall, dark, handsome man with laughing eyes. And suddenly her life changes for ever, because the man is the world’s most eligible bachelor: Prince Richard, heir to the throne.
Richard sweeps her off her feet, and before she knows it they’re engaged. Which is when Bella’s problems really begin. Suddenly she is public property, and as if it isn’t enough to have her every move watched – while also learning to curtsy and negotiating the etiquette of how to address her future mother-in-law – she soon finds herself embroiled in bridesmaid politics, a right royal hen night, and a wedding dress controversy that causes a national scandal …
Can this ordinary girl survive the preparations for her very own Royal Wedding?
Sophie Page is the author of several novels, and lives in London. Visit her at
www.sophie-page.co.uk
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN 9781446472385
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Arrow Books 2011
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Jenny Haddon, 2011
Jenny Haddon has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by
Arrow Books
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
www.rbooks.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 97800990560456
Contents
To my favourite authors,
thanks for all the fizz, fun
and friendship – especially
KF and EMR, you know why.
Britain
as it might have been …
1
‘Heir to the Throne Dumped Again’ –
Royal Watchers Magazine
Bella Greenwood arrived back in London two months earlier than she was supposed to. It was the end of September, a cold Friday, and her credit card was still de-activated, which she expected. And she couldn’t call and revive it because her mobile phone was as dead as a dodo, which she didn’t.
Suddenly her backpack seemed awfully heavy. She put it down and sat on it while she considered her options. She knew what Granny Georgia would say: ‘There’s always another path. A sensible woman will find it.’
‘OK,’ said Bella, flexing her tired shoulders. ‘What’s the other path here?’
In the end, she found a public telephone that took coins and, after failing to connect with her mother, ended up speaking to her stepfather at work, as the machine swallowed the coins at an alarming rate.
‘Costa Coffee, Waterloo Station, five o’clock,’ he yelled as the beep started.
So Bella made her way across London and sat at one of the shiny silver tables, trying to warm her hands
round a mug of coffee and scanning the commuter crowds for Kevin Bray’s tall figure. But in the end he was nearly upon her before she caught sight of him.
‘Look, Bella,’ he said, plonking himself down in the chair opposite, ‘it’s good to see you, of course, but this weekend is just not on. Your mother’s got people staying. Your room’s occupied. I’m sorry.’
Bella had been travelling for four days by then. All she wanted Kevin to do, really, was pick up her backpack, shepherd her on to the train and take her back to the comfortable Hampshire villa where she could have a warm bath and climb into her bed and sleep for about a hundred years.
A hug would have been nice, too. But she was philosophical about that. Kevin was not a natural hugger and Bella had come into his life too late for him to adjust his habits. Kevin had many qualities that her natural father, H. T. Greenwood the explorer, lacked, most notably not being out of the country all the time. So Bella was reconciled to there being no hug.
But no bath, no bed, no monster sleep either? This couldn’t be happening.
‘Not on?’ she echoed, bewildered. Jet lag always slowed her down.
Kevin could not quite meet her eyes. ‘It’s this Charity Ball tomorrow night. Your mother’s on the Committee. Been working on it for months. We’re taking a party, of course. The house is full. You know your mother.’
Yes, Bella knew what her mother was like. She fought down brain fog and interpreted. ‘You mean, she doesn’t want me home because she’s partying with the movers
and shakers of Much Piddling in the Wold.’
Kevin was shocked. He was a nice man. ‘Of course not. She wants you home. We both do. She can’t wait to see you. Only—’
Bella sagged. ‘Only not this weekend.’
‘There’s so much to do and the house, well, it’s—’
‘Full. You said.’
He winced. ‘Sorry. If we’d only known. But we thought you were staying out on your island until after Christmas.’
‘So did I,’ said Bella, desolately. But her words were lost in the echoing station announcements and the stampede of Friday night commuters.
‘You should have let us know sooner,’ said her stepfather firmly. ‘Call your mother on Sunday after the ball and she’ll sort out a date for you to come down. You’ve got somewhere to stay?’ And, before she could answer, ‘You’ll need some cash, I bet. Won’t have had time to sort yourself out, if you only got in this afternoon.’
He had come prepared. He stuffed a wad of notes into Bella’s hand and cast a harassed look at the departures board. It was clicking away, replacing lists of departed trains with those that would go any minute now.
‘Look, I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my train. Your mother sends her love. ’Bye.’
He kissed Bella’s cheek awkwardly and stepped back, nearly stumbling over the corner of the backpack. He righted himself just before he had to see it, and strode off before she could protest.
Bella would have called after him, but a sudden yawn
nearly took her head off. And then he was gone in the crowd.
Her eyes burned with tiredness. She looked down at the notes in her hand. They were fifties, she saw, a big fat pin cushion of £50 notes. And then she realised – he must have given her enough money to pay for a hotel in London for the whole weekend.
The very thought of finding a hotel, checking in,
talking
, made her want to sink down on to the shiny floor of the concourse and go to sleep right where she was.
But she was a seasoned traveller now and she knew from experience, not just Granny Georgia’s homilies, that you did not go to sleep until you were indoors and safe. If her old mobile had been working, she would have texted her best friend, Charlotte Hendred. But as it was, she had to start with the public telephone system again.
‘Man is a problem-solving animal,’ said Bella between her teeth.
She stripped one of her stepfather’s £50 notes off the wad, stuffed the rest inside her bra and hauled her backpack on to her shoulders. She bought some chocolate, along with an expensive glossy magazine, so that the man on the till didn’t mind giving her change for £50, and started the business of tracking down Lottie.
It didn’t take long. Bella couldn’t remember her mobile number but she knew the name of the big PR agency where her friend worked. She found the number and the switchboard found Lottie in seconds.
‘Bella!’ she squeaked. ‘Where are you?’
‘Waterloo.’
‘Belgium?’ said Lottie, bewildered. ‘You’ve left the island?’
Bella choked with laughter. ‘Waterloo Station. I’m home.’
Lottie squeaked quite a bit more at that. She was probably bouncing on her seat, thought Bella, warmed.
‘Look, Lottie, it was all a bit last-minute and I haven’t organised myself anywhere to stay—’
And Lottie, who had known Bella for ever, did not say, ‘What about your mother’s place? Where’s your father? Can’t you stay with your brother and his wife?’ She said, ‘Great. Crash
chez moi
. Can’t wait to catch up. In fact, I’m closing my laptop even as we speak. I’ll be home in half an hour. Race you.’
So Bella blew some more of her stepfather’s cash on a taxi to the Pimlico flat and got her hug from Lottie, followed by the promise of several bottles of wine and a blissful shower.
‘I’ve made up your bed. Now tell all,’ said Lottie as Bella padded out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, with her blonde hair dark and dripping.
The wine bottle was already open on the low coffee table. Lottie poured two generous glasses as Bella sank into the deep sofa with a sigh of pure bliss.
