Princess In Denim (13 page)

What a lot of phony brouhaha.

She'd gotten through her first twenty-eight years without these worries. Why not the next twenty-eight, too?

When she stepped into the room, William and the prime minister rose immediately to their feet and set their drinks on a side table.

She took a deep breath and remembered to be herself. Careful not to let a high heel tangle in the fringe on the edge, she walked across the carpet to the two men, smiled, extended her hand and said, "Hi. How're y'all doin'?"

Chapter Seven

Much to William's amusement, the neighboring prime minister remained at Baesland Castle for three days.

"Her Highness is such a breath of fresh air," he said with a toothy smile the first day, right after the princess dismissed her correct style as so much "royal brouhaha" and told him he could use her given name, Moira.

William could not argue with that assessment. He could add so much more about her, but nothing he wanted to share.

"I want to practice my English with her," was the excuse the prime minister gave for remaining a second day.

"Your English is fine," William pointed out. If anyone was to practice their English with her, he wanted to be the one. He wanted to go riding with her again. He toyed with the idea of challenging her to another swim in his moat.

Late in the third day, the prime minister was summoned to the telephone for an unexpected, unexplained phone call that William had ordered Leonard to manufacture. The prime minister departed soon afterward, leaving William to dine alone this morning with Moira.

At last!

As he went in search of her, he carried two things with him. The first was a folder filled with sketches of wedding gowns submitted overnight by various designers, all vying for the privilege of making Her Highness's dress for the wedding of the century. The sooner she chose, the better. For many reasons. One was her safety. Another was his imagination, which had been spinning quite elaborate fantasies involving the two of them alone in his suite for an entire night.

And in the pocket of his jacket, nestled in a burgundy velvet box bearing the Baesland insignia, was a platinum engagement ring. After signing the marriage contract, William had selected rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, passed down from generation to generation of ancestral queens, and had them reset. The design was a unique melding of two slightly different crowns, representing the unification of Baesland and Ennsway which would take place, by agreement with King Albert, on their wedding day.

Moira had neither done nor said anything to indicate that she would accept the ring. He carried it with him every day so that he would have it when the perfect time arrived. That would be either when she came to her senses or when he charmed her into it.

As for getting her to choose a dress designer, he was about to discover whether that would require charm or chicanery.

He found her, not in the atrium where they had dined for the past three mornings with the prime minister—and where she had perpetually shown up late—but eating breakfast alone in her own apartment, at a table by a sunny window. He figured her tardiness was designed to annoy him, but in fact it only made him anticipate her arrival more.

"Good morning, Your Highness."

"Your Majesty."

While her greeting was not unpleasant, he suspected the ring would remain in his pocket today. "I have brought sketches for you from the best designers in Europe."

"Leave them on the table."

Boldly he pulled out a chair and seated himself adjacent to her. "Thank you. I would love to join you."

She did not bolt.

Assured that she did not find his presence intolerable, he opened the folder and spread out eight sketches. The white tablecloth was hand-embroidered with bouquets of red roses, and he hoped its subliminal message would put her in the right mood.

"What are these?" she asked.

"Wedding gowns."

"Let me rephrase the question." She stirred her tea with more agitation than necessary, and the spoon pinged repeatedly against the inside of the cup. "Why are they
here?"

"For you to choose a designer. If one of these—"

"I don't think I should choose a dress before I choose a husband, do you?"

"Is that how it is done in America?"

"Yes."

"Young girls there do not read magazines and dream of their gowns from the time they are old enough to walk?"

"Certainly not." She raised her cup, blew on it gently and took a tiny sip to test the temperature.

"I think you are lying."

"I think you're behind the times."

Fingers outstretched, he made minor adjustments to the layout of the sketches, in order to draw her attention back to them. "Please choose one."

She spared them a glance. "Do you have pop-ups in this country?"

"Pop-ups?"

"Yeah, they're a breakfast food."

"I have never heard of them."

"You toast them in the toaster. You do have toasters, don't you?"

With a shrug, he told the truth. "I have no idea. But please, the sketches. You do not find the slightest admiration for the talent of any one of these designers?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, I just can't think without my pop-ups." She sipped more tea.

"I will see what my chef can do."

Many of the gowns were very traditional, but some were, to put it kindly, typically designer-innovative. He selected one he thought particularly hideous—it would be a crime to cover her lovely curves in such a sack—and slid it toward her until it touched her rose-rimmed plate.

"I think this one suits you," he said.

"You'd have to lock me in the tower first."

A tiny crease puckered above the bridge of her nose, and he wanted to reach up with his finger and erase it. But if his hand got that far without her batting it away, he knew he would not stop there. He would slide it across her cheek to see whether her skin was as soft as it looked. His fingers would wander on their own, over her jawline, brush across her ear and wind into her hair, which she had left down.

He liked it down—so much more "her" than that stuffy French braid.

"Really?" He strove to sound as if he were surprised. "You do not like it?"

"If I died and someone buried me in that one, I'd come back to life just to hurt them."

"I see." He did his best to appear thoughtful; frowned a little, pursed his lips a little, stared at the sketches for a full minute. He pointed toward another. "Perhaps this one then?"

"For a man who dresses as well as you do, you have abominable taste in wedding gowns."

"You think I dress well?"

She looked away, but not before her cheeks pinkened. If she was trying to annoy him by being difficult, William thought, she was doing more suffering than he. He held up a different sketch. "This one?"

"Terrible."

"Yes, I thought so, too."

He went through them one by one, gauging her expressions, noting her adjectives. Only one escaped an instant rejection, though rejection was not long in coming.

"No, that one would never do." She bolted to her feet. "Excuse me, please. My father is expecting me this morning."

And he knew her reply had been delayed because that was the gown she would have wanted, had she been allowed to choose her husband.

Humming softly, William left her apartment and handed the folder to Leonard. "The one on top. Have the designer begin immediately."

"They will need to measure Her Highness. And I am not certain her secretary would keep your secret."

"Send someone to her maid, then. Tell her it is to update her wardrobe."

Leonard bowed slightly. "Ingenious, Your Majesty. She does not want to see more sketches from this designer?"

"No, she appeared to like that particular gown very much."

As did he. Better yet, he was going to like her in it.

* * *

If the wedding dress turned out half as pretty as the sketch, Chloe knew it would be exquisite.

On someone else.

It was only a small drawing, and on it she couldn't tell embroidery from pearls, but the offset shoulders, narrow bodice, full skirt and long train were enough to make a gal want to marry the first king who proposed.

Trouble was, William was the only king she was ever likely to be interested in, he hadn't proposed, and she had her own archaic notions about marrying for love.

"The chauffeur has brought the car around, Your Highness."

"Thank you, Humphrey."

As a private secretary, Humphrey, the man hired by Prince Louis and formerly bumped down to Emma's assistant, was efficient. He'd stepped into Emma's job the morning following her disappearance. Her on-the-surface job, that is, not the position of constant support and bottomless well of information that Chloe truly needed.

"That's all for now, Humphrey."

"As you wish." He disappeared as silently as he'd arrived.

Chloe, on today's trek through Baesland Castle, only had to stop twice to ask servants for directions before she found the entry hall. As she entered it from the north, William strolled in from the south. She got the distinct impression he'd been waiting for her, and it gave her heart a little flip-flop.

"Ah, there you are, Your Highness." He'd been very diligent in not using her name. Moira's name. "I did not hear your music this morning."

"Did you miss it, Your Majesty?" She missed hearing his name on her lips, but she'd started this and she was going to see it through until she was a free woman again.

After she had time to calm down and think rationally, she'd realized that all she had to do to prevent the wedding was to announce her true identity.
She
wasn't the owner of the name on the contract.
She
wasn't the princess William had bargained for.
She
wasn't the daughter Albert had signed away. But she truly wanted to stay a princess, and there was only one way to do that
and
avoid getting sold up the river, and that was to stick to her plan and get William to send her packing.

"Because if you missed it, I'll be certain to play it soon."

Not that it would do any good. No matter how loudly she played it the past three mornings, endangering her own hearing in the process, he hadn't complained. She doubted much noise had actually penetrated the thick stone walls between her apartment and his.

Pity.

She made a beeline for the stained-glass door. "My father is waiting." Maybe she could talk him into voiding his part of the contract first.

"Your Highness, may I have a moment of your time? I shall see that you are not very late." He waited only a moment before adding, "In the small drawing room? Please, it is very important."

Perhaps he'd already rethought the whole issue. Maybe her music had reached his apartment after all and driven him out of it. Curious, she followed him through a corner of the great room and into the drawing room, which might have been small by castle standards, but was still far from cozy.

"I have a question about the ceremony."

So much for his rethinking skills.
"I hope you're not talking about a wedding ceremony."

"But of course."

She fisted her hands on her hips. "Yours and whose?"

She'd done everything she could think of to wear him down. She'd blasted the stereo at odd hours, perpetually arrived late for meals, refused to pick a dress designer, turned down his invitations to go riding. That last one had been difficult, but fighting for one's independence required tough measures.

Not only had William not worn down, he still had that darned twinkle in his eyes. Though he was careful to mask it just enough that she couldn't call him on it.

"Yours and mine, Moira."

Her name on his lips sounded just as sweet as it had when she first gave him permission to use it. "I told you—"

"Ah, here she is!"

Chloe followed his gaze, turned toward the door and saw Emma, smiling as if she'd missed her. "Emma!"

"Your Highness."

Relieved to see her again, Chloe threw her arms around the older woman's neck and hugged her close.

My ally. My faithful friend, who will stand by me and tell everyone that I was raised in the United States, and it's unfair to force me to marry.

"Please, Your Highness," Emma whispered urgently in her ear. "This is not proper."

"I don't care, Emma. I don't care." Chloe gave her another squeeze, then held her at arm's length for a close look. "What happened? Where have you been? Who dismissed you?"

Emma glanced nervously at William.

"He sent you away?"

"No! I . . . I
thought
His Majesty did, at first." Emma offered him an apologetic smile. "I thought he was afraid of my influence over you."

Chloe thought William tried to sound innocent when he said, "Influence? I should be so lucky," but he failed miserably.

"Emma, ride with me to see my father. We need to talk. You wouldn't believe what's happened since you left."