crushes.”
Anastasia smiled impishly. “What about—” she waited a beat “—love?”
Meredith deliberately ignored her sister.
“You should have seen the kiss she planted on the man,” Anastasia pseudo whispered to Owen. “Everyone in the cathedral could feel the heat, and it had nothing to do with the sunlight coming through the stained-glass windows or the way Jean-Paul devours Megan with his eyes.”
Meredith’s cheeks burned. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said more sharply than she intended.
Anastasia’s grin gentled. She could be a holy terror, but she was utterly softhearted. “Meredith, I’m only teasing you. I know how you feel about the colonel. Honestly, where is your sense of humor today?”
“I don’t feel anything about the colonel,” Meredith said flatly. “And I really do wish you’d drop it.”
Anastasia did, but Meredith could feel her sister’s pensive gaze on her for the remainder of the ride through the city. By the time the carriage passed through the massive gates leading to the palace, Meredith felt well and truly shrewish. She waited until they’d alighted from the carriage and caught Ana’s hand, squeezing it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Her sister smiled faintly, but there was little time to go into it, for the wedding guests were converging on the palace at an alarming rate. Meredith, who was used to playing the role of hostess at any number of royal functions, gathered her skirts and, putting Pierceson Prescott out of her mind—as far as he would go, at any rate—swept up the palace stairs and through the grand hall, greeting guests while subtly maneuvering them toward the ballroom and away from the doors to alleviate the bottleneck that occasionally formed there.
She was supposed to have gone straight to the private quarters where the official photographer planned to take a few photos, but knowing what a madhouse that was likely to be, she decided the staff needed her help in the ballroom more.
She didn’t let herself dwell on the fact that, while she was greeting and herding guests, there was no sign of Colonel Prescott.
The orchestra was playing, and the solemnity of the ceremony was fading as the noise level rose in the ballroom. It didn’t matter what one’s heritage was, royal or common. A party was a party was a party.
And this one was undoubtedly going to be a grand one.
But before the royal family could truly participate, there were those formal photos to be taken, and Meredith was one of the last to skip up to the balcony where the bride and groom had gathered, along with both sets of parents, cousins, distant or otherwise, and a veritable horde of other people.
“There you are, darling,” the Queen greeted Meredith when she’d finally extricated herself from the guests and arrived. “I was about to send Gwen after you.”
Meredith dashed a smoothing hand over her hair and with barely a blink slid into her customary position, behind and to the left of the Queen and King, who were always in the center of every photo but today would step toward the side in honor of the bridal couple.
She hid a smile at the way Jean-Paul and Megan’s hands were wound together, all but hidden by the drape of Megan’s dress. Meredith was long used to endless photography sessions, and her mind wandered as the photographer put them through their poses. Then it was out to the balcony over the ballroom where Megan and Jean-Paul smiled and waved and pleased the crowds waiting outside the palace gates by kissing each other.
It was joyful and great fun, and by the time the family descended the elegant stairs from the upper story to the ballroom proper, Meredith felt a little refreshed.
Which was a good thing, because judging by the revelers inside the ballroom, it looked to be a long evening ahead of them.
There was still the sit-down dinner, for one thing. For approximately five hundred of the couple’s nearest and dearest. The food was delicious, as was everything that came from the palace kitchens. From starters of smoked salmon canapés and delicate Gruyère and spinach tarts, through herb-stuffed veal to the finish of crème brulée and the official royal wedding cake that had taken two full weeks to prepare in the highly secured culinary institute affiliated with the Royal Intelligence Institute. It was all delicious.
Only Meredith could have been eating sawdust for all the notice she took of it, thanks to the seating arrangements. She’d had more than enough shocks for the day when it came to Colonel Pierceson Prescott. Seeing him in the cathedral at all was the first. Then that ridiculous insanity of hers that led her to actually kiss the man was next. But to find out that he had come to the palace for the reception while she’d been busy upstairs with the photography session was even more of a shock.
She couldn’t recall the last time Pierceson Prescott had stepped foot in the palace, though she supposed he certainly must have done so at some point since he’d been awarded his dukedom all those years ago. He had frequent dealings with the King, after all.
Meredith let her mind puzzle over his absences for some time, mostly because it was safer to concentrate on that than succumb to the memory of the feel of his lips or the warmth of his breath on her cheek in the cathedral.
Never in her life had she been so preoccupied with another individual. She was also quite sure she didn’t like being preoccupied. She could only hope it was because of the rarity of his presence.
Instead of the traditionally long banquet tables, the ballroom was filled with round tables to accommodate the number of guests, with the bride and groom and their parents at the long head table on the dais. The rest of the family were interspersed about the room, and Meredith thought that if it weren’t for Megan’s happiness, she’d have had to have had a serious word with her middle sister about the planning that had gone into the seating arrangements. For she was seated directly opposite Colonel Pierceson Prescott.
Admittedly, there were six other individuals at the table, as well, two married couples who were distantly related to Jean-Paul, an eligible single man and an equally eligible single woman who was doing a bang-up job of flirting with Colonel Prescott.
She stifled a sigh and dug her fork into the incredibly rich confection of cream cake and delicate fresh raspberries that the culinary institute had created for the wedding cake. No rum cake for Megan—she’d overruled that typical selection because of her pregnancy.
Keeping half an ear out for the toasts that were being made, she surreptitiously slid her heels out of her shoes. It was safe enough in light of the ivory and royal-blue linens that swept to the marble floor.
What she really wanted to do far more than wiggle her toes, however, was toss her linen napkin across the table to cover the low-cut bodice of Juliet Oxford. She was leaning toward the colonel, undoubtedly giving him quite an eyeful.
The man beside Meredith said something, and she murmured an absent assent, only to realize a half second later that she’d unthinkingly agreed to have dinner with him. His narrow face gleamed with a broad smile, and Meredith squelched yet another sigh. She couldn’t back out. It would be utterly rude.
Her cheeks heated, however, when she caught the colonel’s amused gaze. As if he knew exactly what had transpired to lead her into an unwanted dinner engagement.
Her smile firmed, and she ignored the colonel. “If you’d be good enough to call my personal secretary tomorrow, George, we’ll settle on a date.”
George
