The Royal We Read Online Free PDF Page A

didn’t already know from People . The day I got accepted to Oxford, she dragged her old Royal Family commemorative issue from the dusty archives under her bed, and showed me pictures of three-year old Nick roaming Balmoral’s moors in buckle shoes and a tweedy plaid jacket, or waving from the Buckingham Palace balcony during a state occasion while Freddie waggled his tongue. None of it did much to create an image of an actual person; just a poster boy, a character in a far-off story.
    “I did hear a rumor his room is totally bulletproof,” I told Lacey. “But that’s about it.”
    “Maybe he’s just not that friendly.”
    “Well, but he’s not un friendly,” I explained. “He just socializes really sporadically.”
    “Shy, maybe?” she wondered. “Like his mom? She’s basically a hermit. Or maybe he takes after Prince Richard. I read that he’s super stiff.” Lacey let out a puff of frustration. “It’s killing me not tosee for myself. Some people swear Nicholas has a wooden leg and that’s why he never plays polo anymore.”
    “That’s ridiculous. Are prosthetics even made of wood anymore?”
    “You’re missing the point,” Lacey groused, but she was laughing. “I would kill to have a prince three doors down. Take pity on me and go make out with him, please.”
    “I can’t, Lace. I already kissed his friend. And don’t you remember? He will never—”
    “Marry an American,” we finished in unison.
    Lacey let out a girlish giggle. “I still can’t believe she actually said that to you.”
    I had seen Nick alone once more, on my third day, about thirty seconds before my inaugural conversation with Lady Beatrix Larchmont-Kent-Smythe. I’d forgotten my robe and towels in Iowa, so until I bought new ones—which was, naturally, exactly what I’d been planning to do on the day in question—I’d been wrapping myself in the tiny terrycloth loaner from the college and sprinting to my door. It had worked, until I bumped smack into Nick as he was coming into the bathroom. My bucket of toiletries went flying, including a box of tampons I’d left in there, raining feminine hygiene products all over him. It sounds like a quirky meet-awkward from act one of a romantic comedy, but it was mortifying, and I didn’t have the advantage of being well-lit and cutely dressed. Or dressed, period.
    “Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry.” I frantically tried to pick everything up without flashing him.
    “No trouble,” Nick said, gallantly gathering my scattered stuff. He was wearing ratty maroon gym shorts that proved definitively his legs were made of very nice muscle rather than wood. “Tricky business having to bring so much stuff to the shower.”
    “Thanks for helping,” I said, feeling like an idiot. “Forecast for today did say ‘sunny with a chance of Tampax.’”
    Syphilis and Tampax. That’s what I’ll call it when I crack and write my own version of The Bexicon .
    Nick kept his head down, but I saw his cheeks flush. He later told me that he’d never even said the word tampon , much less had to handle any, which of course made sense: Who sends the eventual leader of the Commonwealth out for lady supplies? Like the pro I would soon realize he is, though, Nick brushed it off, scooping up the last tampons and dropping them in their box before tossing it to me gently and continuing on his way.
    As the bathroom door swung shut behind him, I heard a loud throat clearing and turned to face the one and only Lady Bollocks, polished and perfect in riding jodhpurs and a white button-down shirt.
    “How trite,” she said. “ Accidentally running into him wearing a glorified hand towel.”
    “You’re Bea, right?” I said, awkwardly rearranging myself so I could clasp closed my towel and still shake her hand. “I’m Bex.”
    “I know,” Bea said, making no move to meet the gesture. “And let’s be clear, Rebecca . Your little…whatever that was…is a waste of your time. He will never. Marry. An