His Royal To-Do List

Prince Edward Hits the Town with Lady Kate Danvers

If there’s one thing we’re sure of here at Royal Bitch, it’s that on the rare occasion Prince Edward actually does something, he does it thoroughly. Since dumping Sourly Mallory, His Royal Hotness has been making the rounds, but something about it doesn’t ring true. Though Prince Edward’s other vices abound, there’s never been any evidence that he would follow in his father’s philandering footsteps. One would think that now Prince Carlisle’s settling down, Edward would follow suit. Palace sources have always claimed Prince Edward the Ginger both idolizes and emulates his older brother.

Right. And we’ve seen so much evidence of this in his behavior.

But let’s assume for a moment it’s true—that His Royal Highness came back from his latest “humanitarian mission” a changed man. It might explain Edward’s rumored romance with Not-A Swan, who despite sharing DNA with her stunning sister Esme, is not exactly one to attract male attention. Not that we’re at all surprised she caught Edward’s eye—if there was ever a prince likely to overindulge and try to shag the maid of honor at a Royal Wedding, it would be Prince Edward. It would make sense if the wedding weren’t still several weeks away or if Edward was competing with other men for Not-a Swan’s affections.

Baffled as to what Prince Valium could possibly see in her, we decided it was time for some due diligence. After we asked around a bit about, we discovered that Prince Edward is Not-a Swan’s only suitor. What’s more, all evidence seems to indicate she hasn’t had a real boyfriend since she was an undergraduate at Princeton. It doesn’t add up. Surely there would have been opportunists willing to suffer through tapping her ass with the hope of eventually tapping her bank account—even if the former is every bit as big as the latter. It begs the question: What could he possibly see in her? Now that he seems to have gotten Lady Kate Danvers’s attention, his has no reason to suffer through another dull moment sister-in-law-to-be Bella. Yet our sources confirm Not-a Swan left her flat yesterday evening in a car driven by a Palace Chauffeur, and at the time this was posted, she had yet to show up for work.

COMMENTS (showing 10 of 652)

My Narcissistic Alias

Uh, yeah. Not-a Swan is NOT Prince Edward’s sister-in-law to be; Esme is. When Esme and Carlisle get married, Not-a Swan and Prince Edward will be absolutely nothing to each other. Unless they’re still screwing.

Troll E. McCavetroll

Knowing him, they’d still be absolutely nothing to each other.

Bella and Prince Edward will still be together at Esme’s wedding to Prince Carlisle. I see them getting married some day.

My Narcissistic Alias

If they do, does that mean we get to call Not-a Her Royal Highn-ass?

Troll E. McCavetroll

Leave it to My Narcissistic Ali-ass to start making ass jokes.

Royal Watcher 1

If I read this without having seen pictures of Bella, based on your description I’d think she was fat and hideous. She’s not part of the Royal family, so you can’t rationalize your cruelty by claiming your tax dollars support her lifestyle. What has she done to deserve this? Oh, that’s right. She doesn’t put on make-up before she exercises or starve herself when she’s hungry.

Lady In Waiting

Speaking of asses, what crawled up yours?

My Narcissistic Alias

Where’s Pal-ass Al-ass when you need her?

Assman 11

I need to see Not-a Swan naked before I’ll feel qualified to judge. There’s got to be a sex tape out there somewhere.

Troll E. McCavetroll

No, but she did porn. Ass A. Bella was the name she used. Google it.

Putting me to bed in his apartment?

I should be angry. I should kick and scream and insist he bring me back to my sister immediately. What I shouldn’t be is turned on. Except I am, and that pisses me off way more than His Royal Presumptuousness tossing me over his shoulder and carrying me off to his bedroom caveman style. What’s going on in my pants right now makes about as much sense as his idea that I’d actually consider having sex with him. Even if his cheek wasn’t still red from the last time he got fresh with me, he knows I have no intention of signing his ridiculous NDA. Thinking he’s bluffing, I slide down his torso a bit so I can get a look at his face.

I stop when I feel something against my leg. It has to be the pot pipe—there’s no way he sporting a hard-on. Then again, the pipe was palm-sized and this…well…isn’t. I’m not sure why I shift in his arms a little to get a better feel. Maybe it’s because it’s been years since I’ve felt a penis—even a clothed one—pressed against me. Maybe knowing what’s going on in his pants makes what’s going on in my pants less infuriating to me. Maybe it’s because if he does want me, that he makes his insistence I curtsy to him a non-issue. So what if he has a title? I’d have some of the power.

The second I shift in his arms a little to get a better feel, he stops walking.

Yep. Definitely not the pot pipe.

Before I can decide whether or not to say something, Edward lowers me from his shoulder. Still, my feet don’t touch the floor—one of his arms catches my legs while the other wraps around my back.

“Put your arm around my neck.”

I do it, if no other reason than I still don’t know what to say to him. Once again, we’re moving.

“That’s better,” he says.

And it is—at least in the sense that I’m no longer being carried like a sack of potatoes, nor is there any risk of me inadvertently brushing my thigh against against his junk—the way he’s angled me renders that impossible. Even though this position places less of my body against his, somehow it feels more intimate. My face is close enough to his that I can smell his shampoo and fabric softener, close enough for me to see the faded freckles beneath the stubble on his jaw. I’m close enough that’s it impossible for me to delude myself into believing I’m not attracted to him physically. I’m just not sure what I want to do about it.

Let’s be real—it’s been a while since I’ve been held by anyone and, at the moment, His Royal Hardness seems to be behaving himself. So I stop thinking. I close my eyes and let myself enjoy the moment.

I don’t open them until he’s lowering me onto his bed.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, turning to leave. “I’ll be right back.”

I don’t doubt he will—probably half-naked with a condom in one hand and the NDA in another.

When he reappears, I realize I couldn’t have been more wrong. Not only is he fully dressed, the only thing he’s holding is a bottle of water, which he opens and hands to me.

“You should probably drink this,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

After a few gulps, the bottle is empty and my mouth feels much better.

“Thank you.”

He takes the empty bottle from my hand and places it on the bedside table, then looks down at me and shrugs.

We’re back to staring at each other, but this time, it’s different. There’s nothing cocky about his smile and I’m not sizing him up as if he were the enemy. I don’t speak, but it’s not part of a strategy to get the upper hand. I’m quiet because I don’t know what to say to him.

Or what I want to do with him.

After a few moments, I start to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry, Sir. Despite the fact I’m here under duress and somehow wound up drunk, stoned, and in your bed, I feel like you just walked me to my door after a date. Now it’s that weird moment of silence when I try to decide if I want to invite you in for coffee. You know what I mean.”

He shakes his head. “Actually, I don’t.”

“Come on, Sir. You know—when at the end of the night, a decision needs to be made about how you want things to go, and even though you had plenty of time to think about it, you still don’t know what you want.”

“That’s never happened to me.”

“I don’t believe you, Your Royal Hardness.”

He throws his head back, laughing.

“I don’t care how poised and polished you come off making public appearances,” I continue. “Privately, you must have had your share of awkward moments.”

“Oh, I’ve had more of those than you can possibly imagine,” he says, still laughing. “In fact, I think I’m having one now. But going out on actual dates?” He shrugs. “That’s something I’ve never done.”

I roll my eyes—of course he hasn’t. After all, he breaks up with people with via proxy. He already has the necessary infrastructure in place; outsourcing entire relationships makes perfect sense.

“I’m not trying to say I’ve never had a girlfriend—just that I’ve never pursued someone romantically whom I didn’t already know—”

“And who hasn’t already signed an NDA.”

“A signed NDA doesn’t protect me against rejection, just tell-all books.”

“You can’t honestly expect me to believe women have refused to put out after signing that thing.”

“You’re right; I can’t—at least, not until you sign one. But I can tell you this: in asking a woman to sign the NDA, there’s still a chance she’ll refuse to sign it then go public with what it contains. Before I even approach her with it, I have to want to pursue her enough to take that risk. By the time the NDA comes out, I’m already invested.”

“Except you gave me one.”

He smiles. “I did, didn’t I?”

He stands up and stretches his arms above his head, causing his t-shirt to ride up. His jeans sit low enough on his hips that I can see the waistband of his boxers. They’re bright yellow and covered in drawings of dachshunds wearing hot-dog buns. Then he bends his elbows, and I can see some of the dark auburn hair that disappears beneath them. I expect him to start undressing—after all, regardless of his intentions toward me this is his room—but he doesn’t.

Instead, he points to a dimmer switch on the wall beside the headboard.

“When you want to go to sleep, this will turn off the lights.” He walks across the room and opens a set of double doors. “The bathroom’s in here. Now before I go to bed, is there anything I can get you?”

“No thank you, Sir.”

“If you need me, my room’s at the end of the hall. Goodnight, Bella.” He leaves, pulling the door closed behind him.

I could spend all night wondering what the hell just happened, but somehow sleep claims me anyway.

I wake up to a dry mouth, a killer headache, and a whole lot of ambivalence. Knowing I can’t reason through anything before my morning coffee, I don’t even try. Instead, I lie there and take in my surroundings.

It’s not the kind of room I’d expect to find in a bachelor pad, let alone one belonging to Prince Edward. I’ve spent enough time with Esme to know that while The Queen expects areas open to the palace to remain as they were 200 years ago when Masen Palace was built, members of the Royal Family are permitted to decorate their own apartments the way they see fit. Though the sheets I slept on feel as if they’re new, the rest of the room looks as if it hasn’t been updated in years—that or Edward’s into the whole historic hotel look. And that’s the best way I can describe this room. The ornate wainscotting and tray ceiling, the brocade headboard, the panels of gold-and-white striped wallpaper surrounded by carved molding. Income notwithstanding, I’ve never seen anything like this in a guy’s apartment. Just when I think it can’t get any weirder, I notice the note on the bedside table. Again, fine linen stationery bearing His Royal Monogram, propped up between two bottles—one containing spring water, the other Excedrin.


I have to step out for a while, but I’ll be back soon. Meanwhile, help yourself to whatever you may need. I don’t have any help, but something tells me you’re more than capable of fending for yourself.


What I need more than anything is to figure out what his game is. I wash down a fistful of Excedrin then decide to go exploring.

The living room, dining room, and kitchen aren’t much different from the room I slept in last night—traditionally decorated and barely lived in. By the time I’m standing outside His Royal Bedroom, I haven’t learned anything new about Edward, other than the fact he clearly hasn’t spent a penny of his decorating allowance. Part of me feels guilty about snooping in his bedroom, the rest of me is too curious to care.

I’m not sure what I expected to find, but it wasn’t this. The door opened into a sitting area which, besides the addition of a huge television and state-of-the-art stereo equipment, looks pretty much like the rest of the apartment. I move on to the room with his bed. Outside of the color scheme and the fact he makes his bed with hospital corners, it’s not any different from where I slept in last night. On his bedside table is a MacBook and a few sheets of his monogrammed stationery, covered with what appear to be reminders. It’s such a waste—hasn’t he ever heard of Post-It Notes?

I feel bad about paging through them, but I can’t help it. One of them lists my favorite flowers. The rest don’t mean much of anything, until I get to the one on the bottom. It’s a list of names—all female, all titled. The top name, Lady Kate Danvers, has a line through it. There’s a section of names bracketed at the bottom with a note that reads, “Only if I’m desperate.”

Seriously? He has a To-Do List of potential conquests? My eyes scan the sheet a second time. My name doesn’t appear on it anywhere. I don’t know whether to be angry or relieved. I’m reading it a third time when I hear Edward’s voice behind me.

“Didn’t expect to find you in here.”

Panicked, I shove the note into the front of my jeans then turn to face him.

“I’m sorry, Sir. There weren’t any towels in my bathroom, so I had to go scavenging,” I say. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh. Let me get you some.”

Before he hurries into his bathroom, I manage to get a decent look at his face. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looked disappointed. When he comes back, he hands me a stack of folded towels.

“Thank you, Sir.”

I walk back to the guest room, relieved he didn’t catch me snooping. I’ll save working through the rest of what I’m feeling until after I have some coffee.

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  1. on 27 Jul 2012 at 9:29 pmsapho99

    hmmm were are you going with this? Interesting story, but then being an american, royalty really isn’t my thing. :) But my Mom was english so I guess I inherited a bit of wonder about all things Royal.