Page 2 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Two

F or 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 latest Vogue and GQ magazines, 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.

Too bad things ended with Prince Theodor.

We spent a few urgent, lustful weekends together back in uni.

Luckily for Theo, he was the spare heir to the throne, so he could model and design interiors and play across Europe with no fucks to give, the lucky arsehole.

And play he did. We agreed on a private, no-strings pact for all the royal reasons.

For both our sakes. And then he found a real boyfriend without the bonus royal baggage.

Which left me privately gutted when it ended.

“Let’s find something for you to wear.” Katie walks over to me in the cutting silence. My gaze shifts to her while I suppress memories with a cough. “You can’t stay in forever.”

“I’m committed to trying. Unless it’s a royal engagement.

” I run a hand absent-mindedly through my hair.

For the last six months, I’ve been a recluse, more so than usual.

I need to focus on my responsibilities now, especially since my father’s stepped back somewhat from public engagements to take care of his health.

And I do care about the throne because I wouldn’t want to disappoint my mother, who died a couple of years ago.

One day, she had said to me while we rode our horses together at Sandringham along a sun-dappled trail, you’ll be King and a role model.

It’s a privilege and an honor, she told me.

So now I worry about our legacy, about disappointing the family, my mother’s memory, and my father, the King, who usually hides in his study, binge-watching as much reality TV as he can find when he’s not busy being a workaholic as he can manage these days or off on the occasional trip.

I guess we all have our own ways of dealing with grief.

Katie takes me by the hand to the walk-in wardrobe. She pulls out a sequined black shirt and somewhat slutty jeans, an old favorite. Things I haven’t worn out since uni.

“People will recognize me?—”

“I’ve thought of that.” Katie has a determined look in her eye. “I’ve brought some spray-in hair color.”

“And I’ve brought you a ball hat and glasses,” adds Gav. “We’re all putting on disguises tonight. No one will know who we are.”

I narrow my eyes at them. They’re both far too smooth, as if they’ve rehearsed these lines. “How long have you been planning this?”

Katie waves me off, shaking her head like she knows better. She’s still pink. Or again. I’m not sure. She adjusts her hair. “The night’s only beginning.”

Taking a deep breath, I look at the hopeful faces of my friends. My gaze flickers from Katie to Gav’s. It’s safer to look at him.

“Please, Auggie,” he murmurs in a way that leaves my stomach at the molten core of the Earth. Or possibly he’s manifesting a black hole I could quietly go off and die in. My heart thunders. A death in an adjacent galaxy has a certain appeal.

I open my mouth again to protest as I ball up my fists. My shoulders are tight.

“It’ll be fine.” Gav brims with his typical easy confidence. “You’ll see.”