Inconceivable! Page 13

  “Confirmed. You two are the most boring couple in palace history. Baking, movies. You’re like an old married couple.”

  I gasped and huffed, preparing to protest his accusation that we were boring. Before I had the chance, Henri turned and headed down the hallway. “I’m going for a walk.” He gave a single wave, grabbed his coat from a hook, and walked out a heavy door leading outside.

  John took my hand and guided me in the opposite direction toward the staircase. “It seemed like that bothered you. Did it?” He asked the question without looking at me.

  “What? Henri accusing us of being boring?”

  “No. Of acting married.”

  As though waiting for this cue, sweat sprang out from the pores around my temples and armpits simultaneously. How is it possible to have such coordinated sweat?

  “Nothing Henri says bothers me. Anyway, it sounded like a compliment to me.”

  “That’s how I took it. I just wanted to make sure you felt the same way.” John squeezed my hand, a now-familiar gesture he used to punctuate a conversation. “So, what are we going to watch? We’ve got ‘The Painted Veil’ from your list and ‘A Scanner Darkly’ from mine.”

  “Either one’s fine with me. But do you mind if I wash the flour out of my hair first?”

  “Sure. But only if you let me help.” His suggestion dripped with possibilities.

  I nodded and John led me to the bathroom I used when I spent the night at the palace. He closed the door and turned the lock with a sharp click.

  He grabbed my arms, just below the shoulders, and nipped at my neck. “I don’t want to get your shirt wet. Mind taking it off?”

  I looked into his simmering eyes and nodded my consent. In a single swoosh, he pulled the long-sleeve T-shirt over my head, forcing my arms into the air. Before I lowered them, his hands squeezed my ribcage below my bra and he brought his kisses south, closer to my cleavage. I wore a new black bra, the successor to the one I’d worn when I got soaked outside the preschool. He stopped and retrieved a towel, spreading it on the wide, raised area surrounding the lip of the jetted tub.

  “Lie down.” I did as he instructed. He guided my head over the tub, cradling it in his palm. With his other hand, he opened the faucet.

  “Do you like it hot or cold?”

  “Hot, please.”

  He pulled the attached nozzle and rained the warm water over my hair. Next, he squeezed the pearly pink shampoo onto my hair and got to work.

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  His declaration stood on its own; it didn’t come in the heat of intense kissing or groping. He was really examining my face, so his words held more weight.

  “Beautiful? Maybe. But only from this angle.”

  “From every angle.” He set the nozzle down. “Look at me. I love you. That’s all that matters. Stop being so hard on yourself.”

  It was the first time he’d said those three simple words. The inflection of his voice, the concern in his eyes consumed me. Not only did he love me, but he worried I wasn’t getting it. My ears rang with the ancient love song every devoted couple knows by heart; its wordless melody told me yes, I knew he loved me, and I loved him, too.

  Without regard for my sopping hair, I sat up, took his face in my hands, and kissed him. I pulled back and looked him in the eyes. “I love you, too.”

  He smiled and lightly brushed some suds off my cheek. “Let’s get you washed up.”

  I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting his fingers massage my scalp and lace their way through my hair. Devotion infused his movements; never had anyone doted over me like this. After the rinse, he squeezed my hair, pulling the excess water into the tub.

  “Sit up.” He grabbed a towel from a nearby shelf.

  After patting my hair dry, I nuzzled into his chest. “Thank you.”

  “Well? How did I do?”

  I stood and walked to the mirror. “Not bad. I may have to let you try a few more times… practice makes perfect and all that.”

  “Just say the word.” His tenderness overwhelmed me.

  Three weeks before Winter’s Feast, the annual post-Christmas gala at Belvoir, there was an unusual flurry of activity in the driveway at the side of Belvoir. It caught my eye when the driver pulled up in front of my usual door. John met me, and led me inside.

  My feet expertly navigated the halls and stairs; this was the 17th time I’d been to Belvoir since we started dating. (But who was counting?) I was such a frequent visitor I thought about leaving a toothbrush and other essentials in the bathroom connected to my bedroom. Afraid John’s father would find out and freak, I rejected the idea and kept packing and unpacking my rolling duffle for each visit. Whatever.

  I planned to make savory stuffed dates during this visit, having given John my ingredients list when I was at Belvoir a couple of days earlier. The palace staff got any ingredient I requested. Most impressive was their ability to supply me with sweet, luscious strawberries, even though they were out of season, for my grandmother’s strawberry bread. Since they went to so much trouble for the main ingredient, I improvised the buttermilk with milk and lemon juice. The loaf still turned out right: dense and cake-like.

  Instead of leading me to the kitchen, John took me to The Flat.

  “Straight to your bedroom, huh? You haven’t changed your mind about your virginity, have you?” I said with innocent fluttering eyes as he shut the door.

  “Don’t you wish!”

  The weather was cold and the paparazzi was hot. Their speculation about John’s love life ran rampant like the season’s flu, spreading rumors across glossy printed pages and social media. Since they were so desperate to find out about the prince’s “latest fling” and why almost no one saw him in public these days, we stayed at the palace most of the time. My name surfaced a couple of times as a possible contender for John’s affections. But we gave them so little to go on, it came off as pure speculation.

  I slipped off my shoes and John grabbed my arms, pulling me tight against his body. Falling onto his bed, he promptly rolled on top of me. Through my jeans, I felt him coming to attention, a sensual greeting. Hi, honey, I’m home!

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Hatty… Spend the rest of your life with me.” He was a bit out of breath.

  Did I hear that right?

  I gently pushed on his chest. “Seriously. What’s going on?”

  He sat up, but I remained on my back. Ever so lightly, his fingers traced the peaks and valleys of my face. “Hatty, will you marry me?”

  I sat up quickly, too quickly, because little silver stars exploded in my field of vision. “I’d better lie back down.”

  I eased back into a reclining position on the comforter. He lay down beside me, our faces an inch apart.

  “I love you, and I want you to be my wife.” John wants me. Forever. My very core lit up at the prospect of spending the rest of my life with him, and I had to stop myself from screaming, “Yes!” Because it wasn’t quite that simple.

  He held up a platinum ring, reached over, and took my right hand, the traditional place for wedding rings in Toulene. “Hatty, would you do me the honor of being my lifelong partner?”

  He slid onto my finger the most beautiful ring I’d ever seen. It had a large center stone sitting among a circle of small diamonds. Holy bling-bling, Batman.

  His proposal didn’t come as a complete surprise―at the conclusion of our last date, the royal family’s private attorney accompanied me home to go over some new paperwork. Lars Franke explained how my life would change if John and I got married. In order to have a title, Duchess was the most likely, I’d have to give up my U.S. citizenship. The title was necessary to fulfill legal requirements for marrying a member of Toulene’s royal family, a law implemented after that messy Fergus-Emmaline business. Lars also told me if we got engaged before March, I’d have to forgo my final semester and delay graduation. He said in Toulene, royal engagements traditionally last no more than six month
s, so I’d be too busy planning the wedding and preparing to move to focus on my studies. There was also the little matter of my internship. I’d need time to work with my advisor and develop a plan that fulfilled the university’s requirements and didn’t involve coverage of the royal family or the National Assembly.

  I frowned at the thought of having to halt my education.

  “Oh God. What’s wrong?” John’s eyes were open wide and his lips wilted in concern.

  “I’m going to be completely honest with you. I want to marry you. I want it more than anything. But your lawyer said if we get engaged, I can’t graduate in May. Is that true? Why can’t I do both?” I said it with my eyes closed, willing the tears to stay away.

  He held my hand and rubbed it gently. “I understand. I’m asking so much of you. I knew the thought of delaying graduation would upset you. But I received some exciting news today from London. A family friend sits on the editorial board of The Guardian. He wants to be your mentor and help you become a writer for the paper’s editorial page. I’m guessing the university will count that as your internship, even if you work remotely.”

  His face shone with satisfaction because he’d solved my problem. Except he hadn’t. It smacked of favoritism. No one in their right mind at The Guardian would agree to work with a young journalist without a degree unless she were poised to wed a prince.

  “Don’t you think I can find an internship on my own? Before we met, I was well on my way to completing a degree without royal intervention.”

  “Yes, I realize you can find your own opportunities. But I thought you’d love the idea of working for such a prestigious paper. And they want you to write about poverty, education, and children’s issues. I thought you’d be thrilled.”

  “I’m surprised. That’s all.”

  “I’m sure you realize there’s no way you can be married to me and work as a reporter of any kind. Reporters are the enemy of this family.”

  Boom. There it was. I suspected he felt this way, but he’d been careful not to say it explicitly. Now that we were in this thing deep, the truth emerged.

  “So am I the enemy then? I was a reporter.”

  “Of course not. I’m talking about the men and women who nearly kill themselves and others trying to get a photo of me with a family friend or cousin so they can spew lies about who I love.” His voice was loud. “And when we’re married and have a palace full of beautiful children, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some fool with a camera hurt or exploit them in any way.”

  I’d never seen him this angry or heard him raise his voice so loudly. I sat up and took his hand, rubbed his back.

  “Yes. John, I love you. When I think about what would make me happy for the rest of my life, all the pictures in my head include you.” It was true. Going back to my pre-John life wasn’t an option.

  He kissed my palm, and squeezed my hand. “This spring will be busy. After the wedding, whenever that is, we’ll move to Langbroek Palace to give ourselves space and distance from my family. Once we’re settled, I promise to do everything in my power to make it possible for you to finish your degree. And in the meantime, you can begin working with Hans Friedman.”

  “Hans Friedman?” He was one of Europe’s most revered journalists, though I hadn’t seen his byline recently. I didn’t realize he sat on The Guardian’s editorial board. “Fine. If it were anyone else, I’d say no.” I smiled in spite of myself, exhilarated to have the opportunity to work with one of the biggest stars in my field.

  “Just embrace the fact your position is always going to open doors for you. You’re a royal now, baby.” His playful smile weakened my lingering resolve to argue.

  “Fine. Now, I have an important question: why me? Why do you, the Prince of Toulene, want to marry a gal from the Ozarks?” My heart thumped faster; I was eager to hear his answer.

  He turned to face me, and caressed my cheek. “All my life, I’ve been surrounded by pretty things―exquisite paintings, gorgeous heiresses, opulent palaces. While I appreciated the aesthetics, none of them appealed to me. When I met you, I understood why. They’re all fake. But you… You’re exactly who you are. And you know, I can’t do that. I always have to play the part, be perfect, and be ‘Prince John.’ You aren’t trying to be something different. You’re just you. Hatty, you’re my kind of beautiful.” He leaned in and gently brushed his lips against mine.

  I drew in a deep breath. “For the record, I love the real you. That ‘Prince John’ guy is great too because he knows how to be gracious to all the asshats he meets―and that’s a real gift. You’ve shown me it’s possible to be good and kind, even under extreme pressure. But I love you most when you’re not being Prince Charming. I like it when you curse, hit your brother, and laugh until you snort. It reminds me even though you’re a prince, you’re still just a guy. It’s really fun to see that side of you.”

  Our lips met again, and his hands wove themselves into my hair. He gently tugged, exposing my neck. His tongue licked an invisible line along my jaw and neck as he mapped his way toward my chest. His familiar pattern of kissing me stoked a fire between my legs.

  But then he stopped. “I have an idea for how to share our big news. Let’s announce our engagement at Winter’s Feast.”

  “Oh, good call. I like that.”

  “And I want your parents to be here. They can fly from Springfield to Chicago and then try out the direct flight to Roeselare.”

  “I think I’m going to explode with happiness! It’s been more than six months since I saw my parents. I can’t wait for you to meet them! Do you want to hang on to the ring until Winter’s Feast?”

  “No, you keep it. Just don’t wear it until then.”

  “How would you feel about letting me invite some of my friends? If we’re going to announce our engagement, I’d like Tilda, Plato, Sam, and Sara to be there.”

  “Absolutely! I’ll make sure they’re on the list. Invitations go out tomorrow.”

  “So, what am I supposed to wear?”

  “Don’t tell me the future Mrs. Meinrad is afraid she’ll look ‘dudely’ at Winter’s Feast. Is that the right word?”

  I lightly punched his arm. “Yeah, that’s it.” I never should’ve told him about my high school fashion horrors.

  “Well, you could wear the nightgown from your first weekend at the palace.” His fingers skimmed the neckline of my shirt.

  “A bit scandalous, don’t you think?”

  “You’re right. We try to avoid scandal at all costs, so no nightgown on the blue carpet.”

  “What’s a blue carpet?”

  “It’s our version of Hollywood’s red carpet. The guests for Winter’s Feast walk a blue carpet from the street to the palace door. We let photographers set up on the west lawn and cover the arrivals. The idea is to give them some access so they don’t climb over the fence to get pictures. But I think you should stay here the night before so they don’t see you make a grand entrance.”

  “Yeah, I like that idea. We don’t want to tip our hand.” That, and I hated the idea of being on the lens-end of a journalist. “What will your family say about our engagement?”

  “Dad, Henri, and Aunt Elinore knew I was going to propose to you today and they’re completely supportive. I also briefed Granny. She trusts my judgment, and I know she’ll adore you. By the way, did you know she gets to choose our wedding date?”

  My new in-laws are total control freaks! When I told Tilda that Lars had come to my apartment to go over the details of a possible engagement, she mentioned the queen would have the authority to set the wedding date as well as the location. It was a little nugget Tilda had gleaned from a law school class on the monarchy. Of all the concessions I had to make, these seemed relatively minor.

  “That’s fine. What else do they get to decide? Whether or not my wedding dress has straps?”

  “That’s entirely your choice, though I know a tailor in Paris who’d love to help you with both your wedding dress and your dr
ess for Winter’s Feast.”

  A French designer wants to dress me? Maybe there’s hope for me on the fashion front after all.

  “And is the plan still for me to meet your grandmother for the first time at Winter’s Feast?” Nervous energy bounced around my stomach at the thought of meeting Toulene’s queen.

  “She’ll arrive a few days before, and I expect that’s when you’ll meet her. We have to follow her schedule and her lead.”

  The queen kept a lower profile than 007. Only a few people knew she holed up at an estate in Phuket, Thailand October through February. Her physicians recommended the warmer climate because apparently, she was prone to respiratory problems that got worse when winter arrived in Toulene. This explained why John was so unwilling to discuss his grandmother’s schedule and change of plans when I interviewed him the first time. She’d never intended to visit that preschool herself. Promoting her appearance was part of the ruse to make people believe she was still in Toulene. Learning this bit of information assured me I was fully behind the curtain seeing the inner workings of the monarchy. Or so I thought.

  “Stand up,” John said. “I want you to see something.”

  He stood behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. We looked at ourselves in the big mirror hanging on his bedroom wall.

  John’s hands slid around my midsection. “Our children will be kings and queens. On top of that, they’ll be devastatingly gorgeous. I mean, look at us.”

  Intense desire surged through my body. Carrying John’s child was the most intimate expression of love I could imagine. Swoon.

  s my friends and I ambled along Rue Delambre, I kept tabs on the building numbers so we wouldn’t miss the designer’s atelier. It was Thursday night, and I resented the fact we had to leave Paris tomorrow evening because well, it was Paris and I loved it. During our walk, Sara, Tilda, Plato, and Sam debated what they were going to wear to Winter’s Feast.

  While I was in the City of Light choosing my dress for the upcoming party, John and Henri were in Paphos, Cypress visiting a tailor whose family had made special occasion clothes for generations of Meinrads. As much as I worshipped Paris, I wanted to go with them to Paphos because the projected high temperature during their trip was 75 degrees. John said no. He was paranoid and didn’t want us photographed together until after we announced our engagement. The press was still snooping, getting more suspicious that John’s public appearances had taken a nose dive. But so far, his plan was working: I hadn’t seen one camera flash since the paparazzi gave up on me shortly after I got whisked away with John in the limo. In your face, reporters! I appreciated the small victories since I knew news of our engagement would unleash a media maelstrom, a vortex swirling around me and John. I dreaded it, but accepted it as part of the package. Growing up in the Ozarks, I’d learned that spring brings out nature’s beauty, but the warmth that awakens the flowers also breeds tornadoes; you have to accept the bad with the good.