Is the Party Prince all partied out?

By Anne Baldwin

Prince Niklaus has caused quite the stir within Buckingham Palace's walls and sent numerous courtiers' heads spinning this past weekend. First, he was caught by a paparazzo stumbling out of The Club at the Ivy, an exclusive, membership -only club located at West End, London. Accompanied by two of his closest friends, the group was said to be cheerfully drunk and happy to chat along with onlookers, much to the consternation of his royal protection officers.

A day later, a video hit the internet. Posted on Instagram by a fan account, the video shows a playful side of the prince as he downs pints and jokes with patrons at a pub and already has half a million likes. The Palace, however, is said not to be pleased. A well-connected source says that "the Queen is certainly not happy with such behavior. Prince Niklaus is expected to take his duties seriously and instead, he's amassing a reputation that is unbecoming of a member of the royal family."

The same source admitted that some courtiers and family members are "concerned that the Prince refuses to grow up and wondering how long it will take for him to mature". Despite denials, such statements only make one wonder if there is truth in rumors that Queen Esther is hesitant to make Prince Niklaus the Duke of York and give him his own household.

"The Palace will never acknowledge it, but I believe they are being haunted by the ghost of Edward VIII," royal historian Alan Watts states. "The late king who abdicated was also known for loving parties and skirting his duties."

Now drawing comparisons with one of the most infamous royal family members in Modern age, one begins to wonder what is next for Prince Niklaus. Will he remain the Party Prince despite the criticism and pressure from the family? Or is he all partied out?

"Must you keep doing this, Niklaus?" Elijah asks as he enters the green drawing room; frustration evident in his voice as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Sitting by the mahogany desk, Niklaus closes his book and offers his older brother a small, mocking grin. After all, his outrage is far too inflated for the current situation. "I would not even be aware you were in the country had it not been for the press. The office just released a statement saying you were conducting private engagements in Ireland and you are caught stumbling out of a bar eight hours later!"

"I did conduct private engagements in Ireland before getting on a plane and returning home," Klaus says with a shrug, failing to understand why half of the British press and now Elijah seem to be so up in arms about this event. He did conduct his scheduled appointments in Dublin without any troubles. Getting pissed at a club in West End was done in his private time, not when he was representing the Crown, so it really is nobody's business whether or not he wants to down a pint too many. What fault is his that somebody alerted the media to his presence?

"Then you proceeded to go to a pub and now there is a video of your drunken self on Instagram posted by a teenage fan. If you must know, Mother is furious."

Despite the slight threat behind Elijah's words –his brother has always been a little too keen to toe the line and keep their mother pleased; a trait that Klaus himself has never been able to pick up – Klaus only spares him an uninterested glance.

"Is she?" He wonders, inching his head to the side with feigned curiosity and just a hint of surprise. Though known for her restraint and unflappable character in public – a perfect embodiment of the British stiff upper lip – their mother is not one to shy away from concealing her displeasure behind Palace's walls.

In retrospect, his mother's silent stance is rather odd. If Elijah is this well informed regarding his whereabouts of two days ago, Klaus can only imagine his mother has been thoroughly debriefed on this.

"I would have guessed she already summoned you to Buckingham Palace, but it appears I am wrong," Elijah comments with a shrug of shoulders.

"Small miracles, perhaps. I am in no mood to get a dressing down from mummy," Klaus states with an insolent grin that turns into a grimace as he remembers just how scornful mummy's dressing downs could be.

In response, Elijah throws his head back in an amused, hearty chuckle. Oh, setting Niklaus straight would be far more entertaining than expected.

"Do not think yourself so lucky. If Mother didn't call you herself by now, it means that she is letting someone else handle this. Considering you are featured on the cover of at least three tabs, with your sobriety being questioned, I'd wager someone else is taking care of this matter."

Klaus' nonchalant attitude crumbles as his blue eyes widen in small horror. It reminds Elijah of the times they would cause mischief in Sandringham, sneaking into the kitchens to steal pudding and getting caught by their stern governess.

"Fuck," Klaus breathes out, collapsing on one of the dark green velvet sofas and bringing a hand to rub his eyes in a dramatic fashion. "Fellowes."

"Fellowes," Elijah repeats with a nod of the head, snickering once more. The pained expression on Niklaus' face is almost enough to make him take pity on his brother. Almost.

With an impossibly straight spine, dark brown hair slicked back and gelled so no strand is out of place and a bespoke black three-piece suit from Norton & Sons, Baron Robert Fellowes is the picture of propriety and looks every part of his role as Private Secretary to Her Majesty, the Queen.

Klaus takes a quick glance at him, sees the corners of his thin lips curl in a barely there smirk and he knows he's fucked. After twenty years as a courtier, Fellowes has turned into a proper fossil whose only objective is to ensure that the Crown remains glittering and precious. At that moment, Klaus is a rusty spot that needs to be scrubbed and polished. The second son of Her Majesty may only be the spare, but even spares need to be presentable in the eyes of the world. Besides, as history would tell, a second son has reached the throne before.

"Fellowes," Klaus acknowledges him with a tilt of the head as he closes his book, a thick hardcover that depicts the history of the Port of London, and crosses an ankle over his leg. Displaying, as one of his tutors would say, a rather undignified posture. Perhaps a small gesture of defiance. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to see you here."

"Her Majesty is concerned with the amount of publicity your actions have been receiving and she has tasked me in-"

"Fixing my reputation, I take it," Klaus interrupts with a humourless chuckle, not at all intimidated by the hard stare Fellowes' dark eyes fix him. "You do know that, in some circles, my reputation is not at all tainted. A modern prince is what they call me."

A small vein in Fellowes' neck throbs dark red against his pale skin; the only indicator of his growing dissatisfaction with Klaus's nonchalance. It takes all of Klaus not to laugh at his barely concealed discomfort. Surely he would have a problem with this. To men like Followes, tradition is paramount, and modernization and evolution should never be mentioned in the same sentence as the monarchy. Even though others would perceive a prince behaving like a normal bloke as a good thing, Followes can only see it as a gaffe. The second in line to the British throne should not be cavorting in London pubs as if a Hollywood celebrity.

"While some may believe so, it is Her Majesty's wish that you are seen as a dignified and public servant working on the behalf of the Crown," Followes states with a flat voice as he moves to place his briefcase on the antique, 18th-century mahogany side table. "Her Majesty has decided that her office will be in control of your future engagements for the foreseeable future. Your private secretary was already informed and will update your diary accordingly."

Followes hands Klaus a burgundy leather folder; the engraved Royal coat of arms staring back at him in all its intimidating glory. For all of his previous confidence, Klaus very much feels like a child who has just got a dressing down from mummy. Perhaps even a dressing down would be preferable to this because if her office is in charge of his schedule…

There's a distinct possibility that he will be his mother's little puppet for the - as Followes has put it- foreseeable future. Fuck.

The Barre

DANCE | FOOD | TRAVEL | FASHION (ISH) | LIVING | ME

TO DOING THINGS DIFFERENTLY

After hundreds of rehearsals hours, thirty performances, forty pairs of dead Blochs, curtains calls, flower bouquets and too many lost bobby pins, Nutcracker season is over. Even with the sore muscles and bunions, nonexistent sleep, I think I'll miss it. The Nutcracker is a piece of magic coming true on stage and I feel special in knowing I am partly responsible for it. However, with The Nutcracker and its grueling routine coming to an end, I have more time for the usual end of year self-reflection. In this case, it's a belated end of year self-reflection, over a bowl of mac n cheese and watching a marathon of Christmas movies in my bed.

I've never been a big fan of New Year resolutions. To be honest, I don't have the best track record when it comes to them. I'm still lazy on winter mornings and still have an unhealthy addiction for shoes and handbags. To me, those resolutions always seemed to be another way to keep procrastinating (hey, another habit I still can't shake off!). However, I've decided that instead of trying to force myself to change habits that are simply too ingrained in me to be ever be erased off, I will commit to small actions that could change me as a whole. Short of my pointe shoes – the only thing that will stay the same until I am ready to retire- everything goes. Who knows what can a small change bring?

So, here's to a new year and doing things differently.

xo, Bonnie

The Royal Diary

FUTURE ENGAGEMENTS

8, April 2019

Prince Niklaus

Will attend a performance of the Royal Ballet at the Royal Opera House, Bow Street, Covent Garden, London, WC2E

April rolls in and "doing things differently" has become Bonnie's unofficial motto. Usually, grueling four acts of Romeo and Juliet followed by an hour of chatting and grinning at cocktail reception designed to dazzle Opera donors would have caused Bonnie to plead for a steaming Epsom salt bath and a glass of red wine. In the spirit of changing things up, however, she says yes to Hayley's offer of a celebratory after-party.

This is how she finds herself at one of those posh, exclusive clubs that are so often featured in glossy magazines. As it would seem, Sarah, a fellow principal dancer, knows someone who's flirting with someone who is a member and he very much likes the idea of being surrounded by ballerinas. After a short drive in a crowded Hyundai and far too many champagne flutes – thank God they don't have early rehearsals tomorrow- Bonnie is delightfully tipsy as she stands precariously on her Aquazzurra four-inch heels and struggles with the small engraved Zippo lighter.

Just as she's about to abandon her quest for a cigarette – the only nasty habit she hasn't been able to shake off- a pair of pale hands reach over and light the cigarette in one smooth motion.

"I reckon it would be terribly not chivalrous of me to allow a lady to fight with her lighter," the mystery man says with a smile as he moves to light his own cigarette.

"My prince charming," she chuckles before taking a drag of the menthol cigarette, not noticing the way he tenses up. "I've been trying to quit them, so maybe you're not that charming."

He throws his head back in a burst of amused laughter, and somehow, Bonnie finds him even more attractive than she did thirty seconds ago. Maybe it's the champagne-soaked cloud surrounding her, or the way the dim light of club hits his freaking cheekbones, but this man is so damn alluring.

"Well, I'm afraid clairvoyance is not taught at prince charming school," he laments; his eyes so fixed on her that Bonnie feels warmth creeping up her chest despite the unusual cold wind that hits them as they stand in the balcony. "Perhaps I could speak to the dean?"

"If they could read princesses' minds, I bet everything would be much easier."

"But then I wouldn't have an excuse to escape from my mates and talk to a pretty lady, would I?" he says as he takes a step forward. Just a few inches, but it's close enough to make Bonnie wonder if she's getting a little drunker.

"If you learned that line in prince charming school, maybe the whole curriculum needs to be revised," Bonnie jokes, trying to pretend she's utterly unaffected by this man whose name she doesn't even know. He's handsome and so charming and that she even finds his posh accent adorable.

This guy is probably a future Lord who will inherit an estate in Norfolk or something of the sort. Completely out of her league, but he's oh, such a nice distraction. Besides, there is no issue in a harmless little flirting, right?

"I'll admit. I may have mucked the whole thing up."

"I mean, I would think the first rule in the book of chivalry is for the knight to present himself. That would only be the proper thing to do, wouldn't it? I'm Bonnie, by the way," she extends her right hand for a shake and tries to conceal a shiver when he brings it to his lips. "Laying it on a little too thick, no?"

"Miss Bonnie, I find it positively dreadful that you consider my gesture of chivalry to be 'laying it on thick'," he says in exaggerated fake outrage. "You have been hanging around the wrong blokes."

"I'll be sure to write down must be too gentlemanly to bear on my dating requirements list," Bonnie giggles, wondering for a second if she sounds stupid. If he thinks so, there's no sign of it in the way he looks at her.

"It is only right," he agrees with a nod and reaches down his back pocket to fish out two cigs, one for him and another for her.

"So I should call you the mystery man with impeccable manners who encourages one of my worst vices?" Bonnie wonders with a scrunched nose as she accepts the cigarette from him. "That's way too long of a name if you ask me."

"If you must know, my name is just as long as this one. People call me Niklaus, though."

Even in her drunken state, Bonnie is able to recognize the name that is so often featured in the tabloids. So she was right. He's posh and maybe the son of an aristocrat who is close to the royal family.

"Hey, Juliet!" Hayley calls out before Bonnie can respond. With one look at the brunette, she can see her friend is way past tipsy stage and has lost any type of elegance years of ballet had afforded her. "We're leaving. Not all of us have the day off tomorrow."

"It looks like my night is over," Bonnie says, sounding a tad more deflated than she intended. "Thanks for the cig, by the way."

"It's always a pleasure to, as you've put it, encourage one of your worst vices," Niklaus replies; a mischievous and pleased smile gracing his lips.

"Oi, Your Royal Highness! Want another pint?" a blonde guy peeks his head out to ask, causing a light bulb to go on inside her head.

Holy fuck. This mystery man is not just a Niklaus, a guy with a posh accent, nice manners, and pretty blue eyes. He is the Niklaus, Prince Niklaus.

And she's been drunkenly flirting with him for the past half hour without noticing his identity.

A couple of days pass, and Bonnie is half inclined to chalk it up Friday night as a figment of a drunk and creative imagination. After all, none of her colleagues can remember most of the night and what are the odds that she actually chatted – and flirted, emphasis on flirted- with a freaking prince? Bonnie is far from being a royalist – she's American, for goodness' sake, and her time in London hasn't been remotely long enough to understand British politics- and she doesn't believe royals are magical unicorns who are so much better than the rest of mere mortals.

However, she is well aware they don't run in the same circles. Hell, they don't even run in the same universe. She's a black, American woman raised in a sleepy Virginia town and he has an honest to God title before his name – his obnoxiously long name, she remembers his words with fondness. While she's riding the Tube to get to early rehearsal, he's in a palace sleeping in his massive bed.

Their crossed paths were probably just a glitch in the system, a story for her to tell Caroline when they meet up in the summer or even tell her children in an attempt to sound cool. A fond memory and nothing more.

At least that was what Bonnie thought. Three hours and some twenty messages later, everything changes and she doesn't even realize it.

BONNIE (8:31): So, I may be close to freaking out

CAROLINE (8:35): What, why?

BONNIE (8:36): A prince just slid in my DMs

CAROLINE (8:36): WHAAT? 👀

CAROLINE (8:36): Which one?

BONNIE (8:37): I met Prince Niklaus at a party.

BONNIE (8:37): I was drunk and didn't recognize him. Care, we flirted

BONNIE (8:37): A LOT

CAROLINE (8:38): Really?

BONNIE (8:38): Just got another message from him. He wants a date.

CAROLINE (8:39): JTHFGS CALLING YOU RN!

As far as Bonnie is concerned, things go from surreal to Lifetime movie material before she can even process it. In one moment, she's in her flat, draining the bottle of rosé that's been forgotten in the back of the fridge while Caroline updates her on life at Mystic Falls –her and Tyler are on a break again, Elena still can't figure out what she wants in life. In the next, she's sipping a cocktail named Flying Bees while listening to Nik (the exact moment she's gone from Your Royal Highness to simply Nik, she will never be able to pinpoint) recounting his memories of his childhood and growing up at Buckingham Palace.

It's odd, how normal it feels. The luxury that surrounds them, as understated as it, should have intimidated her. Instead, they sit side by side on one of the comfortable sofas, just a few centimeters separating them as they share a mozzarella pizza. It's as if Nik is an old lover and friend and they are reconnecting.

And this feeling? It scares her. She likes making plans and sticking to them. Right now she's on Life Plan #17, which includes consolidating her position as principal dancer and certainly does not include going on dates with princes. Even if said prince is far too charming for his – and her - own good.

"What? Don't tell me I have tomato sauce on my face," Bonnie pleads with an embarrassed chuckle when she notices he's staring at her.

"Your face is still perfect," he assures her; pleased when her skin turns a delightful shade of pink. "I have realized I've spent the better part of the hour recounting my eventful childhood, you must think me a self-centered and boring date."

"God, no!" Bonnie waves off the accusation with a small smile. "Your childhood tales are very entertaining. I mean, you could definitely produce a BBC documentary with all of them. As a matter of fact, I'm afraid I'm the one who's a boring date, seeing as your mother is the Queen of England."

Klaus laughs into his pint and shakes his head. Usually, the mere mention of his mother would be enough to put a damper on his jolly mood, but there is something quite charming in the way she crinkles her nose. Bonnie Bennett is unlike every other woman he's met.

"At least three pages come up on Google when you type Bonnie Bennett, I'm hard pressed to believe you're a boring date," Klaus replies as he takes a bite of the pizza.

"Well," she starts to say and halts when her brain processes his words. "Wait, you googled me?"

"How else was I supposed to find you? You forgot to leave your glass slipper behind," he reminds her with a grin. What is about her – a virtual stranger- that makes him grin like a bloody lunatic? "Surely you wouldn't rather I use some more official channels to find you?"

"Should I be concerned that a member of the royal family is using Scotland Yard to get a date? Did they investigate me before you asked me out?" Bonnie wonders in what's supposed to be a joking tone, but then she realizes that her being vetted is a very distinct possibility. It would not do to have a criminal or a stalker being this close to the second in line to the throne, after all.

"If me going through your Instagram page is an investigation, then you can consider yourself thoroughly investigated. Congratulations, Miss Bennett, you have passed my ever so rigorous test."

"And what is my prize for achieving that feat?" Bonnie asks; her voice slipping into a hoarse whisper. She takes a sip of the Flying Bees, hoping the drink will soothe her dry throat and calm her down just for a moment. It doesn't. She's voluntarily jumped out of the frying pan and went straight into the fire.

"I believe many would say a date with a prince is a rather adequate prize, wouldn't you agree?" he says; trying to focus on anything but her lips. Pink and glossy with mussed lipstick. Beautiful.

"I think it depends on the prince," she teases as she brushes a hair tendril – Californian messy curls, as Caroline instructed her via Skype – behind her right ear. The distance between them, or lack thereof, becomes more obvious and she can smell his cologne. This time, it's more pronounced and not hidden by the unpleasant scent of cigarette smoke. Bergamot with something peppery. "I happen to read the tabs and some of the things they say about princes are just horrifying."

"And this prince?" Klaus whispers as he leans over her, wishing to close the distance between them, but also conceding the control to her.

"What about him?" she asks; hyper-aware of her own fluttering pulse and his breath against her cheek.

"Is he an adequate prize?"

In a rush of sharp confidence, Bonnie allows the brush of her lips against his to be her answer. Everything is warm and Bonnie gasps, feeling her body tingle from her belly down to the tip of her toes.

"More than adequate," she whispers, nipping his lower lip as she tries to get her mind sorted. "But I do have the feeling you don't need the ego boost."

"You are a proper menace," he breathes out, part of him wondering why she – and her little smile and those big green eyes – can get to him like that.

"A menace to His Royal Highness, Prince Niklaus? I believe that would be treason, no?"

They share another Margherita pizza, order another round of drinks, chat, laugh and kiss. When the restaurant closes at one a.m., he takes her hand and leads her to the rooftop lawn. They hang out in one of the loungers, share a bottle of Krug champagne and make out like a couple of teenagers until the sun appears in the London skyline.

A/N: And I'm back with a new story because I just couldn't ignore this one! I'll admit, I'm a big fan of Meghan Markle and she inspired me to write a commoner-turned-princess story with a dash of royal intrigue!