“Oh, I, er, don’t eat pudding,” I lied, even though my inner pudding scoffer was wailing for whatever delicate confection was doubtless being plated behind the scenes. I knew that would be the one thing Mum would ask about—what had the royal pastry chefs created for pudding?
“Just as well. Don’t forget, dinner with Pavlos tonight,” said Boris.
“And his tiny robot army.”
“Sofia!”
I wondered if she was like this in court. I wouldn’t know whether to be relieved or very concerned that she was on my side.
*
Leo took my hand and led me back down the corridor toward the main area of the palace, past a crocodile of tourists in shorts who stared at us as we ducked under the red velvet rope separating the private apartments from the public tour.
I could hear the guide talking as we carried on through the state reception hall.
“… site of a Greek myth in which a peasant girl was turned into a rosebush by Zeus, in order to escape ravishing. The rosebush, which flowers all year round, can be found in the gardens to the front of the grounds. The castle, now the elegant villa you see around you, has been inhabited continuously since 1092 AD …”
“All nonsense,” whispered Leo. “I made up the bit about the Greek myth when I was fifteen, slipped it into the guide’s spiel. No one noticed.”
“You’re joking!” I whispered back.
“No, I had a bet with Sofia—she tried to get them to say that the peasant girl foretold that when a princess named Sofia was born, the rosebush would flower yellow, the succession would change, and a wise woman would inherit.” He paused. “Kind of gave herself away by telling them the future female ruler’s name would begin with S.”
“Good on her for trying, though,” I said. “At least she didn’t have some sea monster carrying you all off.”
Leo raised his eyebrows. “Don’t think she wouldn’t try.”
We were in the main hall now, an impressive open space with marble pillars, filled with oil paintings and huge vases—and tourists taking photographs of everything.
“It’s rush hour,” he explained. “We only let visitors in for three hours a day and during certain months, so it gets busy. Let’s take a shortcut.” He guided me down a black-and-white-tiled passage, past a sign in seven languages for the Princess Eliza Costume Collection one way, and the gardens in the other.
The palace smelled calm, of figs and sun-warmed stone, but the air changed the second I stepped into the gardens. At once the saltiness of ozone from the shimmering sea hit me, fizzing over a tumultuous rainbow of floral fragrances—old-fashioned roses sweetening the greenish notes of broad tropical leaves I’d never even seen before. I spotted copper markers in the soil picking out each plant, and if Leo hadn’t been by my side I’d have been nosing around each one, making notes and taking pictures for Dad.
Leo turned to me with a proud glint in his eye. “What does the English gardener think of the Italian gardens?”
“She loves them.” I couldn’t stop grinning. I really did. So many unusual flowers, tropical plants—it was how I imagined Jo felt when the new clothes arrived in Harvey Nichols. My fingers tingled, longing to touch everything.
“I want to show you the English garden.” Leo guided me down a set of steps, and I blinked at the spectacular view of the harbor below us, white yachts bobbing gently in the aquamarine water next to multicolored umbrellas. “I’ve asked the head groundsman to contact you about some of the roses you planted in London. I’d like to have the same ones shipped here.”
“Isn’t someone else in charge of decisions like that?” I asked, taking in the croquet-lawn smoothness of the pocket-size English garden. I had no idea how they’d managed to make cottage garden hollyhocks and lupines grow in one corner, with tea roses in another and scented wisteria climbing up an old brick wall; it was like something from Alice in Wonderland. “Don’t you have to go through your grandfather?”
“He’s a busy man. And he likes it when someone takes an interest in the gardens—the rest of the family tend to be more focused on the crown jewels and who’s got the apartments with the best views.” Leo put his arms round me and pulled me close. There was no one else around, but I cast an anxious glance toward the palace; I didn’t want to be spotted doing anything untoward.
And to be honest, I was twitchy about photographers. There’d been a particularly mortifying shot on YoungHot&Royal.com of me and Leo leaving the neighborhood bistro near his house; from the angle it was taken, it looked as if I was doing something very rude to his trousers. Which I wasn’t, seriously.
“Don’t worry about tonight,” Leo murmured into my hair. “Sofia will be on much better behavior when the rest of the family are around for dinner.”
“Is it a big dinner?” Nerves gripped my stomach as a mental image of a table full of tiaras and sashes flashed before me. The lunchtime banter squared with formal wear. “I mean, when you say the rest of the family—”
“That’s all it is, a family meal. Nothing official. Pavlos is here with his wife, Mathilde, and my cousins. They’re a bit younger than us. And Granddad will be here—just remember to be nice to his greyhounds, if he brings them.”
By now, the greyhounds were the only family members I felt at all comfortable about meeting.
“And if Mom tries to get you to—” He stopped. His phone was ringing inside his linen jacket. “Sorry, hang on.”
Leo’s expression changed as he picked up the call, and to my surprise he rattled off a stream of fluent Italian. I’d never heard him speak Italian before. It was very sexy. I decided I wanted to learn Italian ASAP.
Whatever the call was about, it made him tap his brow testily, and then hang up.
“Would you excuse me for a minute?” He touched my arm. “The office is trying to get hold of me, I need to send a quick e-mail. Can I get a drink sent down to you? Some lemonade? Iced coffee? What would you like?”
“It’s fine! I’m more than happy to potter round here.” I gestured toward the glorious flowerbeds. “You could leave me here all day.”
“Oh, but I won’t.” Leo grinned, then bounded up the stone steps and vanished behind the tall palm trees.
The Mediterranean sun was warm, and fat bees were buzzing around the lilac spikes of the lavender bushes. The honey from this garden must be the sweetest ever, I thought, full of sunshine and colors. I closed my eyes and smelled the pink roses nearest me, inhaling the powdery fragrance, then opened them to check the slate labels next to each one. I was so fascinated by the lengths to which someone had gone to bring the Cotswolds to the Mediterranean that I didn’t even notice there was someone else in the garden until a cultured voice said, “Are you a gardener?”
I looked up with a start. An elderly gentleman in a white linen suit was standing over me, his face shaded by an ancient gardening hat. Judging from the deep tan and the lines on his face, he’d spent a fair bit of time outside, as had the hat. I could make out a pair of sharp blue eyes underneath the floppy brim. The sharp eyes were taking me in, but not in an unkindly way.
“I’m admiring these slate labels,” I said. “I’m too disorganized to label my own borders, but I always mean to. Then I forget what I’ve planted.”
“Ah, one must always label. It’s like photographs. One never thinks one will forget names and places, but one always does.” He had a slight accent that I couldn’t quite place beneath the genial plumminess of an old-fashioned public school, and there was something devastatingly charming about his manner.
“That depends on how special the plants are.” I rose to my feet, hoping I hadn’t been looking too nosy. “Or how big your garden is, of course.”
“Indeed. And I have had a good few gardens in my time,” he said with a wistful smile. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you, my dear. It’s nice to see someone taking a moment to enjoy the roses, rather than snapping away with a camera.” He produced a small Tina pruning knife from his baggy jacket and cut an ap
ricot-yellow tea rose from the thick climber.
“My own favorite,” he said, presenting it to me with a courtly inclination of his head. “Lady Hillingdon. A dependable old climber, but very sweet. And the color of your rather lovely hair, if you’ll permit me to say so.”
“Thank you.” I buried my nose in the velvety petals, and decided not to think too hard about the reference to the climber. “Lady Hillingdon’s one of my favorite roses too. I’ve planted one of these in the garden I’m working on in London. It’s a historical rose garden, lots of traditional varieties like this.”
The old man tipped up the brim of his hat with a crooked finger, and raised his white eyebrow. “How interesting. I know London well. Whereabouts?”
“Kensington. Not too far from the Royal Albert Hall.”
The blue eyes twinkled conspiratorially. “Ah, yes. The Royal Albert Hall. Now, these are exquisite too, these deep pink blooms. Amy Robsart, do you know it? See, even the leaves have a fragrance.” He cut me another with a professional nip, and rustled the leaf between his fingers to release the smell.
I met his gaze over the top of the petals and found an equally old-fashioned shyness creeping over me in response to his chivalrous attentions. This was a man, I could tell, who’d known a rose to match the eyes, hair, and name of every film star in the marina.
I smiled. Even so, he still had the knack of making a girl feel special.
“Let me show you the red roses,” he said, offering me his arm, and we walked slowly along the thickly flowered beds, pausing to admire one variety or another. Soon I had a round posy of perfect roses, the thorns deftly removed, and a promise of cuttings to take home with me. From the man’s encyclopedic knowledge of the gardens and the proud way he reeled off answers to my questions about the care of them, I guessed he was either the head groundsman or—I wasn’t daft—Leo’s grandfather. I didn’t want to show myself up by asking, and in any case, it didn’t matter; we were talking plants, not palaces, and I was far more confident when it came to black spot and rust than I was on tiaras.
We’d probably have got through the whole conversation without mentioning the elephant in the rose garden if he hadn’t brought it up himself, but he did so with such grace that I barely had time to feel embarrassed.
We’d paused by a smallish stone fountain with a dancing woman at the center. Water was pitter-pattering off her outstretched arms in pretty arcs, and blush-pink rose petals from the climber wrapped around the nearby arch floated in the water.
“You like this statue?” he asked, with a sidelong glance.
“I do. It’s very elegant. Not too big.”
“It’s modeled on my mother. Adelaide. She was a wonderful dancer in her youth, although she wasn’t able to continue with it after her marriage, of course.” He left a discreet pause for me to catch up. “She also designed these gardens. These are her own roses here, named in her honor. Princess Adelaide—very delicate in appearance, but almost impossible to kill off with a bad winter. We prize our beautiful imported varieties here. They bring such strength and character to our garden.”
Oh, nuts. I wasn’t sure what to do now he’d told me who he was. Would a curtsy be appropriate? Could you do a retrospective one? I didn’t want to do the wrong thing. Prince Wilhelm didn’t have Liza’s “curtsy now” aura, but he had a definite old-school dignity about him that I wanted him to know I’d noticed.
I started to fumble with my skirt, but he just patted my hand and gave me three flowers on a stem, each one the color of ballet slippers.
“Please, no. No ceremony. One thing I enjoy most about these gardens is that here I am Willi, and I can talk with people who love these roses as much as I do. There is enough bowing and scraping inside. Outside, it’s the flowers who deserve the attention. And if I take an hour out of the day, at my age, then I will. What is the point of being a prince otherwise?”
He smiled, and I remembered what Leo had said about his grandfather’s playboy heyday in London: the wine, and the women, and the song. I could see that. I could definitely see that in his smile. I could see him in Leo’s rose garden, watching the dawn break over the wet grass from the summerhouse.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I said. “You’re very kind.”
“You must call me Willi,” he said solemnly.
“I’m Amy,” I said, and he took my hand and kissed it. That was the wrong way round, etiquettely speaking, but I was beginning to realize that hand-kissing was very much par for the course round here, royalty or not.
“And what have you done with Leo?” He gestured for me to sit down on the bench. It was identical to the benches in the Trinity Square garden, except instead of “To Dodger, a True Friend and Shooting Companion, 1985–1998” on the plaque, it read, “Princess Adelaide of Nirona and Svetland, a Mother, an Australian, a Gardener.”
“He’s dealing with his office inside.” I paused. “Has he told you about the rose garden? Has he shown you photographs of it now?”
Willi coughed, and I realized he wasn’t quite as fit as I’d thought. When I offered to go for some water, he waved away my concern.
“He has indeed. Leo has been sending me photographs, you know, of all the work you’ve been putting into my square. It’s brought back some wonderful memories for me.”
“Really?” I felt proud. “And do you like what we’ve done?”
Prince Wilhelm smiled distantly, as if an old film was running through his mind and he didn’t want to interrupt it. “I am very happy with what you’ve done,” he said. “Do you know, I met my wife in those gardens? We used to have supper in the summerhouse when Evelyn’s chaperone was otherwise engaged. I used to leave the light on, and Evelyn would pretend she was going to a dancing class in Marylebone and take a taxi, and we’d eat smoked salmon from Harrods and … It was all very innocent. But tea roses always remind me of those special evenings. I’m sure they will for you too. Such happy times.”
I blushed faintly at the “happy times” I’d already enjoyed in that garden without a single rose having yet bloomed. (Not like that.) “That’s what I love about gardening. Flowers always bring back memories for people, and they come back every year—if you’re reasonably careful.”
Prince Wilhelm sighed and nodded, and we sat on our bench gazing out over the English garden in companionable silence while white-winged butterflies flitted from bush to plant. A few French tourists wandered in with maps of the formal gardens, and he rose politely from the seat to answer their questions, very much the distinguished head gardener, albeit with a perfect French accent.
When an English couple wandered in, I did the same, and was able to advise them pretty thoroughly about growing similar flowers at home—what I didn’t know about pre-1925 English rose varieties by now wasn’t worth knowing. And halfway through my pruning advice, I caught Prince Willi gazing at me with a conspiratorial smile on his face, and without thinking, I winked.
And he, the Prince of Nirona, winked back.
Eighteen
I made my first solo appearance on the YoungHot&Royal website shortly after the weekend in Nirona. It was a bit of a wake-up call, to say the least. I’d had no idea that my hair had got so “out of control,” or that anyone would ever describe me as “mysterious.”
“But I’m the least mysterious person I know,” I protested to Jo, as we both stared at the home page in shock, transfixed by the banner headline “After Flora: Prince Leo’s Mysterious New Love Interest!” “How can they say I’m mysterious?”
“They mean they haven’t managed to find you on Facebook or in the back of Tatler.” Jo clicked on the comments box.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving an anonymous comment to say you’re a natural beauty. Your hair doesn’t need a Brazilian blow-dry, we don’t all have to look like Middleton clones.”
“What? Where does it say that? Jo, have you read this page before? You have, haven’t you? You’ve been Googling us again! Show me.” I leaned fo
rward, but Jo covered the screen with her hand.
“Nothing! It’s nothing. Go and make us a cup of tea.” She flapped her hand. “Go on. Tea.”
Reluctantly, I went through to the kitchen, trying not to let my imagination fill in the blanks.
Jo and I had repeated our solemn vow not to keep checking the royal gossip websites to see what they were saying about Rolf and Leo, but it was like accidentally eavesdropping on a conversation and hearing your own name mentioned, and then walking on by. As Jo said, only the virtuous or the very stupid wouldn’t care.
I was neither of those things, and I was freaked out, to say the least. Not just about what fashion verdict they’d slapped on my outfit (I was already regretting our gleeful hoots of derision at some of their comments about other royal girlfriends’ fashion mistakes) but what they’d managed to find out about me and, more to the point, my family.
When the photos of Jo and Rolf had been dissected on the site, they’d got a fair bit of mileage out of the Honorable Jo—between her various festival fringe shows, and her well-connected exes, and her frequently married parents, and her great-great-grandmother after whom the Prince of Wales’s fourth yacht was named (who knew?), there was a lot to hoot about. But they hadn’t found much to say about me with Leo until now, and we’d been dating for well over four months.
I stared blankly at the boiling kettle. Seeing this new post made something else fall into place. A photographer had been lurking around our house on and off for the past week; Jo had spotted him from the kitchen, and we’d left by the back door every day. He’d got bored by Thursday and rung the bell to ask to use the loo, but Mrs. Mainwaring had told him to get lost in very robust terms. It was a good job he hadn’t got Dickon’s bell, or he’d have been upstairs posing with just his long lens to cover his modesty before he could say “nudey angel.”
I made the tea, gave the tea bags one more dunk, and dropped them in the bin. A photographer hanging around our house to photograph Jo and me. It was surreal. Like it was happening to someone else. Except the evidence was right there on the Internet, for every single person in the world to read if they wanted to. And now putting “Amy Wilde” into Google would lead to this photo of me with three-day-old hair and a distracted (polite version) expression—possibly for the rest of my life.