she marveled at how lucky she was to have found a job at—to her at least—the most beautiful building in the world—Palais Royal de Moradonia—the Royal Palace of Moradonia, serving as lady-in-waiting to the most beautiful woman in the world—Princess Chantalise Kaitline Genevieve Claudine Alcala Saint-Michel, known in Her Royal Highness’ close circles simply as “Kaitie.”
After serving in the Peace Corps in Africa after college, Sara was ready to dive into work and put her international relations degree into good use. It was pure serendipity when she heard about an opening for a lady-in-waiting for the returning Moradonian princess who had lived in America for fifteen years to seek refuge after the attempted assassination of Chantalise’s father, the Sovereign Prince Sebastien.
Just north of the Moradonian capital of Santangelo, the seaside village of Morada was all decked out for the season, with many a pumpkin lining the cobble streets and the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg permeating the cool crisp air. Having been the principality’s founding village where the first settlers planted their ancestral roots, Morada, so named for the crimson sky at dusk, with its rich history and blend of treasures from the sea, boasted the abundance of its farmland and vineyards which had long made it a destination for city dwellers eager for a more relaxed ambience.
Today’s agenda in town meant a day spent searching for a gift for her sister and brother-in-law-to-be. Sara had already purchased the couple a gift in Santangelo but wanted to buy them a specially hand-carved wooden door greeter as was the Moradonian wedding custom and Morada was the place to buy them. She was also due for a dress fitting at the local seamstress that afternoon so she figured she might as well make a day of it.
A copious dose of sunshine coupled with the sounds of the street musicians playing old Moradonian folk tunes with an accordion and guitar brought Sara back to the days when life was much simpler—when she and Amaia and her parents used to stroll along village streets enjoying ice cream cones in the summer. How she missed her mother so. They would have been so proud of Amaia marrying her true love.
A sawing noise greeted Sara as she entered the wood carver’s shop. Old Elrico was busy in the adjoining room with another project and he didn’t hear her come in amid the grating saw noise as his goggle-protected eyes focused on his work sawing long slats of wood. So in the showroom Sara continued to browse through the wood-carved figures—representing the soldiers who fought for Moradonia’s independence—standing tall and proud like Nutcracker soldiers. So fascinated was Sara by the intricate carvings of each figure, that she didn’t realize she wasn’t the only one riveted by the handcrafted work and promptly bumped into another person at the shop.
But instead of holding onto something solid to keep her balance, Sara held onto the person, and found herself leaning against the sturdy chest of a tall man whose hands firmly steadied her.
“Pardon me.” She was flustered as she tried to regain her composure. She doubted the stranger heard as the sawing noise drowned out her apology.
As she felt the stranger’s hands still on her arms, Sara raised her head, her eyes connecting with the bluest sparkling pair she’d ever seen. But they weren’t just a compelling blue as remarkable as the sea—she swore she had seen those familiar eyes somewhere before yet somehow, in her discombobulated state, she couldn’t quite place where.
The man towered over six-feet-tall compared to her slightly over five foot seven frame. She was momentarily transfixed by the weight of his stare as he seemingly eyed her with familiarity.
Thankfully, the sawing noise ceased. All of a sudden, Sara felt shy as she debated how she might be able to pry herself from this handsome stranger’s hold.
“Well, hello to you again, Miss Sara. It is indeed a pleasure.”
Eyes sheltered by dark lashes peeked up at this man with a British accent, whom she was surprised knew her name. Suddenly, Sara’s throat dried up and she longed to cough but wouldn’t dare do so in this man’s face. She settled on clearing her throat as her mind struggled to recall where she had seen him. Being a lady-in-waiting to a gregarious princess meant meeting several new people constantly. Come now, Sara, it’s your job as lady-in-waiting to know everyone you come into contact with to help Her Highness identify people in social situations. Yet, in this case, she couldn’t even help herself.
Was her memory already failing at the ripe “old age” of twenty-six? Or was it just nerves? But what was she nervous about? The man’s blue eyes seemed to only speak of kindness. That much she instinctively knew.
Then suddenly, it dawned on her…where she had seen this very good looking, dashing gentleman.
“Arlen Cromwell,” he said, bowing, his eyes, deep azure pools, still trained on her own.
Ah yes. It was the Arlen Spencer-Cromwell, Viscount Rydelthorpe, otherwise known as the former fiancé of Sara’s mistress—Her Royal Highness, Princess Chantalise of Moradonia.
“Your Lordship,” Sara said, bowing deeply. “Forgive me. I—I, well, I…”
She wished she could just disappear. How could she forget a presence such as Lord Arlen Spencer-Cromwell? After all, she had spent her first few months as lady-in-waiting assisting the princess during His Lordship’s courtship of Her Royal Highness.
“You didn’t expect to see me here.” With his tone matter-of-fact, he seemed to have read her mind. So contagious was the viscount’s smile that Sara couldn’t help but break into one of her own. Indeed the last person in the world she expected to see in her tiny hometown was the dashing, cosmopolitan British lord. Suddenly, images of her first meeting with him nearly two years ago at his English country estate flooded her mind.
“Yes.” Sara cocked her head playfully to one side. “Yes, my lord.” Then, overwhelmed with timidity, she turned to canvas the shop. “Well, what brings you here to our humble village?”
“I am in search of a door greeter,” he said, surveying the handcrafted landscape. “I’m told this is the place—the one and only place to find an authentic one.”
“Indeed…this is the place.” Sara couldn’t figure out why she seemed at a loss for words, especially as lady-in-waiting, she had been hired for her ability to assist the royals in social situations such as the art of conversation and royal etiquette.
She caught Lord Arlen’s quizzical and, dare she might add, amused glint in his eyes.
“You’re wondering why I might have such a need for a door greeter?” he said.
She nodded. The last time Lord Arlen Spencer-Cromwell was in any way associated with a wedding was with his own, well, “almost” royal wedding. She recalled the time the princess called off her engagement to the viscount.
“Well, it is for a wedding,” he said. “Er—not mine, of course. Rather for a good friend. That is, after all these years, he has sort of become my friend.”
Sara observed as His Lordship’s eyes grew wistful as his fingers thoughtfully scratched the stubble on his chin, then ran his fingers through his golden-brown hair.
“By any chance, is your friend Moradonian?” she asked. Only Moradonians traditionally are recipients of such a gift.
“Yes, quite so,” Lord Arlen said. “He’s from this village, you see. A gentleman who was my tutor.”
She wondered who the viscount was referring to as Morada was a small town and just about
