Royally Yours

By Megan Frampton and Liz Maverick

In this romantic comedy for fans of Love Actually, sparks fly across London as the lives of ten people collide on the day before the highly anticipated Royal Wedding. 

 

Nothing brings people together like the promise of happily ever after. All of London is abuzz with anticipation: everyone from the New York paparazzi flown in to catch the money shots to the maids at Buckingham Palace. And every one of them has their own chance at true love. 

 

But when the (literal) princess bride and her maid of honor go missing, will love prevail? Or is a fairytale ending impossible, even for royalty? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Realm
• Release date: Mar 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781682102695

Megan Frampton

Megan Frampton writes historical romance under her own name and romantic women's fiction as Megan Caldwell. She likes the color black, gin, dark-haired British men, and huge earrings - but not in that order. She lives in Brooklyn, New York with her husband and son.

Book preview

1. The Paparazzo and the Queen's Guard

Liz Maverick

Gwen

T-minus one day to the biggest wedding in the world. Standing on the sidewalk outside the Grand Hotel, Gwen Parker squinted into a surprisingly bright Friday morning in the center of London and confirmed her decision to give her latest crazy scheme a shot. Crazy had already proven to be surprisingly effective. She was having the best week ever of her career. There was no reason to back off now.

Gwen was no stranger to London, but in the run-up to the royal wedding between Prince Richard and his bride-to-be, American singer Meredith Bast, something special had happened to the city.

It wasn’t simply the novelty of seeing familiar haunts plastered with excessive amounts of springtime flowers, Union Jack bunting, and ridiculous commemorative souvenirs.

It was the communal sense of pure, unbridled joy.

Gwen tossed her empty coffee cup in a trash can and took in a deep breath, a little high on the vibe. She absently patted her camera, confirming it was still at her hip, and gave herself a moment to soak in this new version of London. It sure was nice while it lasted. The sunshine included.

The city was packed, with tourists and locals alike shoulder to shoulder at every corner, but everyone took the crowds in stride. Even a seasoned New Yorker like Gwen would have a hard time frowning at the fun and the fantasy of this occasion.

So, yeah, she’d walked these streets a hundred times before. She’d come plenty close to royals before. She’d gotten lucky with her photos from here in the past, although not as lucky as today. But there was something special about a divorced American celebrity marrying into the British Royal Family. Like anyone—even one who’d been as doomed in love as Gwen—could find their prince.

As she walked the popular route between her hotel and Buckingham Palace, she recognized more than a few fellow paparazzi. She called out a greeting as she passed a British photographer alongside whom she regularly shot celebrities and royals coming out of nightclubs and restaurants.

He made an X with two fingers as he barreled past her on the crowded sidewalk, shouting, Nice get, Yankee.

X? Ah, ex. She grinned and gave him a mock salute, acknowledging the praise. He wouldn’t hesitate to trample her for a great shot, but at least he gave credit where it was due.

Which meant Gwen was sure to score a free drink off him the next time the photog scrum met in the belly of the Hound once the wedding chaos was over; her shot of Meredith’s ex-husband entering a London hotel was currently featured on top of the Daily Mail’s website. Not to mention, she could probably get the photographer to spring for a side of Scotch eggs when he got around to seeing her credit on that sneak preview of Princess Georgina’s wedding hat too.

Between the two photos, Gwen’s bank account was going to be squarely in the black. Nice.

Maybe she should pack it in and take care of some other projects. Go rest on her laurels. Save some energy for the wedding day tomorrow. But there was still plenty of time to get one more winner, and make those other photog boys who liked to stand in front of her at shoots pay some overdue respect.

Being a paparazzo wasn’t rocket science, but Gwen didn’t just leave getting her shots to chance. She researched, she planned, she memorized diagrams and floor plans and timed things out. Doing all this homework had finally paid off with an unbelievable amount of success this week, and she had an idea for one more, the cherry on the sundae.

A shot of the wedding preparation from inside Buckingham Palace.

You could say she’d done her homework there, too, but she hadn’t planned to sleep with Jack Churchill last New Year’s Eve for strategic reasons. Meredith Bast hadn’t even received her royal proposal back then.

Nope, Gwen slept with Jack because he was tall, dark, and handsome with a swoon-worthy British accent and the sort of contradiction of personality that spoke to both mind and body: perfect manners at the bar and just the right amount of bad behavior upstairs in her hotel room. It was complete coincidence that he’d come into the Hound—a popular watering hole under her rooms at the Grand—that night for drinks with his buddies, all of them active-duty soldiers who’d received the honor of a stint with the Queen’s Guard.

She hadn’t asked Jack to practice his favorite military maneuvers on her after midnight because she was a paparazzo who liked to take pictures of royals and he had a key to Buckingham Palace. And it wasn’t because she had an inkling that a royal wedding was coming down the pike and she was setting herself up for a clear shot through her telephoto lens.

If she’d done something that gross, at least she would have done it properly and not snuck out of bed before he woke up in the morning.

It was because Jack Churchill was hot, flirty, and the perfect ratio of gentleman to soldier. No strategy. Just good, old-fashioned, drunken, primal attraction.

Anyway, she’d always kind of regretted sneaking out of bed like that. It was a defensive maneuver. A knee-jerk reaction to being post-sex friend-zoned too many times by sweet-talkers who purposely gave her the wrong idea to get into her pants in the first place.

And there was nothing to say she wasn’t wrong to leave Jack behind in such a way. Maybe it was meant to be; having a one-night stand with a guy who guarded Buckingham Palace suggested that he’d recognize her—and hopefully help her—without the baggage of a failed relationship to make him think twice.

The gates of Buckingham Palace were absolutely packed with people awash in a sea of red, white, and blue. It took her a good twenty minutes to plow her way to the front, and that was with throwing plenty of elbows. (Well, not at the children and little old ladies. Gwen liked to think she had standards.)

When she finally made it to the front of the mass of giddy humanity, she saw him.

Jack Churchill was on duty as expected, standing proudly in the sentry box. The red coat molded to his broad chest and the dark blue trousers emphasized his height. Six feet and counting, Gwen thought a little breathlessly. The furry skyscraper hat was a wild card. She bet it could look a little nuts on some of the guys, but on Jack Churchill, it just made him look British and badass.

These people could only imagine what he was like out of uniform.

Gwen grinned. She didn’t have to imagine.

Well, she was at the right place. Her plan wouldn’t work with just any guard. It had to be him.

Hi, Jack, she called, approaching with camera in hand. It was always weird to go up to the Queen’s Guard in front of the public, but the camera acted like a kind of shield.

Naturally, he didn’t answer.

Hi, I’m Gwen. You know, the redhead from New Year’s Eve? She pointed to her hair. She’d tamed her usual mass of bright curls into a much more constrained style, something that wouldn’t attract as much notice if one was to, oh, say, find oneself inside the palace on ad hoc business. No easy feat, but necessary if she was going to pull this off.

Queen’s Guardsman Jack Churchill didn’t move a hair.

Of course, the Queen’s Guard wasn’t allowed to acknowledge or respond unless they were being threatened, and even then, the most they were supposed to do was point that bayonet rifle at you and shout, Make way for the Queen’s Guard!

They’d practiced exactly such a scenario together on New Year’s Eve, only he’d used something else as a stand-in for his bayonet.

Gwendoline Parker? American photographer from New York? Ringing any bells? I had a great time with you. . . . Shit. Okay, this is getting embarrassing. She thought he’d at least throw her a spark of recognition or something. Maybe he really didn’t remember her. Nah, that was hard to believe. They’d worked on international relations that night for a solid four hours at least.

Gwen pretended to search through her camera bag. If her research paid off correctly, this was just about the end of his two-hour shift.

Well, here goes nothing. Gwen took a deep breath and prepared to cause a scene.

• • •

Jack

Seriously? Oh, he remembered her. Gwen Parker was the girl who never looked behind her. The girl who had something to do. The girl who ran. From her own hotel room, no less. He struggled for a moment not to laugh. She’d left him alone in her bed after a very memorable New Year’s Eve before he could get her number. It was an unfortunate oversight, but he couldn’t actually regret it. They did, after all, have their hands full all night.

Now, here she was, standing there with a camera and a not-guilty look on her face. She was staring at him like she kind of forgot she was supposed to be taking a picture or something. She was also staring at him like her mind might likewise be replaying the greatest hits of their night together.

She’d pulled her hair up in a fancy twist and she was wearing a serious blazer instead of a sequined strapless thingy, but this was definitely the same girl.

Jack forced his eyes to focus away from her. The last thing a guardsman at Buckingham Palace needed was a stiffy. Not that anybody would notice through the heavy wool trousers, but while he often enjoyed the opportunity to be in his own head and process his thoughts during a shift, standing still for two hours with a massive cockstand was another story.

So he told his brain to go think of something else besides Gwen in bed on New Year’s Eve, and scrolled his mind for distraction. He tried counting things, many things—people in his range of vision who had Gwen’s ginger hair, the number of times someone (erroneously) shouted the words Hey, beefeater! trying to get his attention—and then he recited poetry and song lyrics, and started planning a week’s worth of dinners until he noticed from his peripheral vision that Gwen was swaying slightly, one hand up to the side of her head.

Bloody hell. The girl is going down!

• • •

Gwen

One . . . two . . . three.

On three, Gwen buckled at the knees and fell, sprawling on the ground in a manner that would have made her improv troupe back home proud. Except . . . Yeah, ow. A sharp pain shot through her temple. Like she’d managed to fall on a small rock or something. Well, shit. That was lame.

She stayed on the ground and touched her head. Big mistake. Her fingers came away bloody, which promptly made her sad-ass self totally nauseated. You big baby, Gwen.

Even worse, Jack was leaving his post. Leaving without a backward glance at her pathetically sprawled on the ground. Maybe he doesn’t remember. Maybe that night was just one of many, many. . . . Ew, that’s so gross.

She frowned. He doesn’t even care that I am possibly in dire need of medical attention. He doesn’t know I was faking it up until I actually made myself legitimately nauseated.

It felt like the blood was sliding down the side of her head. If she had to look at it again, she was going to lose it. And, strangely enough, it really bothered her that Jack hadn’t remembered her. Even if she had been intending to fake a faint and deserved to be ignored, Gwen realized that she’d been excited about the prospect of seeing him again.

A nice lady in a team meredith sweater decorated by a trim of British and American flags helped her to a sitting position. I’m good, Gwen said loudly, to shake off additional help. The biggest issue was making sure she didn’t bleed on herself. She’d dressed for the palace today, a stereotype of the super-efficient behind-the-scenes wedding planner working-bee sort, which meant a crisp white blouse, navy blazer, dark skinny trousers, and the navy version of those nude L.K.Bennett pumps the duchess was so fond of. All this capped off by a lightweight travel trench currently threaded through the straps of her designer messenger bag.

She rummaged in said bag and found a lens cloth, which she used to plug the cut on her head. Everything’s fine, Gwen said, swatting away the bystanders who were trying to help her. Damn waste of an afternoon. You’re getting exactly what you deserve. Nothing.

She stood up and sent a woeful look at the new guard who’d taken up his shift in Jack’s place. And then she did a double take.

Jack Churchill was barreling toward her like a soldier on a rescue mission, parting the crowd like a grenade was about to go off. He’d dressed hastily. In fact, he was underdressed for the weather. Like he’d taken off his uniform very quickly somewhere behind the scenes and hadn’t put on a sweater before running back out to her.

To me?

TO ME.

When Jack finally reached her, all Gwen could do for a moment was stare; he looked massive from her vantage point on the ground. Tall, sleek dark skin, beautiful brown eyes. Particularly fine forearms, all muscled and delicious and . . . uh-oh. Jack’s brown eyes narrowed at her, looking all business. That’s fine, Gwen. Get over yourself. That’s all this is. Business.

Put your arm around my neck, Jack said, and his voice was just like Gwen remembered. And then he lifted her in his arms and carried her the way a prince would a fairy-tale princess, behind the gates of Buckingham Palace and toward the guardhouse.

Bingo.

With great purposeful strides, carrying her as if she weighed nothing, Jack Churchill spirited Gwen away from the public. He hurried, though, which gave her the impression that he either thought she was worse off than she was or he didn’t want to run into anybody.

In no time at all, Jack brought her inside the west side of Buckingham Palace around the area where she recalled the guardhouse was from her diagram. He turned a couple of quick corners, then pushed her through a door into an extremely small room with stone walls.

At which point he gently deposited her on a cot.

To distract herself from the temptation of doing a fist pump while yelling, I’m in Buck-fucking-ham Palace! she took stock of the room. Her eye caught on wall hooks holding a couple of hangers—a garment bag for his uniform and a more casual jacket for the outdoors. A miniscule side table held a roll of paper towels, a box of tissues, and a metal military-issue first aid kit.

Her eye went to the tiny kitchen area—not even a kitchen. A sink and a mirror, a rigged-up shelf for snacks . . . and an electric teakettle plugged into an extension cord poking through a hole in the wall.

And then her eyes landed back on Jack, with his long legs clad in jeans, crossed at the ankle by a pair of tan military-style boots. His upper body sported only a white T-shirt that was snug enough to show off every goddamn muscle in his chiseled physique.

She forced her gaze up to his face. Jack Churchill did not look pleased. Well, he was going to look even less pleased soon, but he didn’t know that yet.

• • •

Jack

It was all coming back now. Jack remembered how much fun it had been spending time just shooting the breeze with Gwen at the pub, even before their epic roll in the sheets. She was plenty full of shit, of course, being a paparazzo, but full of spirit, too. From his perspective, Gwen had managed to find in her own life the equivalent of Jack’s ideal sweet spot. That which was located between the hardscrabble danger of a soldier’s life on duty in hot spots abroad and the quiet honor of his stint as a Queen’s Guard now.

She’d figured out how to turn real life into an adventure, and he recalled very distinctly how every second of their acquaintance at the Hound had felt as if he’d discovered something—someone—extraordinary. She’s got something special, this one. And then, of course, he’d blown it by going too fast and taking her to bed. And then she’d blown it more by running away even faster.

Where are we exactly? Gwen asked.

It’s kind of an unofficial break room.

Yours alone?

Yes. There are nooks and crannies like this all over. You earn the use of one via seniority.

Cool . . . ow. Gwen pulled at the gray cloth she’d been holding up to her head, looked at the blood-soaked fabric, and blanched. Jack pulled himself out of his reverie and went to retrieve the first aid kit.

You want to tell me what’s going on? he asked, pulling out some gauze and ointment from the tin and proceeding to gently clean the cut on her head and then apply a plaster. Because no way, no how was Gwen sitting in front of him by accident. On the other hand, this cut was legit. He frowned. What’s your game, love?

I forgot to eat breakfast. This must seem weird, us, uh, meeting again like this.

You don’t say. I don’t have much here other than a few snacks. He grabbed a box off his snack shelf and shook a bunch of nuts and dried fruit onto a plate.