Page 3 of How to Date a Prince

“Don’t worry, I understand.” I give a broad smile. Leila blushes. No doubt my father, the King, is following this program, and I’ll be hearing about it over breakfast soon enough—quite possibly tomorrow—with his guesses. The celebrities I follow the most are pop stars rather than actors. And soon, a message from my father pops up on my phone as if I’ve summoned him.

We need to set up a time to meet early next week to discuss an important matter which requires your attention.

I swipe the message away as a worry for future me.

But I haven’t forgotten it’s forty-five minutes more before I can retreat home to a quiet Friday night in my private sanctuary, where I can at last be myself—before duty calls once again. Forget television and the media. That’s the biggest reality in my life. Not figuring out who the secret mystery guest is on some show. Because reality TV and I have absolutely nothing in common.

ChapterTwo

For almost twenty-five years, I’ve sat on a secret: I’m no kind of prince.

And for the record, I’m no kind of princess either. The monarchy is undeniably gendered, and so, unfortunately, I’m officially Prince Augustus of Wales, which really is as terrible as it sounds, though my given name is after my mum’s dad. At least there’s a compromise on my nickname. Everyone close to me calls me Auggie.

It’s June and another rainy Saturday night in London. Rain splatters against the sash window in my Buckingham Palace bedroom suite. Droplets slide down the glass, and they break into tracks, crashing into one another. I swipe through the latestVogueandGQmagazines, both British and American versions. Digital copies are better to keep anyone from wondering what I’m doing with so many fashion magazines. To be fair, lusting after celebs like Harry Styles hasn’t gotten any royal anywhere, least of all me. But I’m giving this my best shot in case it actually does. Meanwhile, my giant ginger cat Camden sleeps flopped on my feet. He’s an unlikely rescue found at the Camden town tube station by my father’s valet. After Lauren couldn’t find his owners, I adopted him.

When there’s a rap on my door in my suite, I sit bolt upright as though I’ve been caught wanking. I drop my tablet face down on the luxurious bed with William Morris vines entangled on the duvet. “Come in.”

I take a quick look around in case anything too risqué is left out. Luckily, not this time.

Velvet and faux fur cushions—all garnet, amethyst, and sapphire—are scattered against the headboard, giving the somber décor some sparkle of life. I’m sitting amid this pile of fluff, my long legs folded up and my tablet braced against my knees. Dance music plays in the background from the speaker on the shelf that holds my old equestrian trophies and medals, gathering dust.

“Are you decent, Auggie?” calls a familiar male voice.

“Decentish.” I’m ready to lose myself in reading about fashion and art, my usual go-tos when I have a night off from royal duties, and I’m channeling my inner Harry Styles.

The door opens. Gav pokes his head in, giving me a broad grin like he has no worries. And maybe he doesn’t. It escapes me how he’s not in the doghouse like I am with Anne, because there’s room for two. Except Anne forgave him for something that didn’t even happen. “Hey.”

Gavin Foxton-Smythe—Gav to everyone who knows him—is everything you’d imagine a proper prince to be. Except he’s not a prince at all. But when he’s in a room, everyone’s gaze is on him, including mine. He’s stunning and charismatic, and he knows it. And one hundred percent shameless. The problem—several problems—is that he’s not an arse, and he’s also been dating my younger sister, Princess Anne, for some time. Anne would agree that I, in fact, am the arse.

“Hey yourself.” I shuffle to the edge of the bed. Meeting his gaze, I do my best to ignore the heat in my face.

Cue Gav, one of the sources of my troubles. He’s been my friend since we were boys at school together, long before he began dating Anne. Except lately, there’s a chasm between us. And it looks like he’s offering an olive branch.

“Do you want to come out dancing with us tonight?” Gav gives me his best smile as my mouth automatically opens to say no. His messy chestnut hair falls over his brow. Totally hot. “Stop right there. Auggie. You can’t live your life like some unfortunate princeling locked in a tower.”

Gav leans casually against the doorframe, his head tilted slightly back, like he’s part of the curated décor. His neck’s long and elegant, a dream to sculpt if given a chance.

Anne’s back after Easter Term at Cambridge, out for the summer—or, at least, what passes as an English summer, and this year, that means plenty of rain. Which explains why Gav’s here. As for me, I graduated three years ago, and it’s been full-on royal duties ever since. It’s too soon to go on for another degree quite yet. Especially not when there are plenty of questions around the King’s health. Anyway, all roads lead to the same inevitable end: the throne.

If my face was on fire before, it’s an inferno now. Move over, Dante. “Leave my unfortunate ancestors out of this.”

“Fine. I’ll focus on the current unfortunates.” He gives me a meaningful look, straightening. “Come on out with us tonight. Shake off those chains.”

“Us?” I meet his look with one of warning. “Does Anne know you’ve invited me?” I ask pointedly. Because guaranteed he didn’t tell her.

It’s his turn to look—fleetingly—caught out. “I did something better, actually,” he says carelessly, stepping back as Katie enters the room. She’s dressed for a night of dancing. Her raincoat’s unbuttoned, dress glittering, dark hair up.

I groan, even though I adore Katie. Hello, rock and hard place. Her grin is about as sheepish as Gav’s earlier one, bookending the encounter. She blushes, quickly breaking her gaze from mine, busying herself with her clutch.

“I can’t. You both know why not.” I wave a hand. My signet ring catches the light. “All the reasons.”

Everything’s stable and secure in my gilt cage, if dull. And lonely.

“And this is why you should come dancing. Mend fences with Anne and all that,” coaxes Katie, entering my room and stepping onto the plush rug. Her cheeks are still pink. “It’s ancient history, with Gav, anyway.”

“Anne doesn’t see it like that.” Reluctantly, I rise and look at Gav eye-to-eye. He smiles and shrugs. “Nothing happened.”

I secretly want my own Gav, but it’s an impossible dream because that would mean giving up the throne. There’s a hot, tight jab in my chest. Never mind romance and canoodling. That’s for other people. Not something that happens to me.

---