getting into. It’s not all palace living and cocktail sauce.”
“It’s not?”
“As a member of the royal family, not only will the eyes of the world—”
“Not to mention People magazine.”
“—be on you, but you’ll have heavy responsibilities. Also—”
“Also,” she interrupted yet again, “my children will never have to worry about their next meal. They’ll never have to pay taxes, they’ll never have to worry about how to afford to send their kids to college. They’ll always have the option of a solid roof over their heads, and three squares a day. There will always be people around to look after them and protect them. They’ll never, never be alone. And if they see something wrong, they’ll have the power to fix it.”
Dead silence.
“That about right?”
“Yes.” David nodded, studying her intently. “That is exactly right. All that, and more. And all that goes for your children’s children, and your children’s children’s children.”
“Well. All right, then.” She smiled, and instantly felt like she’d jettisoned ten pounds of stress. Maybe twenty. “If there’s nothing else, Edmund, let’s get this show on the road.”
PART TWO
Lady
Getting married’s probably not so bad. It’s all the screwing around beforehand that gives you a migraine.
—Lady Christina of Allen Hall
Chapter 10
“Ah, Lady Christina, I’m not sure how to ask this…”
“Well, first off, I’m not a lady,” she said.
“No kidding,” David said, grinning. He stopped grinning when one of the royal wedding designers forced a pointed black shoe onto his left foot. “Uh, can we try one that’s not so—er—Machiavellian? Also, I can’t feel my toes.”
“I mean,” Christina said, flipping through one of eighteen sketchbooks, “it’s not my title or anything. I’m just plain old Christina.”
“Not true,” David grunted, trying to free himself of the shoe.
“Oh, so I’ve had a title all these years that I never knew about? Hmm, let’s think about this; do you think I inherited it from my truck driver dad or my waitress mom?”
“With due respect, my lady, the king tells me your title is Lady Christina of Allen Hall.”
She nearly fell out of her chair. “Since when? And where the hell is that? And do ladies wear blue jeans? Because, if nobody’s noticed, jeans make up about ninety-eight percent of my wardrobe.”
David snickered. “Allen Hall is the part of the palace where Dad lets me keep the penguins.”
“Oh, ugh! Very fucking funny. Remind me to kick the king in the slats when I see him next.”
“Looks better on the invitations if you’ve got a title, even if it’s minor. I thought you’d be happy.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention the last two weeks, boy-o.”
“You’re right,” he admitted, shrugging into the black silk coat held by another designer. “I didn’t really think you’d be happy. But you know Dad…once he’s got his mind made up…”
“Oh, yeah, he’s not like anybody else I know.” Christina glared at David for good measure, completely overlooking the fact that she could be talking about herself. “Now, what were you asking me, Harry?”
“Horrance, my lady. And I was asking—ah—if your dress—your wedding gown, rather—if it—ah—”
“White,” she said firmly.
“Right, then,” Horrance said hurriedly, clapping a sketchbook shut and unwrapping a fresh one. He squinted at Christina and started sketching broad swoops across the paper.
“Reeeeeally?” David asked with a friendly leer.
“Sure,” she replied evenly. “It’s my first wedding, isn’t it?”
“Ah…hmm.” The six people in the room could easily read the MYOB vibes Lady Christina was giving off, so David acted the gentleman and changed the subject. “What d’you think of this suitcoat?”
“I think it makes you look embalmed.”
Horrance whimpered.
“Hey, it’s nice and all,” she added, backpedaling madly, “but it’s just not him. You know what you should wear? White. It’d really set off your hair.” Your gorgeous, thick, black-as-sin hair…mmm…
“The bride wears white,” Horrance’s assistant—what was his name? Jerry? Jerkin?—said firmly.
“Well, were you in the military? Because you could wear your uniform—”
“No. I was busy getting my doctorate in marine biology.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Alaska doesn’t require military service from its royals.”
“Whatever. So, on top of everything else, you’re an egghead. Well, I can overlook that.” Was it Jeremiah? Julian? “Fine, don’t wear white. But don’t wear a tuxedo, either. I hate the penguin look. No offense, Dr. Prince David of the Penguins.”
“Mock all you will…”
“Okey-dokey!”
“…but I remind you, you’ll be Mrs. Dr. Prince David of the Penguins.”
“Oh, barf. Is there time to cancel this thing yet?”
She heard a light tap at her door and groaned into her pillow. After a moment, she rolled over and said, “Nicholas! It’s after midnight, you little twerp! Enough of these weird, late-night excursions! Go to sleep!”
A head poked into the room. Not Nicholas’s. “Remind me to have a talk with the royal twerp,” David said. “Although I can hardly blame him for being unable to stay away. May I come in?”
“What is it with you people? Don’t any of you need sleep?”
“We take long naps in the morning.” He stepped into the room. “Interesting day today, hmm?”
“If you say so. But if I have to look at one more peau de soie shoe, I’m going to barf. What the hell is peau de soie, anyway?”
“You’re asking me? And there’s no way your shoes are going to be less comfortable than mine.”
She
