Royally Matched (Royally #2)(15)

Penelope begs with her eyes . . . and her mouth.

“Please, Mummy! Sarah, please, please, pretty-pretty please?”

My mother huffs and rolls her eyes. “Very well, give it here.”

We each sign the short, one-paragraph document. And Stanhope sets a cup and saucer on the table for Miss Herald. She files the form away, takes a sip of the steaming liquid, and after our butler has left the room, closing the door behind him, she leans forward.

“Have you heard of the television series Matched?”





“Out of the question,” my mother declares the moment Miss Herald finishes telling us about the royally themed reality-TV dating show.

“No!” Penny squeaks. “It most certainly still is in question.”

“Not for me.” I shake my head. “Thank you for the offer, Miss Herald, but I don’t even like having my photo taken. I have no interest in being on a television show.”

“What about being queen?” she prods.

“I have no interest in that either.”

Penny raises her hand. “But I do! I could still join up, right? Even if Sarah doesn’t?”

“Absolutely.”

“Absolutely not,” Mother says firmly.

Penelope is offended. “Mother, you’re acting like you don’t trust me at all.”

“I don’t.” She shrugs. “And with good reason. There are plentiful examples of your lack of judgment, darling. Let’s see . . . there was the tattoo artist.”

“It was a phase.”

“The circus performer.”

“He was interesting!”

“The convict.”

Penny squirms. “Being on the lam wasn’t as romantic as I’d thought.”

She falls to her knees beside my mother’s chair. “But this is different. It’s not about a boy . . .”

“Isn’t it?”

Penny rolls her eyes. “Henry’s a lot of fun and he’s fantastic to look at, but he’s a playboy—everyone knows that. When he marries he won’t have just a mistress; he’ll have a whole harem. We would never work.”

Then she resorts back to pleading. “But you know how I love to perform. This could open up doors for me, Mother. For a real career in the industry.”

My mother closes her eyes. “I’m going to regret this . . . but, all right.”

Penny starts to squee, and my mother holds up an ultimatum finger.

“If Sarah goes along to keep an eye on you, to be your voice of reason because it’s apparent you were born without one, you may participate.”

Penelope flings her arms around her. “Thank you, Mummy!”

Then she whips around to me. Looking so hopeful, it just about breaks my heart.

“Sarah?”

“Penny . . . I can’t. I have my flat, my work. I just can’t blow them off for . . .”

“Six weeks in total,” the producer supplies.

“For six weeks. I’m sorry, Pen.”

She shuffles on her knees over to me—probably giving herself rug burns.

“Please, Sarah. This could change everything.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

“It’ll be so much fun. The best kind of adventure.”

And my chest aches. Because I want this for her—I want to be able to do it for her—but the prospect of so much change, so much unknown, terrifies me.

“I don’t think I can do it, Pen,” I whisper.

She clasps our hands together. “We’ll do it together. I’ll have your back and you’ll have mine.”

I open my mouth . . . but the words stay trapped in my throat.

“Penelope is supposed to report for military service next month,” Mother tells the producer.

“We’ll be able to get her out of that,” Miss Herald says. “We have a signed edict from Prince Henry excusing all the contestants from work, school, or any other obligations for ‘confidential’ Palace business. It’s an official Act of Royalty.”

Her words stop me cold. “What did you just say?”

“An Act of Royalty. It’s like a proclamation, an order from the Crown . . .”

“Or an act of God,” I whisper.

“Yes, exactly.”

And the wheels in my mind turn.

“Could I get one? A letter for my employer if I go with Penny, as her . . . assistant?”

“Of course. Many of the ladies are bringing their own staff—chefs, hairdressers, yoga instructors, dog walkers—it’ll be interesting.”

“But I could have the letter?” I push. “To be excused from work for six full weeks?”

“Sure.”

My eyes meet Penelope’s and her eyebrows rise. Because she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“That does change things, doesn’t it?”

It certainly does. Now we’re down to the lesser of two evils.

And the choice is clear.

I was never a cheerleader, but if I had pom-poms I’d shake them until my hands fell off. Yay, reality television!

“Show us where to sign. We’re in.”





I’M IMPRESSED. Two weeks after I ring Vanessa Steele, I barely recognize the place. The castle is buzzing with activity—crewmen and women swinging figuratively from the rafters, installing lighting and cameras—without damaging the historical integrity, of course. Fergus had a full-out tizzy about that one, but I talked him down.