Page 1 of Royal Charmer
Chapter One
Alice
Only a badass would go on their honeymoon sans groom.
This is proof that I, Alice Segal, am a badass. You heard it here first, folks. You knock me down and I just get back up again stronger than ever. I can hardly believe I’m really here in the royal honeymoon suite of an honest-to-God palace on Villroy Island. I throw back the white duvet cover and sit up in my amazing four-poster hand-carved mahogany bed. A sheer white gauzy canopy overhead adds to the dreamy romantic feeling. And I know romance. I’m a historical romance author.
I snag my cat’s-eye glasses with silver hearts from the nightstand and slip them on. This two-hour nap can’t touch my sleep deprivation, but at least my brain is functioning again. I only dozed for a few hours during the long flight from Portland, Oregon. When I arrived here on Villroy Island, just off the coast of southwestern France, I figured a short nap would get me on the local time right away. I’ve got a full day of work ahead. Here’s the thing—I need this getaway for inspiration. My next book is due, like, yesterday to my publisher, and I haven’t written one word. First, I was too caught up in wedding preparations, and then, after Mason called the wedding off last week, I couldn’t even get off the sofa. My devout belief in romance is shattered, as is my heart, my soul, and my faith in humanity. I don’t want to talk about it.
Suffice it to say, Ilovelove, always have, and Mason killed that for me. Probably the worst thing you could do to a romance author on a deadline (or any woman with a beating heart). I force a deep breath and blink back threatening tears. I’m done with that now. Really. I’ve grieved and I’ve moved on.
Here are the facts:
1. Mason and I were together for a year, six months of which we were engaged.
2. He cheated on me with Riley for the last three months, unbeknownst to me,while we were engaged.
3. Riley has been my best friend since middle school.
She was the extrovert to my introvert, a deeply trusted confidante, and the one person I could always turn to. Except how can you turn to your best friend when you’re devastated over something she did?
The good news is—yes, there is good news, which is why I’m not currently curled up in a ball crying my eyes out—I just woke up with a fantastic idea in my head. My editor will be so pleased. Even if I turn in a rougher draft than usual, as long as I turn something in by the deadline, two weeks from now, I’m good. I never planned to write on my honeymoon, yet here I am, trying really hard not to freak out. It’s write-the-damn-book-or-get-fired time. This is the much anticipated third book in a trilogy set in Regency England. I grab my phone and call my editor, Quinn, to share the good news. We’re close, and I just know her excitement will feed mine and bring back my much-missed writing mojo. Voicemail.
Okay, no problem. I will use this time productively. I pull out a small notepad and scribble down my idea before it can scamper away; then I tour the guest suite, taking notes. I was too tired before to really take it in. It’s not often you get a chance to stay at a centuries-old palace. Since the honeymoon was already paid in full, I went for it, figuring the change of scenery would be just what I needed, and so far that’s true. I’ll use some of the details of the suite for my hero’s residence. It really is lovely. The master bedroom is filled with antique mahogany furniture with elaborate carvings. Golden sconces on the walls resemble candles, and there are two shimmery light gold columns on either side of the bed, with adorable cherubs perched on top. I sniff the air. It smells like lavender, a soothing scent. Perfect.
A round table holds a crystal vase of roses, an ice bucket, and a single champagne flute. Only one thick white robe hangs in the wardrobe. I called ahead to mention I was traveling solo, and it’s nice not to have couple reminders. Otherwise, I might get stabby. Ha-ha. No worries. I’m mostly stable.
I wander into the living room of the suite, my eye catching on a fantastical sea painting on the ceiling with mermaids and nymphs. Riley and I used to puzzle over mermaids and how they had sex. This was during the height of our middle school obsession with fantasy creatures. I stare straight ahead, collecting myself for a moment, but my chest still feels tight like Mason and Riley are sitting on my lungs, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. I need fresh air.
I grab my phone and stuff it into the pocket of my pretty pink with white flowers travel dress. I love this dress mostly because it’s super roomy, long, and it has pockets. I’m what you call a curvy girl, though I don’t know why people must reference me in terms of my body in the first place. Unfortunately, I have seen that description more than once in articles written about me (also full-figured and plus-size woman). Who cares if I shop in the plus-size section? Plus what? Comfortable reasonably sized material? I’d much prefer to be called an interesting woman or a witty smart woman, which I am, than a curvy or plus-size one. I blame the patriarchy. Also Hollywood, fashion, and just about every women’s magazine. Hmph. I slip my feet into my black chunky-heeled sandals and head to the mirror, where I smooth my nap-rumpled dirty-blond hair down. I lean closer, lowering my glasses down my nose for a better look at—damn, therearebags under my eyes. I’m twenty-three, much too young for bags. I shove my glasses back in place. I just need one good night’s sleep and that will clear right up.
I whirl and head straight out the door of my suite.
A maid appears out of nowhere in the white button-down shirt and black pants all the servants wear around here. I’d been hoping for something a little more traditional in the way of uniforms. I pictured the maids in black dresses with white frilly aprons, along with footmen in formal coats with tails, and a butler in a tux. At least the butler was wearing a black suit.
She smiles. “Hello, ma’am, I’m Christina. May I help you with something?”
“Hello.” I point down the hallway. “I’m just going out for some fresh air.”
“Ah. You might enjoy the palace courtyard. It leads to the formal gardens.”
“Wonderful. If you could just point me in the right direction.”
She begins an elaborate description of twists and turns and landmarks along the way that quickly turns to white noise in my beleaguered exhausted brain.
“Could you take me there, please?” I ask.
“Of course, ma’am.”
We begin our walk, heading for the stairs. “How’re you enjoying your stay so far, ma’am?” There’s a soft hint of sympathy in her voice. It seems she’s been informed I’m here on a solo honeymoon.
I immediately squash any pity heading my way. “Everything is great. Could you tell me more about the history of the palace?” I majored in history in college, which has come in very useful for writing historical romance. Not sure that Yale would like to take credit for contributing to my sexy romance novels, but hey, I appreciate the fine education.
Christina dutifully launches into the palace’s history. Unfortunately, I’m too tired to process it all. I’m with her in the beginning with the Vikings, who sailed here with their Irish wives from an early Irish settlement and constructed a round stone fortress. She loses me somewhere along the second fire.
“We’re here, ma’am,” she says, stopping by a wooden door in a long hallway lined with windows. “The gardens are just past the courtyard.” She points toward it through the window. It’s a nice view of a grassy courtyard flanked by the east and west wings of the palace with manicured formal gardens in the distance.
“Thank you.”
