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Zusatztext "Hester Browne's The Runaway Princess is a fun, frothy book that explores love in many facets: Amy and Leo's sweet love, her snarky but fantastic friendship with Jo and her complicated relationship with her family. Browne manages to make all of these relationships completely believable, and downright funny sometimes, in spite of the farfetched fairytale plot. Amy's anguished internal monologue as she tries to find her own happily-ever-after will keep the reader chuckling." Informationen zum Autor Hester Browne is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous novels, including The Little Lady Agency in the Big Apple , The Finishing Touches , and Swept Off Her Feet . She lives in London and Herefordshire with her two Basset hounds Violet and Bonham. Klappentext "The Princess Diaries" meets "Runaway Bride" in this wonderful novel about a London career girl who embarks on a whirlwind romance with a mysterious man--only to discover that he's a prince. Browne! bestselling author of the Little Lady novels! delivers a tale that strikes a perfect note in these royal-obsessed times. Leseprobe The Runaway Princess One “Imagine I’m Max Barclay,” said Jo. “I’ve just got you a drink. I’m coming over to have an uncomplicated, no-pressure party chat with you.” To make it more real, she began to swagger across the balcony toward me as if wearing a pair of invisible leather chaps, a takeaway cup of coffee standing in for the cheap white wine. “Well, if it isn’t the lovely Amy Wilde, Chelsea’s very own Queen of Spades,” she drawled in Max’s confident Sloane-y tones. “Hoe’s it hanging, Amy? Ha-ha.” Then she did a startling impression of Max’s wink, and paused for me to respond, as rehearsed. Right on cue, my brain emptied of all thoughts, leaving only a faint background buzz of panic, and the sinking knowledge that I was about to say something stupid. I always did. That was why I spent 90 percent of all parties in the kitchen by the sausage rolls. I groaned inwardly. I wasn’t even at the party yet. We weren’t even in a room. I couldn’t even claim Jo had Max Barclay’s disconcerting Roman nose to put me off. This party would be the third time Jo had tried to matchmake me with Max, and on both previous occasions the famous Barclay nose had robbed me of all coherent thought; it was supposed to “prove” some familial indiscretion with the Duke of Wellington but all my brain could see was a golden eagle in red trousers. I’d virtually had to hold my jaw shut to stop myself mentioning it, which hadn’t exactly made for sparkling conversation. I took a deep breath and made an effort to remember the inoffensive conversational underhand serves we’d been practicing. There were some advantages to sharing a flat with the woman who put the art into party. Jo put lots of other things into parties too, like vodka melon pops and undetectable guest-mingling, but for the last year or so her considerable attentions had been focused on coaching me out of what she called my “party paralysis.” “Um . . .” “No!” Jo dropped Max’s swagger and pointed at me. “That’s where you always go wrong. Stop thinking about what you shouldn’t say and let the conversation flow.” She made a graceful gesture with her free hand. “Let the inoffensive small talk about the weather and the shooting and what you got for Christmas ripple forth until you find a mutually interesting topic—” “Jo, I keep telling you—I’m from Yorkshire,” I interrupted. “We don’t do small talk in Yorkshire. We don’t do any talk, if we can help it. Our menfolk play cricket, a game conducted in respectful silence by both spectators and players, ...
