Royals and Rebels 3: The Heartbreak Prince

Five: Prince Marlowe

Five

Prince Marlowe

Our first meeting didn’t happen exactly the way that she believed it to have. Like Henry, I’d met her at the engagement party. I’d been drunk, and pissed off about losing my cousin to married life. For as long as I could remember, Derek and Henry were the only ones I knew that I could relate to. Everyone else, even those I considered friends, treated me like I was different. Above them. And I absolutely hated it.

I’d met her at Derek’s birthday party. I’d been getting drunk, with my sister Daisy sitting next to me, and our other cousin Princess Astrid. Astrid was a quiet girl who didn’t normally go family outings. She had asthma, and anxiety, and public outings tended to make her symptoms worse.

She had a round face, with blond hair, and blue eyes

“I don’t like this one bit,” I’d said as I’d been drinking champagne.

The party was being held in the palace garden, and there were white tents everywhere. Some people were dancing on the outdoor dance floor, which was unusual in itself. Usually, we had dances in the ballroom. But it had been Delilah’s idea to have it outside.

Astrid placed a hand on my shoulder. “It’s not so bad. Delilah’s lovely, and her sister’s actually quite nice.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You met her sister?”

Astrid nodded. “When we were picking out bridesmaids dresses.”

Daisy nodded in agreement. “She’s very smart, too. Delilah’s an art history major, but Cecelia is an artist.”

I shook my head, and I took another sip of my champagne. “She’s changing everything, and if she has a sister, she’s going to be rife with drama. More than likely, she’ll cause tabloid scandal and be trash because she’s not getting enough attention. And Delilah will be called trash, because she’s a commoner, and we’re going to be trash by association----”

“Hey guys, this is Cecelia. Delilah’s sister,” said Henry as he came up.

Cecelia stood next to him, wearing a pretty, lilac dress. Her brown hair was down, curled, and her brown eyes were looking at me with pure and utter loathing. “We might be trash, but at least we don’t cost tax payers $104 million dollars for standing still and looking pretty, you arse.”

She stormed off before I could even say a word.

 Everyone turned and glowered at me. “Do you think…do you think she heard  me?” I said with a wince.

Judging from the three faces of my sister and my cousins glowering at me, I would say yes.

“That’s the sister of the future Queen. I know you’re upset by all of this, but you have to go apologize to her. Now,” said Daisy, looking at me pointedly.

With a scowl, I got up and I started to go after the girl. “Do we have any idea where she might be?” I asked.

“Try the library,” Henry suggested, “I was going to show her that, after I introduced her to everyone.”

“Right,” I said.

I nodded at them, and I got up to go find Cecelia. I couldn’t get her face out of my head. Or the fact that she had called me an arse. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had ever called me an arse before. I should have been annoyed by it. But I wasn’t annoyed by it. I was actually impressed.

I arrived at the library, and I found Cecelia there looking at a book on art history. “You know, if Henry really wanted to impress you, he should have showed you the gallery.”

She looked up long enough to shoot me a glare. The gaze from her brown eyes were withering, a look that I’d never been on the receiving end of before.

“Are you sure you’d want me to look there? I might get some of my poor on them,” she said. “Or worse, I might steal them.”

I clenched my jaw. “I’m terribly sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You shouldn’t have said anything or you shouldn’t have gotten caught?” Cecelia said, looking pointedly at me.

I stared at her. I couldn’t understand it. Most people were impressed by me just breathing. Cecelia didn’t seem to care. Yet somehow, that made me want her to care more than anything.

“Alright,” I said, “maybe I shouldn’t have gotten caught.”

Cecelia rolled her eyes. “Well, at least you’re honest. Still an arse, but you’re honest.”

“Right,” I said. “What is it that you’re reading?”

“I was looking for information on The Broken Heart series,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. “The Broken Heart series. Fascinating works. Why are you looking for information on them?”

“If I tell you, you’ll probably just think I’m ignorant trash.”

“Well, I’m hooked now. You have to tell me now. And I’m your Prince. I command it of you.”

She laughed. “What are you going to do, send me to the tower?”

“Possibly,” I said, “it is a serious possibility.”

“Well, since you command it of me your highness, there’s a legend about The Broken Heart series.”

“What’s the legend?” I asked, tilting my head to the side, genuinely curious.

She stood next to me and showed me the art history book that she was looking at. She was looking at a series of paintings of anatomically correct hearts that had been sliced down the middle, interspersed with roses.

“They’re a series of paintings that were done during the renaissance era. The mystery is that no one ever attributed them to anyone. They showed up in the Queen’s chambers one day. People believe that they were done by her lover, and that’s why they didn’t sign them.”

“Why didn’t they sign them?” I asked.

“Because,” she said, “if the King had found out, they would have had the artist beheaded. Edward the Sixth took a lot after his father. It’s just that he only lived until he was eighteen, and he only had one wife who ended up dying of a broken heart. People believe that it was because of Edward, but I think it was because of the artist of these paintings.”

“Ah yes, Henry did like beheading people,” I said.

“He liked beheading his wives,” she said, “anyway, the myth was that if someone found out the name of the artist that painted them, they’d be given the gift of true love.”

“True love,” I said, “you really believe in that?”

“I want to,” she said, “I have to. If true love doesn’t exist, how do you explain my sister and Derek?”

I smiled. “I guess that is a fairly good point. You know, we have the paintings. We keep them here. Would you like to see?”

Her whole face lit up which was such a contrast to the scowl that I’d put on her face earlier. I’d made her face do that, and I wanted to keep that look on her face her entire life.

“Yes.Yes, I’d love to see,” she said.

“Come on,” I said. I held out my hand, and hesitantly, she took it.

We ran through the halls of the palace together, laughing like children. We took the back way and went to The Queens Gallery. The gallery had wooden floors, and red and green walls, along with marble molding. Normally, it was open to the public as a museum. But given that it was Derek’s birthday, it was closed off.

There was an exhibition entirely devoted to my great, great, great, great, something grandfather’s art. Edward the Sixth had impeccable taste, and had a vast  collection. His wife, Queen Marcella, had been a patron to multiple artists including several women painters which was unheard of at the time.

The Broken Heart series was a collection of four paintings, known for the mystery that Cecelia had talked about. They’d mysteriously shown up in the Queen’s chambers one evening, and no one had ever laid claim to them. The Queen had also reportedly taken ill after, and never recovered from them.

Though she had lived long enough to name her daughter, Eliza, as the successor after Edwards young death. The paintings were kept in the Queen’s art gallery because my own Grandmother thought that they brought bad luck.

“Beautiful,” Cecelia whispered as we stood in front of them. “I want to do my thesis on the paintings, when I get to college. I’ve hoped that if I could find out the true artist, it would bring me enough acclaim in the art world I could open my own art gallery.”

“You don’t want to be an artist yourself?” I said.

“I enjoy painting,” she said, “but I know there’s no real money in it. At least, not until I die. So, I want to be practical.”

“I could just make that happen you know. Or Derek, or your sister even. All it would take is one call. Why not let us simply help you?”

“Because,” she said, “I want to do it on my own.”

My breath hitched. We were alone, in an art gallery, with no prying eyes watching us except for that of the portraits of my ancestors. All I could focus on were her light, pink lips and how much I wanted to kiss them.

“I have a very, very terrible idea in my head right now.”

She was still holding the art history book against her chest. She clutched it to her, as though she might find some protection from it. “Terrible ideas are usually ones that result in war and broken hearts. Maybe don’t act on it.”

 I reached up, and stroked her cheek with my thumb. “Well, then just call me The Heartbreak Prince.” I kissed her, unable to stop myself. In turn, she kissed me back. I found myself turning her around so that I could kiss her against the wall, in the space between the paintings. I grabbed her palm in mine, and pressed against her even harder, so hard I thought that we might knock the paintings down.

“Nohmprrf,” the word came out muffled from her, but I could still hear it. Enough to make me stop.

“What? Why? Did I do something wrong?” I asked, completely bewildered. I’d never had a girl not want me to kiss her before.  

She slid away from the space between the wall and me. Then, she fixed her hair, and wiped her smeared lipstick away. “I’m not really Princess material,” she said simply, “I’m trash, remember?”

There was a sadness in her voice, and still clutching the book in her hands, she left the Queen’s gallery leaving me alone. I stayed there for the rest of the party, still feeling her lips against mine, staring at the paintings of the broken hearts.

How fitting they should be the background of my own misery.

Cecelia Porter had been the first girl to ever reject me, and it just made me want her all the more.

I didn’t see her again until the wedding. At that point, she had a boyfriend.. Some numskull from her school, and she’d avoided me the whole time. Then there was the funeral, where she’d clung to Henry like he was her shelter which pissed me off to no end.

I’d spent that day getting drunk at home and breaking things, much to Daisy’s concern. But the club was our most recent meeting.

She was still mourning, but she was single, and she was in our world now. She was Lady Cecelia Porter. A member of the royal household. I’d offered her my heart, and she’d rejected me.

But what she didn’t know was, from the moment she’d called me an arse, I’d decided that she was mine. One way or another, I would make her belong to me. Even if it meant having to get a paintings blessing to do it.