He already knew four weeks wouldn’t be enough for him. That he wanted to stay with her until the damned day he was forced to choose a bride or she decided to go back to America. He’d been hoping to roll this along at least into the New Year.
Which, again, was selfish. But he wanted the memory of a Christmas with her. He wanted kissing her to be the last thing he did in this year. The last year that he got truly to live for himself, probably.
It had never occurred to him that Mallory would be checking off the days, counting down to the end of it.
Was it rooted in the fight she’d had with Kelsey? Was she truly giving them a chance? Or was he just a royal fling that she’d remember fondly once she scooted back to America?
He couldn’t believe that. Didn’t want to believe it.
But it’d damn well circle his brain like a vulture until that deadline passed and he could know for certain how she really felt about him…
Chapter Fifteen
The good thing about living and working in the palace? Mallory was protected from stumbling across anyone outside of the royal circle. A.k.a. all the royally pissed-off people who hated her after yesterday’s peacock tragedy.
She’d never been so glad she didn’t speak the language. It enabled her to miss at least some of the excruciating slurs being hurled about her on the radio and TV.
But Mallory still knew. The country was furious. “The American Woman”—they didn’t even use her name or title or mention her connection to Kelsey—had murdered the beloved symbol of their nation. That was the gist of the headlines.
That…and that they hated her. Hated her for daring to put her hands on their crown prince. Hated her for taking time away that he should’ve been focused on potential future queens. Hated her for ruining the Harvest Festival “for an entire generation of children.”
Even hated her for sucking at bocce.
Sir Evan had made a point of alerting her this morning to her status as a national pariah. Not to be mean—although the man loved to gossip more than her dad loved cherry pie—but to make sure she was aware of the consequences of her actions.
And by that, she was pretty sure he meant less the killing of the peacock and more the choosing to date Christian.
Christian, who’d so heroically tried to take the blame. Insisted to everyone at the festival that it was his bet that’d set things in motion, and therefore his fault.
Mallory had refused the easy out. Yes, it was an accident. But also, yes, entirely her fault. Something she made clear when apologizing profusely to the animal wrangler.
And to the people who’d been in line to take pictures with the peacocks.
And to the people who greeted her, stone-faced, in the rope line and refused to shake her hand.
“Are you coming with me to the book event at the library after lunch?” Kelsey asked. Then she gave an up-and-down look, taking in Mallory’s long brown knit duster, orange tee and leggings covered with autumn leaves. “You’re wearing comfortable clothes. You’re not coming?”
Not for a million dollars. Not for the ability to eat pasta five times a week without gaining a pound. “You don’t need me there. It’s just the rededication of a children’s room. You shake hands, cut a ribbon, and eat cake. Easy peasy.”
“All you’d have to do is smile and eat cake. Easier peasier,” Kelsey challenged. “You know the rules. We suffer together. If I’m stuck in heels—and worse, this thing”—she tugged at the wide black satin bow that tied together the cream sweater with the matching skirt covered in black polka dots—“then you are, too.”
“In general, yes. In reality? It’d be a disaster if I came along today as lady-in-waiting. Nobody would pay attention to you.”
Shrugging, Kelsey said, “Fine by me.”
Of course she’d say that.
Because while Kelsey had finally accepted being a princess, and was trying to do it right, she still didn’t enjoy many parts of it. If it was proclaimed that she never dressed up again or got snapped by the paparazzi? She’d probably spend her last dollar on confetti cannons to cover the city in her glee.
Mallory, however, was keenly aware of public perception. “It wouldn’t be fine for the rededication. My presence would muddy their message. It would divert the press from the real story of the day.”
All true, solid reasons.
But the one Mallory didn’t say out loud? Was that she was too scared to leave the palace. Too scared to face people she’d angered/disappointed/hurt. Too scared that she might make another faux pas that would reflect poorly upon Christian.
Which might then make him decide to call off the bet early. Stop dating her altogether.
There wasn’t any way in hell his government or his family would let them stay together. But she wanted every single second she could possibly get with him until they were torn apart.
Kelsey abruptly pushed back her chair and stood. “If we aren’t going together, then I don’t need to wait for you.”
“Wait for me? That’s not what’s going on here.” Mallory gestured to the stacks of proposals covering the desk. “We’re working. On your first patronage project. Winnowing down things for the gala.”
“That’s right up your alley. You should handle it. You don’t need me. You’ll do a good job.” Then her black ankle booties clipped out of the room. Fast. Super fast.
Okay. Clearly they were still fighting. Or Kelsey was still in a royal heck of a snit. Either way, this…discord between them was wholly new. Uncomfortable. Awkward.
Because it was new territory, Mallory had no idea how to fix it. Her only idea had been the hope that it’d blow over in a few days.
Nope.
Did Kelsey expect her to apologize? For having feelings? For caring for a terrific man who cared equally for her?
Nope.
Did Kelsey expect her to break up with Christian?
Big fat nope to that, too.
What else was there?
Mallory pushed back from the desk. Staring at the work Kelsey had left her would just inflame her already rising temper.
She circled around to stare out at the gardens. They’d drained the fountains yesterday—what better harbinger of cold weather—and today were scraping out all the detritus and planting wintery things. Looked like lots of purple and green ornamental cabbages. Fine as long as they stayed out there and didn’t end up on her dinner plate. Blech. Her mom made a cabbage soup that stank up the entire house.
Lightbulb moment.
Her mom would know what to do. How to fix this ever-expanding rift between her and Kelsey. Heck, she should’ve called her days ago to get help.
She looked at the dainty white-and-gold actual princess phone on the desk. It was an old-school rotary landline. By the time she finished dialing the international code, carpal tunnel could set in. Instead, Mallory wriggled her phone out of her back pocket.
And stopped.
Because the home screen had two big digital clocks on it: one set to Moncriano time, the other on Michigan. It was still a few hours till dawn there. Much as she wanted to, Mallory couldn’t wake her mom up. This was a frustration, not an emergency. Certainly not worth scaring her.
Which ruled out calling any of her friends back home, too.
Not that she could’ve told them about her spat with Kelsey. This was prime gossip rag news. She’d only risk sharing it in person; being able to take in their facial expressions to make sure they wouldn’t leak the news. Or even spread it accidentally.
Because it was a very much written-down rule (Sir Evan had highlighted it in royal purple in the protocol binder) that you didn’t air the dirty laundry of the royal family.
Bitching about your princess ex-sister definitely crossed that line.
Mallory ran her fingers through the fat white tassels hanging from the cords holding back the dra
peries. Draperies she’d watched maids open and shut on a daily basis. Did they do that in all seven hundred plus rooms? Twice a day? Her room had three sets of windows. It must be a full-time job, opening and closing what must be over a thousand sets of drapes.
She used to think the most boring job in the world was being the kid who pressed “go” on amusement park rides. This—a whole day of drapery futzing—superseded it.
Now her own mind was running away from her moping. When your brain would rather think about crap jobs than your own life, things were in a bad place.
It was just that she felt so very alone.
This wasn’t her country.
It wasn’t her house.
And according to DNA, it wasn’t her family. Pity party? To be sure. Mallory didn’t indulge in them often. But when she did, they were like quicksand. Not visible until it was too late. And almost impossible to claw her way out of.
Yes, she was living in outrageous privilege. The kind everyone thought they wanted. It kept her safe and comfortable. Except for that one time a crazy person shot at her. Still, was this kind of isolation worth it?
Mallory registered the quiet ticking of Queen Serena’s antique clock. That was all. No other sound in the room. No other sound dared intrude in this protected bubble.
Maybe life in Moncriano just wasn’t for her. She’d do her six months, as promised. By then Kelsey and Elias would be living together and barely notice if she left.
By then, Christian would be engaged to the woman he was supposed to be with for the rest of his life. She toyed with the charm bracelet, worn every day since he’d given it to her. The one Kelsey hadn’t asked her about yet.
In six months, she’d be just as lonely, but twice as miserable. And it’d be confirmed beyond all vestiges of hope that she couldn’t bear children. Good times.
A soft rap on the door barely preceded Duchess Mathilde’s entrance. “Care for some company?”
Yes. A million times yes. “Definitely, Your Grace.” She dropped into a curtsy as the older woman entered.
Curtsying in leggings was…weird. If she still had free rein over her social media accounts, this would absolutely be a moment for the ’Gram.
“You look cozy this morning.” The duchess rubbed Mallory’s sweater between her fingers. “Soft and warm. Perfect for that blustery gray weighing down the sky.”
“I know it’s a tad relaxed for the official dress code, but I’d planned on holing up in here all day.”
“Nonsense. You look just right. Am I disturbing your hole-up?”
God, she loved the very occasional slip-ups in translation made by the royal family. Biting back a grin, Mallory said, “Not at all. I’d just been thinking how much I wanted to call my mom. Can’t, though, because of the time difference. So I’m glad that you’re here. I don’t have many people to talk to.”
Blue eyes that were usually kind—and often slightly dreamy and distracted—sharpened. Honed to the sharpness of a diamond shard. “You are a national treasure. A hero for surviving the shooting and returning to serve Moncriano. My dear, people love you.”
“Not anymore. Not after yesterday.”
“That was nothing.”
Maybe not so sharp, after all. The woman was certifiably oblivious not to realize that yesterday’s incident had smeared her name. “I murdered the symbol of your country!”
“True.” She waved her hand in the air as she walked over to the sofa and sat with a barely audible oof. “We’ve all made a misstep or two. Yours is, admittedly, quite bad. But it isn’t the accident that counts so much as your reaction to it.”
“My reaction?” Habit kicked in, and Mallory fanned her cheeks to ward off the ubiquitous blush. “I’m embarrassed. Guilt-ridden.”
“You forgot ‘in hiding.’”
Ah. There was that elusive sharpness. The same sort of zinger her mom would’ve delivered, come to think of it.
“I’m keeping my head down, staying out of the public eye until it blows over. To protect the House of Villani. I’m not hiding.”
“Aren’t you, though?” She patted the cushion next to her for Mallory to come and sit. “Believe me, I understand the instinct. But you know what they say about horses?”
Mallory curled her legs underneath her to face the duchess. “They can trample you with a single hoof to the chest?”
“Goodness, you are in a bad way. This might call for a pumpkin scone and tea on top of my words of wisdom.”
“No objections here.” Kelsey might eschew the “princess perks,” but Mallory had zero shame eagerly awaiting the arrival of a maid with treats and tea on a rainy morning.
Mathilde pressed a buzzer in the end table that Mallory hadn’t known was there.
So handy. Once a footman came in and took her request, Mathilde folded her hands across the ample stretch of her brown tweed jacket. “They say that once you fall off a horse, you have to get right back up in the saddle. Confront your fear. Or it’ll paralyze you so that you never ride again.”
Why did it matter? And why did everything come back around to horses here? They were as ubiquitous in storytelling in Moncriano as ice fishing and football were back home. “If I never went out in Moncriano again, I don’t think anyone would notice, let alone care.”
“What about my nephew? He doesn’t care to be cooped up.”
Mathilde was cagey. She looked all easygoing, with her salt-and-pepper hair teased into a bubble and her penchant for insect brooches covered in gems.
But that was just a ploy to get you to let your guard down. To get you to reveal the hard truths you’d been dodging.
Rubbing the tiny pinecone on the bracelet she adored, Mallory said, “Christian deserves someone better than me. Someone of noble birth. Someone who can live up to the expectations of an entire kingdom.”
“I appreciate that you two have become close. But I’ve known him his whole life. Would you like to hear my take on the right partner for the king-to-be?”
“Of course.” Unless the duchess made mention of the necessity for child-bearing hips.
She’d overheard some gossipy old ladies at the Persephone Ball evaluating Christian’s potential fiancées as if they were cattle at the state fair. And while Mallory herself had deemed all of them unworthy, it was because of their attitudes and/or lack of brains, not their physiology.
This was the freaking twenty-first century. C-sections were an option. Nobody should be judged on their hip size.
Gah.
She was ranty. Definitely time for some sugar in her system.
Or maybe it was simply a sensitive area for her. What with the whole having perfectly good hips but bullet-scarred, non-working parts in between them. What if an entire kingdom found out her secret and judged her on her lack of child-growing ability?
That’d be…horrifying. Embarrassing.
Worse still if Christian found out.
Mallory herself needed to find out, for sure. The doctors had given her zero hope to hang on to in that regard. But they refused to “officially” diagnose her as barren—God, what a Victorian word—until enough time elapsed to see how the scar tissue sorted itself out.
They called it caution. She called it cowardice. They knew. They’d told her they knew. They were just scared to lay that label on a healthy twenty-eight-year-old connected to the ruling family.
For now? Mallory was taking advantage of their cowardice. Using it to justify not telling her family yet, because it would devastate her parents. Using it to excuse herself from not telling her boyfriend, the prince.
She wasn’t actively lying to Christian. Merely shielding him from something that wouldn’t be official until after their dating period elapsed.
Besides, those people in the restaurant who’d ignored her presence next to their prince completely? That made it abundantly clear that a no-n
ame, nobody American did not measure up to be a future queen.
The duchess raised a hand bedecked with pearl and diamond rings as well as a golden crest on her pinkie. She ticked off her points one by one. “Christian deserves a woman who will stand toe-to-toe with him, arguing. And will stand next to him, hands clasped, ready to take on all his joys and disappointments equally. What he does not deserve is a woman with a weak spine.”
Oh. Oh.
Talk about a throw down.
“Did you just call me a scaredy-cat?”
“Possibly?” Mathilde patted the stiffly sprayed and teased bubble of her hair. And gave a shrug that was utterly French. Truly. Anyone holding an American passport wouldn’t pull it off nearly so well. “If that means your fear is making decisions for you, then yes.”
Mallory let her head droop. Sir Evan had counseled that there were so many considerations to take into account for every move, every announcement, every blink that the royal family made.
Maybe she’d over-considered? “I honestly thought that my lying low was best for the royal family. I’d call it at least seventy-five percent a noble plan, and twenty-five percent humiliation and fear.”
“Fair enough. However, it’s time you stop pouting and fix this.”
Wow. When Mathilde cracked her velvet whip, she cracked it hard. “Time? It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Don’t I get one full day to wallow in my abject humiliation?”
“If necessary.” The duchess gave her an indulgent uptick of one side of her mouth, which was covered in a matte, nude lipstick because, as she’d admitted to Kelsey, she never wanted to draw the focus away from her fabulous jewels. “I prefer to only allow myself a day, total. No matter what time of day something goes badly for me, or upsets me, it ends that night. When I wake up the next morning, it is a new day and a fresh start. We don’t have an unlimited number of those. They mustn’t be wasted.”
Tempting the Prince (Sexy Misadventures of Royals) Page 20