Summary: So you're a prince. That doesn't mean you can't be normal, does it? Well, maybe it does when you have a huge stick up your arse... A very politically incorrect love story.

WARNING: Let the record show that this is not even slightly based on real life, but rather a political construct for my convenience and the pursuit of awesomeness. I have absolutely no commentary on the royal family and am not trying to represent their lives by any means. Got it? Ok. Good.

An American Girl in London

Chapter 1

Prince Charming Ain't What He Used to Be

At 22 Hannah Argos moved to London.

She had just graduated from a sub-standard American University, with substandard grades that granted her a substandard Philosophy degree with substandard job prospects… actually no, fuck that. Substandard didn't even begin to describe how utterly crap her job prospects were. The economy and its ever-spiraling journey down the crapper described her job prospects. Not substandard.

So Hannah Argos, in a rather pathetic act of desperation, moved to London.

It doesn't exactly make sense, does it? I mean, when completely and utterly broke one should probably not move to one of the most expensive cities in the world, conversion rate not included. But Hannah Argos had a plan.

Actually, no, that's a huge lie. Hannah Argos had no plan. She did, however, have an uncle who was a general manager at Harrods who happened to befriend some hoity-toity woman who bought, like, £50,000 worth of rubies after having her second child only to be "Just so goddamn overwhelmed with those obnoxious brats" that she was willing to do anything for reliable help.

So instead of crying herself to sleep over law textbooks like her mother wanted her to do, Hannah threw her belongings in a ratty old duffel, boarded a double-decker plane for 8 hours plus a five-hour time change, and stepped out in the blinding sunshine that was her future as a nanny.

Or at least she would have had this not been London we're talking about where, obviously, it was raining.

"Excuse me, sir!" Hannah waddled up, her duffel weighing her down, to the first man she saw under the overhang (wearily eyeing the rain and her prospects for getting a taxi diminished) in his crisp black suit, typing away on a blackberry as if he were writing a novel of great length. "Do you know how I get to—?" she checked her directions—"Victoria Station."

"Bugger off," the man growled. "Do I look like I work here?" and with that he strode away and Hannah wondered if she'd made a horrible mistake. Oh shit, what had she done, moving to some random goddamn country on a whim?

"There's a sign right there," said a young man that happened to also be waiting on the curb outside Heathrow, cuddling a cup of coffee in his hands, his dark wool raincoat popped up at the collar in a way that typically reminded her of obnoxious Frat brothers, but seemed like a practicality under the current weather conditions.

"Where?"

"There." He nodded his head to the screen lit up back inside the entrance.

"A train? You can take a train?"

"You're in England now. You can take a train everywhere."

"Except Wales," Hannah said as if repeating something she'd heard many times before. "I was told to never go to Wales."

The young man looked back at her with a stone cold expression. "I'm Welsh."

"Shit." Hannah winced and began to edge slowly away; terrified she'd offended the first person she'd spoken to in the entire country.

"Nah. I'm just foocking with you." He grinned and laughed happily. "I'm Scottish."

Hannah smiled back, suddenly entirely at ease with him again, despite the fact that he was a total stranger and wearing black gloves that may or may not have been straight out of a Hollywood murder scene. "Really? You're not exactly broadcasting a strong William Wallace vibe. Where's your kilt?"

"They made me leave my claymore at the border… sadly. And I save the kilt for the lassies." He winked. She giggled… mentally. "But I assure you I'm Scottish. From a town in Speyside where they make all the whisky."

"Well I suppose it explains your funny accent." Hannah wobbled again under the weight of her bag, gave up and slung it back over her shoulder, dropping it unceremoniously onto the curb.

"You're the one with the funny accent." He took a sip of his coffee all the while giving her a very assessing look that could have easily been misconstrued as interest had Hannah actually had the energy to give a shit. "Complete misunderstanding of irony. Must be American."

"Right in one." Hannah grinned. "But not the other." She jabbed out a hand, which he grabbed happily, and they became fast friends. "Name's Hannah. I am American. From D.C. actually."

"Ah. The nation's capital."

"I thought we were only playing on international stereotypes. Aren't you Scottish supposed to be slow in the mind department?"

He laughed. "I didn't say I was from Glasgow!" It might have been a funny joke, but Hannah had no goddamn idea what he was on about. He stopped as soon as he noticed this and shook his head sadly. "Well, now that you're no longer in America, lassie, it's time you know a thing or two. Us Scotsmen are the greatest race of human beings that ever roamed the earth. We invented everything, you'know. All on our own. Better than the Romans, we were."

"Is that so?" Hannah replied, her eyebrow quirked doubtfully.

"Don't doubt it. Any Scotsmen will tell you."

"The only Scotsman I know is Sean Connery and being a Bond fan does not exactly entitle me to the right to consult him about racial arguments."

Now it was his turn to stick his hand out and wait for it to be shaken. "Alasdair MacLeod, but call me Aly," he supplied. "There. Now you know two."

"Well, it's very nice to meet you. You're the first Englishmen—"

Aly growled. "Ack. Don't ever call a Scotsman English. You'll get punched in the bollocks."

"Oh. Shit. Sorry," Hannah replied drily. "I'm surprised I haven't yet learned these things in my long, long stay thus far in the United Kingdom."

"They should really make you pass a test before you board the plane. Keep out the stupid American rubbish."

She let the "stupid American" comment slide. What the hell. She was feeling generous. "Would this test, perhaps, include directions to Victoria station?"

"It's like you don't know anything!" he said in mock exasperation.

"There is only one thing that I know and that is that I know nothing," Hannah replied, proud with herself. Perhaps her substandard degree was worth something after all.

"Well do you know how to read there, Socrates?"

"Yes I know how to do that and I know that I need to get to Victoria Station so that I can catch the subway to Chelsea. So perhaps I know two things."

"If you did know anything, you'd know it's the Tube, not the subway."

Hannah was getting a bit exhausted by this whole run-around. That or the negative 5 hours sleep she'd had in the past 72 hours. "Very helpful. We get it. I'm an ignorant American. What else you got?"

"As I said, there's a sign right over there."

Hannah frowned. No, the degree was utterly wasted. Good thing she spent more time studying spliffs and her Existentialism 403 TA's body. Degree well earned.

"Well thank you very much, Mr. Alasdair MacLeod." Hannah took a deep breath, hauled her bag back on to her shoulder with about as much grace as pigeon with one wing trying to fly, and began to make her way over to said sign back inside the concourse.

"Wait, Hannah Argos," Aly called out to her, stopping her with a hand on her shoulder that had pried her bag out of her grasp with ease and slung it over his own. "I'm heading that way. Save yourself the 20 quid and let me give you a lift."

"Are you sure it's not too much trouble?" But she didn't really give a shit if it was, she was already being led towards the luxurious black sedan about four steps away from where they were standing all the while trying to figure out what exactly "quid" meant.

"No trouble at all. I'm heading that way, actually."


Samuel Ashton, future Duke of York, was really fucking late.

But, fuck it, what'd he care. Grams could wait. Ha, yeah right. When your grandmother is the goddamn Queen of England, she doesn't wait. Luckily she also doesn't disinherit—provided he didn't go do something stupid like get divorced or dress like a Nazi (…again) the title remained.

Cell phone. Beep-beep. Great. A text from Baldy McGee, aka the future King of England and Sam's tragically doomed older brother. You're late, his brother's, George's, text guy. Sam wouldn't trade places with him for anything. Not even a clean STD rap sheet.

He typed his reply with his signature smirk. It's truly impossible to find good help these days.

Before he'd even shut his phone and put it back in his slacks' pocket—Beep-beep. Where's Aly? Grams will kill you.

Sam chuckled to himself and pictured the Grand Old Lady wrestling him to the ground. She's 103. I'd like to see her try.

George again—Hitmen, you damn idiot.

Say fuck. Just say it once.

Princes don't say fuck, baby brother. Just get here and try not to get arrested.

Sam shook his head sadly and decided not to run with that one. One time when you're 17 you get caught with a Chinese prostitute and you never get to live it down! Or was she Vietnamese? Fuck it. If Hugh Grant can still rake in millions as the loveable, awkward Brit after his indiscretions, then surely Sam would be ok.

But just to be on the safe side, he'd figure he'd find Aly before he got shipped off for another year amongst the starving orphans and disgusting photo ops.

If I get disinherited, you don't get paid. You know that right?

He grinned as his phone popped up a response from his trusty sidekick… or was that security guard? Shut it, Your Majesty. I'm performing my civil service requirements for the year.

Oh I'll bet your performing a service of some sort… although I'm sure it's not civil. Only Aly would stand up a goddamn monarch (or at least, god forbid it, potential monarch) for a fit girl with an innocent smile. Fuck, he'd probably be in Gretna Green with a ring on his finger before Sam would ever get to this damn high tea.

Actually, fuck the tea. Wasn't there a football game on or something?

I'll be there in five minutes. Just dropping her off in Chelsea.

Oh so there was a girl. And £100,000 bet that all he did was chitchat. Aly never closed the deal. Just tell me it wasn't Alice. Ugh. That girl smiles more than a goddamn Barbie Doll.

That could be my future wife. And no. An American.

An American...? WTF? Slutty?

You're an asshole. I'm outside.

And with a snap of his fingers two dark dressed guys swept out behind him and followed him to the car. He opened the back door, looked at the empty back seat and frowned. "And here I thought you were bringing her for me. How much did this one offer to pay you for a round of wango-tango with yours truly?"

"Shut up you bloody weasel and get your fooking arse in the fooking car." Aly growled from the front, already switching the sedan into gear and beginning to slowly pull away, almost causing Sam to eat it on the gravel drive before he hopped into the back seat.

"Some Scottish Guardsman you are," Sam replied, sulking.

"Some might say the same about you, Prince Charming."