A Lady in Waiting: A Novel

By Janice De Jesus

Just when she thought she had everything she wished for…

Sara is content with living her life as a lady-in-waiting to a princess until an unexpected encounter with Arlen, a charming viscount, turns her life upside down. Except that he's not just any viscount: he's the former fiancé of the princess she works for.

Amid the backdrop of royal parties and holiday festivities at the European principality she calls home, Sara begins a friendship with Arlen, but is reluctant to be anything more than friends. But soon the Christmas season starts to work its magic and Sara can't resist Arlen's charms.

Yet will old emotional wounds and current barriers threaten the relationship of this simple country girl and her cosmopolitan British nobleman before it even begins?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Nov 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781922355768

Book preview

Proceeds from the sales of this book will go toward various animal welfare organizations. Thank you for your support.

For Lilly (the Feline Editor)

A little lady always in waiting

"Tale as old as time

True as it can be

Barely even friends

Then somebody bends

Unexpectedly…"

From Disney’s  Beauty and the Beast

Prologue

Christmas Day

Boxes wrapped in purple satin paper glittered with gold and silver ribbons were strewn around the foot of a Christmas tree as Sara began arranging the gifts. 

She recounted the many times she had been a bridesmaid and never the bride and the times she had helped prepare for various weddings including an almost-wedding, until the royal bride-to-be canceled the engagement.

Such was the life of a lady-in-waiting to a princess. You got used to not being the center of attention, where most of your waking hours were dedicated in service to a life other than your own. 

Had last night really happened? She had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Now, looking back over the last two months, as she stood in her bedroom preening herself in front of a vintage oval mirror, her brown hair swept in a chignon, Sara knew that from this day forward, things would never be the same.

Chapter One

Two months earlier…

Running her fingers on the silk train, Sara closed her eyes just as the aroma of freshly-baked bread wafted in the air.

That unmistakable smell of cinnamon—no matter where she would encounter it—always brought her back home. When she would stroll along the cobble streets of Calle de Ayala in Santangelo, bakeries would offer up these delectable unforgettable slices of home. But now that she was actually back in Morada, a medieval village in the principality of Moradonia and her childhood town, there was truly no other place where one could find this bread made as moist and as fragrant as the ones baked by Tía Silvia.

Her aunt had been like a mother to her ever since her own mother passed away several years ago. The cinnamon poppy seed bread recipe had been handed down at least four generations before it reached Tía Silvia’s expert hands.

Opening her eyes to the intermittent crowing of a rooster followed by a cacophony of birds singing a sweet morning song, Sara noted that cinnamon bread wasn’t the only reminder of home. She stood up and glanced down at the ivory satin wedding gown, which had once been her mother’s, laying out on the second bed in the room which had been her sister’s. Indeed, Sara considered herself quite lucky to get time off from being of service to one beautiful young woman in order to cater to another. What an honor it was to now serve as maid-of-honor at her sister Amaia’s wedding.

Before heading downstairs for breakfast, she glanced at the full-length mirror, assessing her long auburn-brown hair, the layers framing her oval face, her olive complexion sun-kissed from the remnants of the past Mediterranean summer. Her navy and white polka dot blouse, skinny blue jeans, black boots and pink leather moto jacket exuded more city flair befitting her current lifestyle.

Even the wood creaking as she descended the stairs was a warm welcome home embrace. As much as Sara enjoyed her job at the palace, her childhood home cocooned her safely like no other abode would ever do. Her family’s country home boasted of period features, including a vast fireplace, a wooden staircase, an attic, a wine cellar or cave, as they were called in these parts, and a profusion of alcoves and annexes. 

 But it’s the kitchen, or la cocina, that’s considered the most important room in the house. With its large wood-burning stove for cooking, hot water and heating, a huge solid wood dining table and a bread oven, where Sara felt most at home. Her family’s Moradonian country kitchen—a nod to earlier, traditional times, with stone and tiled floors and a predominance of wood, tiles and marble—was a stark contrast to the modern kitchen at her palace apartment in the city.

There you are, cooed Tía Silvia, wearing an apron as she took the baking pans filled with the heavenly breads out of the oven. I knew the scent would draw you here in no time.

"You’re an angel, Tía, Sara said, rewarding her aunt with a peck on the cheek. Surveying the kitchen, she asked, What can I help you with?"

Silvia shook her head. Nothing. Just sit and relax. You’re on vacation remember? Plus you have enough to do as it is with the wedding.

Sara emitted a light laugh, pouring herself coffee in a mug. There’s really not much to do for this country wedding. The perks of planning a minimalist event.

It was true. Sara’s older sister, Amaia, was the queen of simple living. Just a small church gathering followed by a no-nonsense luncheon reception at home. What could be simpler than that?

I bet helping Her Royal Highness prepare for a state dinner or ball is more stressful, Silvia said, arranging the bread pans on a cooling tray then gathering ingredients to prepare for her next dish.

The blend of songbirds twittering, chickens clucking outside the house and church bells tolling from the village at a distance caused Sara to rise from her chair. The view of the olive trees and golden fields from the kitchen window may not exactly rival the view of the Mediterranean Sea from the hilltop palace balcony but the groves and fields held a reminder of precious years past when she and Amaia would run around playing hide-and-seek among the rows of corn on one field in the summer then along the rows of lavender fields in the spring and, later in the year, rows of vineyards in the autumn and olive trees in the winter. 

"It’s a good kind of stress, Tía," Sara said, staring at the fields as flashes of childhood memories warmed her heart.

Later, as Sara ventured into town to do errands, she marveled at how lucky she was to have found a job at—to her at least—the most beautiful building in the world—Palais Royal de Moradonia—the Royal Palace of Moradonia, serving as lady-in-waiting to the most beautiful woman in the world—Princess Chantalise Kaitline Genevieve Claudine Alcala Saint-Michel, known in Her Royal Highness’ close circles simply as Kaitie.

After serving in the Peace Corps in Africa after college, Sara was ready to dive into work and put her international relations degree into good use. It was pure serendipity when she heard about an opening for a lady-in-waiting for the returning Moradonian princess who had lived in America for fifteen years to seek refuge after the attempted assassination of Chantalise’s father, the Sovereign Prince Sebastien.

Just north of the Moradonian capital of Santangelo, the seaside village of Morada was all decked out for the season, with many a pumpkin lining the cobble streets and the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg permeating the cool crisp air. Having been the principality’s founding village where the first settlers planted their ancestral roots, Morada, so named for the crimson sky at dusk, with its rich history and blend of treasures from the sea, boasted the abundance of its farmland and vineyards which had long made it a destination for city dwellers eager for a more relaxed ambience.

Today’s agenda in town meant a day spent searching for a gift for her sister and brother-in-law-to-be. Sara had already purchased the couple a gift in Santangelo but wanted to buy them a specially hand-carved wooden door greeter as was the Moradonian wedding custom and Morada was the place to buy them. She was also due for a dress fitting at the local seamstress that afternoon so she figured she might as well make a day of it.

A copious dose of sunshine coupled with the sounds of the street musicians playing old Moradonian folk tunes with an accordion and guitar brought Sara back to the days when life was much simpler—when she and Amaia and her parents used to stroll along village streets enjoying ice cream cones in the summer. How she missed her mother so. They would have been so proud of Amaia marrying her true love.

A sawing noise greeted Sara as she entered the wood carver’s shop. Old Elrico was busy in the adjoining room with another project and he didn’t hear her come in amid the grating saw noise as his goggle-protected eyes focused on his work sawing long slats of wood. So in the showroom Sara continued to browse through the wood-carved figures—representing the soldiers who fought for Moradonia’s independence—standing tall and proud like Nutcracker soldiers. So fascinated was Sara by the intricate carvings of each figure, that she didn’t realize she wasn’t the only one riveted by the handcrafted work and promptly bumped into another person at the shop.

But instead of holding onto something solid to keep her balance, Sara held onto the person, and found herself leaning against the sturdy chest of a tall man whose hands firmly steadied her.

Pardon me. She was flustered as she tried to regain her composure. She doubted the stranger heard as the sawing noise drowned out her apology. 

As she felt the stranger’s hands still on her arms, Sara raised her head, her eyes connecting with the bluest sparkling pair she’d ever seen. But they weren’t just a compelling blue as remarkable as the sea—she swore she had seen those familiar eyes somewhere before yet somehow, in her discombobulated state, she couldn’t quite place where.

The man towered over six-feet-tall compared to her slightly over five foot seven frame. She was momentarily transfixed by the weight of his stare as he seemingly eyed her with familiarity.

Thankfully, the sawing noise ceased. All of a sudden, Sara felt shy as she debated how she might be able to pry herself from this handsome stranger’s hold.

Well, hello to you again, Miss Sara. It is indeed a pleasure.

Eyes sheltered by dark lashes peeked up at this man with a British accent, whom she was surprised knew her name. Suddenly, Sara’s throat dried up and she longed to cough but wouldn’t dare do so in this man’s face. She settled on clearing her throat as her mind struggled to recall where she had seen him. Being a lady-in-waiting to a gregarious princess meant meeting several new people constantly. Come now, Sara, it’s your job as lady-in-waiting to know everyone you come into contact with to help Her Highness identify people in social situations. Yet, in this case, she couldn’t even help herself.

Was her memory already failing at the ripe old age of twenty-six? Or was it just nerves? But what was she nervous about? The man’s blue eyes seemed to only speak of kindness. That much she instinctively knew.

Then suddenly, it dawned on her…where she had seen this very good looking, dashing gentleman.

Arlen Cromwell, he said, bowing, his eyes, deep azure pools, still trained on her own.

Ah yes. It was the Arlen Spencer-Cromwell, Viscount Rydelthorpe, otherwise known as the former fiancé of Sara’s mistress—Her Royal Highness, Princess Chantalise of Moradonia.

Your Lordship, Sara said, bowing deeply. Forgive me. I—I, well, I…

She wished she could just disappear. How could she forget a presence such as Lord Arlen Spencer-Cromwell? After all, she had spent her first few months as lady-in-waiting assisting the princess during His Lordship’s courtship of Her Royal Highness.

You didn’t expect to see me here. With his tone matter-of-fact, he seemed to have read her mind. So contagious was the viscount’s smile that Sara couldn’t help but break into one of her own. Indeed the last person in the world she expected to see in her tiny hometown was the dashing, cosmopolitan British lord. Suddenly, images of her first meeting with him nearly two years ago at his English country estate flooded her mind.

Yes. Sara cocked her head playfully to one side. Yes, my lord. Then, overwhelmed with timidity, she turned to canvas the shop. Well, what brings you here to our humble village?

I am in search of a door greeter, he said, surveying the handcrafted landscape. I’m told this is the place—the one and only place to find an authentic one.

Indeed…this is the place. Sara couldn’t figure out why she seemed at a loss for words, especially as lady-in-waiting, she had been hired for her ability to assist the royals in social situations such as the art of conversation and royal etiquette.

She caught Lord Arlen’s quizzical and, dare she might add, amused glint in his eyes. 

You’re wondering why I might have such a need for a door greeter? he said.

She nodded. The last time Lord Arlen Spencer-Cromwell was in any way associated with a wedding was with his own, well, almost royal wedding. She recalled the time the princess called off her engagement to the viscount.

Well, it is for a wedding, he said. Er—not mine, of course. Rather for a good friend. That is, after all these years, he has sort of become my friend.

Sara observed as His Lordship’s eyes grew wistful as his fingers thoughtfully scratched the stubble on his chin, then ran his fingers through his golden-brown hair.

By any chance, is your friend Moradonian? she asked. Only Moradonians traditionally are recipients of such a gift.

Yes, quite so, Lord Arlen said. He’s from this village, you see. A gentleman who was my tutor.

She wondered who the viscount was referring to as Morada was a small town and just about everyone knew if there was a wedding underway. Just then Elrico, the old carver, emerged from his workshop, wood shavings adorning his gray-haired head.

How nice to see you again, my dear, said the