Inconceivable! Page 16

  “It’s not funny. This is serious.”

  “Okay, but I don’t even know what ‘this’ is.”

  He looked miserable. The reddish glow of his cheeks revealed he had a first class ticket to Hangover-ville.

  “Adela’s mad. She thinks I’m too flirty.”

  “Well, are you?”

  “No. Not intentionally.”

  I sat on the arm of the chair and reached around his slumped shoulders to give him a squeeze.

  “Look. Her worst fear is probably that she’ll get snookered into thinking she’s the one you love, only to find out through the tabloids you’ve dumped her for another woman. Not that you’d ever do that. Right?”

  “Give me more credit than that.”

  “I do. But she may feel a tad insecure. And seeing gorgeous women hanging all over you pushed her over the edge. You need to go find her and make it better.”

  “I think I love her.” He rubbed his eyes.

  “Then let’s go look for her.”

  As he stood, he took a piece of chewed gum out of his mouth. He grabbed my right hand and placed the wad in my palm. “You’re my sister now.”

  “So, this is what it’s like to have a little brother?”

  “Pretty much.”

  We both laughed and I put the gum in my mouth.

  Sister. It was the first time anyone had used that word in reference to me, the chronic only child.

  Henri leaned against my side and slung his arm around my waist as I guided him into the hallway.

  When we found Adela, she was leaning against the handrail of the grand staircase. Her long, fitted red dress was sleeveless, exposing strong, shapely arms folded across her body. I knew immediately she wouldn’t take any crap from him.

  I whispered to Henri, “Don’t screw this up. Make it right.”

  He nodded and went to her.

  pening the doors to the ballroom, a whole new feast sprawled before me. There were jugglers, a guy on a unicycle, and a clown. A scantily clad woman on a trapeze swung above the dancing, thrashing crowd. A waiter stopped in front of us with tiny glasses.

  “Absinthe?” the waiter asked.

  John politely declined, but I grabbed a glass and threw it back in a single swig. The taste of licorice with a bitter edge coated my mouth. Only moments later, the strong alcohol made my head swim.

  “Every hour, a shower of confetti rains on the crowd,” John said, pointing to the ceiling. “It’s like celebrating New Year’s Eve over and over. There’s a countdown one minute before.”

  “Should I expect an acid-dropping midget in a bowler hat to ask me to dance? This looks like a scene from a Baz Luhrmann film.”

  “Baz!” John raised his hand and waved. A dashing man with silver hair swirled over to us with a blonde woman in his arms.

  “Baz, this is my fiancé Hatty. She knows your work quite well.”

  My eyes were wide as Baz kissed me on each cheek. “Congratulations, you two! It’s so nice to meet you, Hatty. This is my wife, Catherine Martin.”

  “You’re a costume designer, and you guys worked together on The Great Gatsby, right? We loved that movie!” I’m a total fangirl.

  “Thanks, Hatty. Your gown is exquisite, by the way.” Those words coming from Catherine Martin nearly knocked me over.

  “Hatty, it’s nice to meet you,” Baz said. “I’ll let you two make your way through the crowd. If you’re feeling adventurous, stop at the water tank at the far end. You put in your legs and tiny piranhas eat away the dead skin. It’s popular in Thailand at the spas. Your grandmother told me about it. Very invigorating!” And with that, the Lurhmanns moved on.

  I couldn’t see the tank (and there was no way I was going to feed my flesh to piranhas), but at the far end, I spotted the karaoke stage.

  “You don’t really think you can outdo me at karaoke, do you? Maybe we should sing a duet,” I offered.

  “You’re on your own, my dear. I always sing solo.”

  “Well, aren’t you a cocky so-and-so? Don’t you know I’ve spent the last three and a half years singing my heart out in karaoke bars throughout your fair kingdom?”

  “Before we go mic-to-mic, let’s get a drink. What do you want?”

  “Just water. I don’t want to impair my performance with more booze or caffeine.”

  As John walked away, I set my sights on the five cartoon princesses standing together looking ridiculously over-the-top in nine inch heels and slinky dresses. They also wore scowls.

  “Hey! It’s nice to see you guys again. Isn’t this amazing?” Cause, ya know, I’m like the belle of the ball, tonight.

  One of the blondes looked at me with an expression that screamed, You’ve got to be kidding me. Instead, she said, “Congratulations on your engagement.”

  “Thank you! I’m so happy we got to share the news with everyone tonight.”

  But none of the princesses smiled back at me.

  The redhead spoke up. “We’re sure you’ll eventually become the kind of girl who fits with John and his family.”

  The backhanded compliment took my breath away and released a flood of self-doubt.

  Before I could respond, another woman spoke up. “Yes, if you need any advice on how to blend in, we’d be happy to help you. It’s clear you’re out of your league. I’m sure this all seems so… foreign to you.” The inflection of her voice made the word “foreign” an insult, a slap across the face.

  “What do you mean?” I spat back at her.

  “You’re too unrefined, and all that has to change. No more karaoke in pubs, dancing barefoot, or speaking your mind so freely. Good luck with all that.” The red-head laughed lightly as if she’d just made a joke.

  Plato caught my eye and waved me over. Thank goodness.

  “Excuse me.” I turned my back on the women and left, wanting to punch someone.

  I nearly ran to Plato. He grabbed my arms and furrowed his brow. “Hatty, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  I couldn’t repeat what they’d said without having a complete breakdown or knocking someone out. I think part of me felt like they were right―I didn’t fit in and I wasn’t refined. I belonged outside the walls with the rest of the nosy journalists who just wanted to get their story and go home.

  “Hatty. You look pissed. Did those witches say something to you?” Plato put his hands on my shoulders and stared at me. I nodded, still wrestling the knot in my throat as the anger simmered inside me.

  “C’mon. I have an idea.” Plato led me the length of the ballroom to the stage. The DJ was bopping along to the dub-step blaring through the single headphone he held against his ear.

  “Hi! We’re ready for karaoke. Do you have “Raise Your Glass” by Pink?” Plato grabbed my hand and squeezed it. On this karaoke stage, he’d definitely have my back.

  The DJ nodded and began swiping and tapping on the tablet he had plugged into the sound system. “When this number ends, okay, mate?” Like the Luhrmanns and Lucas, the DJ sounded like an Australian import.

  We went on stage and stood behind the two microphones. I scanned the room for John, but didn’t see him anywhere. People noticed us standing there, and turned to see what we were about to do.

  When the song ended, the DJ spoke into his mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, the next princess of Toulene.” Hey, that’s Duchess, buddy.

  The crowd stood still and every eye was on us. I took a deep breath and smiled, finally seeing John holding two glasses back by the entrance. Even this far away, his broad grin gleamed in the blue-white light.

  Watch your crazy American fiancé show you how it’s done.

  The song began and Plato grabbed his mic. This number was our favorite. It’s the one we always sang when we did karaoke together.

  People smiled appreciatively as Plato rocked through the first verse. Sam came to the front of the stage with Tilda and Sara. They grooved and danced in their free-spirited way.

  We ripped into the chorus, and the
cartoon princesses stood in a hideous huddle sneering at us. My only thought when it was my turn to sing a verse? In your face, bitches. I grabbed the mic from the stand and yanked it to my lips. I spat the words, sending them like darts toward their frozen frowns. They were the only people in the entire place who weren’t jumping, dancing, or lifting their drinks as the song gained momentum.

  More people joined the dancing when we cranked out the second chorus. Wine sloshed out of glasses as they bounced up and down singing with us. As we neared the end, the entire place exploded in a riot as people sang with us and kept dancing. Baz dipped his wife; they were wrapped up in their own little world. Mom and Dad stood just off the dance floor smiling at me, probably happy and relieved that I was comfortable enough in this setting to let loose.

  When the song ended, people screamed, clinked glasses, and rushed the stage. Plato raised a shot glass, handed me one, and we clinked them together. I took a healthy sip, but didn’t suck down all of the liquid; I was still a bit unsteady from the absinthe. I handed the glass back to Plato and floated to the edge of the stage. Gerhard was there in an instant, swooping me off the platform before I could object.

  He cradled me in his arms. “Hatty, never let them change you.” Gerhard lowered my feet to the floor.

  John immediately took my hand.

  “Sorry,” I yelled over the roar of the crowd. “We were probably a little over the top.”

  “You were spectacular. I’m going to whisk you away before you have to do an encore.” John led me toward a side door.

  In the hallway, we were alone. John’s strong hands formed a vise on my hips, roughly pulling my body into his while pushing me toward the wall.

  “I love how you look and feel in this dress.” He slid his hands over the slick fabric to my backside, squeezing me while he kissed my neck. “Claire had nothing for me to grab back there.”

  I grabbed his chin in my hand and turned his face down to mine. “Let me kiss her name out of your mouth.” Our lips slammed together hungrily.

  John brought one hand around to the front of my strapless dress. I wriggled my body closer to his, making it easier for him to reach inside.

  A stern voice stopped us: “John.”

  John immediately pulled away at the sound of his father’s sharp tone. My fingers curled, digging into my palms. Embarrassment and panic filled me, mixing into dread.

  “You can’t let your wife do that.” Leopold narrowed his eyes at us.

  “What are you talking about?” John turned, putting himself between me and his father.

  The queen was there, too. “Leo, leave them. Let’s go inside.” She stepped closer to us, gesturing toward the doors leading back into the ballroom.

  “Hatty, you can’t go on stage in front of our family and friends singing such wildly inappropriate songs if you’re going to marry John. You were practically screaming the lyrics, words like ‘panty snatcher.’ My God.”

  The tension in Leopold’s voice warned me of his simmering irritation. It was the same way John sounded when he was trying (and failing) to control his anger. But I didn’t give a crap. My inner Ozarks redneck woke up.

  “Let me get this straight. You object to ‘panty snatcher?’ Maybe you find it offensive because it hits too close to home. By the way, where’s Louisa?”

  I gasped at my bad manners. Clearly, the liquor had loosened my tongue.

  John squeezed my hand hard. I didn’t blink.

  The queen lightly touched my arm. “What Leo is trying to say is the public announcement of your engagement puts you in the spotlight. People will be looking at you, judging you, perhaps even expecting you to fail because you’re not from Toulene. Don’t give them a reason to hate you. You’re now a part of our family, and how they feel about you impacts how they feel about us. Be the best possible version of yourself. Now, go enjoy the evening, my dears.”

  And with that, the queen took Leo’s arm and pulled him toward the door to the ballroom.

  I awoke the next morning in John’s arms. He’d crashed in my bedroom at 3:00 a.m. when we decided to leave the party, even though it was still going strong. John told me it didn’t wind down until 5:00 a.m. and officially ended at seven.

  We were scheduled to have a late brunch with John’s family and my parents. I gently shifted John’s arms, wiggled out of his embrace, and crawled out of bed. In the shower, I let the hot water wake me up. I came out of the bathroom wearing only undies and a plush terrycloth robe.

  “Good morning, dearest,” John said from the bed. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

  “Good morning, sunshine! I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No. You’re fine. I was already awake when you got out of bed.”

  “Why don’t you stay in bed and I’ll join you?” I went over to him and crawled under the covers.

  Nervous smiles, then our lips met to exchange tender kisses. John pulled back and placed his finger over my lips. He slid his hand between the folds of my robe and stopped over the spot where my longing concentrated itself into a beautiful ache. He pressed, rubbed, and stroked, applying the right pressure. Bonus: he knew how and when to vary his touch as he manipulated me through the thin fabric of my lacy undies. The harp wasn’t the only instrument from which his fingers extracted thrilling sounds. Under his intense gaze, I moaned in delight and my quick breaths transformed into lustful panting. Reaching under the covers, my hand seized him through his cotton pants. In a matter of moments, his eyes rolled back and his pleasure culminated in my hand. My body gave in, too, and I savored the intensity of the moment. This wasn’t sex but it was already so much better than anything I’d ever experienced with Jack.

  Reveling in our newfound intimacy, my body thrilled in the wake of his touch, ready to respond again, if the opportunity, ahem, arose.

  “I give that two thumbs up. Way up,” I teased.

  “And that was just the trailer. Imagine how earth-shattering the full length feature will be.”

  I ran my hand through his hair. It was the first time I’d let myself do it. It felt soft and each section sprang back into its perfectly messy place.

  “I’m a little nervous about our families getting together for brunch. My mom should not sit near your dad, agreed?” Feminist and the Beast.

  “Agreed. I asked Astrid to take one final look at the placards to make sure they’re not together just before we come downstairs.”

  “That’s why I love you. You think of everything.”

  The start of our big family brunch was smooth. Mom was at the opposite end and side from John’s father. The queen sat at the head of the table. As things wrapped up, and the staff came around to refill our cups with tea and coffee, the queen spoke.

  “Hatty. John. Your parents and I have spoken, and we’ve settled it. You will marry one week from today at St. Joseph’s Cathedral, and we will serve dinner afterward here in the Regent’s Room. Your parents and I are changing our travel plans so we can be here for the happy occasion.”

  What the what?

  I just stared at her. Speechless. Thank goodness John spoke up.

  “Granny, I think that’s a lovely plan. Thank you for making the arrangements so both of our families can participate.”

  John sounded a little too practiced. I wondered if he was in on it. I was caught completely off guard.

  I looked at my parents. Mom smiled and Dad gave me a thumbs up. Really? They weren’t going to speak up and say this is happening entirely too fast?

  John squeezed my hand.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” I managed to say.

  I had a million questions, none of which I wanted to articulate in front of our families.

  After brunch, I didn’t get time alone with John, damn it. Instead, I went to say goodbye to my friends and tell them they’d have a royal wedding to attend next Sunday. Shock and excitement registered on their faces. I told Sara and Tilda I wanted them to be my bridesmaids, along with John’s cousin Pru. The people in Brussels co
uld hear their excited screams. Plato, Sam, and Sara left, but Tilda offered to stay a few more hours to help me plan the details. Even though she kept the royals at arm’s length professionally, Tilda was elated at the prospect of helping map out my wedding.

  Astrid led me and Tilda to a cozy study I’d never seen before.

  Aunt Elinore was waiting for us. “Ladies. We have much to do. Shall we get started?”

  She turned on a large flat screen mounted on the wall, and it displayed what was on her laptop. She’d already done a great deal of work on the schedule for our wedding day. It was presumptuous, but I had to let it go. I’d never get this thing pulled together without her help.

  Under Aunt Elinore’s guidance, we worked through the details. The queen had already signed the necessary paperwork to confer on me a title: Duchess of Reines. She chose that city because it’s where I’d lived the last three and a half years. Aunt Elinore said I’d meet with the family’s attorney Friday morning to sign the final legal documents, which would include a renunciation of my U.S. citizenship, the final step in my journey to becoming royalty. Is this really happening?

  “Now, we always use the same florist, caterer, bakery, local tailor, and musicians for events at the palace. These people all have background checks and clearances, so it’s ideal to let them handle the wedding. Agreed?”

  “I guess.” I clenched my fists and tapped my foot.

  “What’s wrong, Hatty?” Tilda, best friend extraordinaire, didn’t miss anything.

  “I’m cramming months of planning into hours. This isn’t how I imagined doing it.”

  “Then let’s make the most of the hours we have.” She pulled out her smartphone, maxed out the volume, and played a Mary J. Blige song we both loved.

  “Give me that,” Aunt Elinore snapped.

  Tilda sheepishly handed over her phone. Aunt Elinore pulled out a cord and connected it to the flat screen. The music blasted through the speakers.

  “If you’re going to enjoy Ms. Blige, ladies, you’ve got to ‘pump up the volume.’ Can I interest you in a drink?” She produced a shiny silver flask from a desk drawer.