Read Online The Runaway Princess by Hester Browne - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Hester Browne
Ads: Link
prince. “So he’s … Prince Rolf? That sounds more like something you’d call a dog than a prince.”
“His full title is His Serene Highness Prince Rudolfo-Harolde de Nirona and Svetland.” Jo rolled her eyes. “I only know that because he has the whole thing printed on his platinum credit card and insisted on showing us how they’d had to go to two lines to fit it all on.
“Don’t be impressed,” she went on, reaching for another slice of toast. “It just means he should know better. And it doesn’t get him automatic entry to
my
parties. Rolf’s on my outdoor-events-only guest list, for very good reasons.”
“Which are?”
“Small fires,” she said darkly. “And puddles. Don’t ask.”
“So we got off pretty lightly with a near-death balcony plunge.”
“We did indeed. Anyway, that’s more than enough about Rolf.” Jo buttered her fourth piece of toast with such a ferocious swipe of the knife that I didn’t dare press her any further about their exact history. “We still haven’t got to the bottom of
your
night. What was your highlight? Best three moments, then we’ll do the worst three.”
I opened my mouth to tell her about the amazing man I’d met, but then something stopped me. Was it rude to say I didn’t want to meet any of her friends because I was so busy, then confess that I
had
met someone? Leo was very posh. Exactly the sort of posh boy I’d just told Jo I couldn’t bear. And knowing Jo, she’d insist on having a dinner party to set us up again—but that would mean inviting Rolf too, and clearly that wasn’t a goer. …
Jo was shoveling in fried egg with a fierce expression that I suspected was repressed Rolf Rage. I decided to keep it to myself. It wasn’t as if I was going to see him again anyway.
My chest contracted suddenly.
“Ted. Ted was a highlight,” I said, to distract myself as much as Jo. “Doesn’t he brush up well in evening dress?”
“He brushes up fine.” Jo gestured with her fork. “It’s just when he gets talking that he makes a girl want to run screaming for some wet paint to watch.”
“That’s because you rub each other the wrong way. If you didn’t talk to him like he’s your annoying little brother—”
“Listen, I’ve got a whole bunch of various kinds of brothers, and none of them is as rude to me as Ted is. I’ve tried to help him over the one hundred years I’ve known him, but he resists all attempts at improvement.”
It’s because he fancies you,
I wanted to say, but didn’t. It seemed too obvious.
“He reminds me of my dad,” I said instead. “He’s reliable, he calls a spade a spade—”
“Well, he has to do that, darling. How can you trust a gardener who calls it something else?”
Jo had a habit of deflecting personal comments with a
darling
and a witty comment, exactly as she was doing now. I eyeballed her.
“It’s all very well you trying to set me up, but when was the last time
you
were out on a date with someone who—”
Jo held up a hand, the gold nail varnish unchipped from last night. “Did I tell you the latest from Marigold?”
That stopped me in my tracks, as she knew it would. I
loved
Tales from de Vere Towers. Jo’s family was like an Agatha Christie novel without the body count.
“Is that what last night was about? Not the gas at all?”
She nodded. “It was a ruse to get her emergency files out of the flat. Kit won’t sign the divorce papers—he wants joint custody of all the dogs, and Marigold’s holding a horse as ransom. She wants to know if she can change its name by deed poll. I mean,
God
. You’d think by now she would know the score. How many times do you have to get divorced before you learn the cheat codes?”
Jo’s mother was going through her fourth divorce, this time from a very famous (apparently) horse trainer called Kit Pike who could tame any mad stallion but had terrible trouble controlling Marigold de Vere. Meanwhile, Jo’s dad, Philip, Marigold’s
“His full title is His Serene Highness Prince Rudolfo-Harolde de Nirona and Svetland.” Jo rolled her eyes. “I only know that because he has the whole thing printed on his platinum credit card and insisted on showing us how they’d had to go to two lines to fit it all on.
“Don’t be impressed,” she went on, reaching for another slice of toast. “It just means he should know better. And it doesn’t get him automatic entry to
my
parties. Rolf’s on my outdoor-events-only guest list, for very good reasons.”
“Which are?”
“Small fires,” she said darkly. “And puddles. Don’t ask.”
“So we got off pretty lightly with a near-death balcony plunge.”
“We did indeed. Anyway, that’s more than enough about Rolf.” Jo buttered her fourth piece of toast with such a ferocious swipe of the knife that I didn’t dare press her any further about their exact history. “We still haven’t got to the bottom of
your
night. What was your highlight? Best three moments, then we’ll do the worst three.”
I opened my mouth to tell her about the amazing man I’d met, but then something stopped me. Was it rude to say I didn’t want to meet any of her friends because I was so busy, then confess that I
had
met someone? Leo was very posh. Exactly the sort of posh boy I’d just told Jo I couldn’t bear. And knowing Jo, she’d insist on having a dinner party to set us up again—but that would mean inviting Rolf too, and clearly that wasn’t a goer. …
Jo was shoveling in fried egg with a fierce expression that I suspected was repressed Rolf Rage. I decided to keep it to myself. It wasn’t as if I was going to see him again anyway.
My chest contracted suddenly.
“Ted. Ted was a highlight,” I said, to distract myself as much as Jo. “Doesn’t he brush up well in evening dress?”
“He brushes up fine.” Jo gestured with her fork. “It’s just when he gets talking that he makes a girl want to run screaming for some wet paint to watch.”
“That’s because you rub each other the wrong way. If you didn’t talk to him like he’s your annoying little brother—”
“Listen, I’ve got a whole bunch of various kinds of brothers, and none of them is as rude to me as Ted is. I’ve tried to help him over the one hundred years I’ve known him, but he resists all attempts at improvement.”
It’s because he fancies you,
I wanted to say, but didn’t. It seemed too obvious.
“He reminds me of my dad,” I said instead. “He’s reliable, he calls a spade a spade—”
“Well, he has to do that, darling. How can you trust a gardener who calls it something else?”
Jo had a habit of deflecting personal comments with a
darling
and a witty comment, exactly as she was doing now. I eyeballed her.
“It’s all very well you trying to set me up, but when was the last time
you
were out on a date with someone who—”
Jo held up a hand, the gold nail varnish unchipped from last night. “Did I tell you the latest from Marigold?”
That stopped me in my tracks, as she knew it would. I
loved
Tales from de Vere Towers. Jo’s family was like an Agatha Christie novel without the body count.
“Is that what last night was about? Not the gas at all?”
She nodded. “It was a ruse to get her emergency files out of the flat. Kit won’t sign the divorce papers—he wants joint custody of all the dogs, and Marigold’s holding a horse as ransom. She wants to know if she can change its name by deed poll. I mean,
God
. You’d think by now she would know the score. How many times do you have to get divorced before you learn the cheat codes?”
Jo’s mother was going through her fourth divorce, this time from a very famous (apparently) horse trainer called Kit Pike who could tame any mad stallion but had terrible trouble controlling Marigold de Vere. Meanwhile, Jo’s dad, Philip, Marigold’s
Similar Books
