Part-time Princess

by Pamela DuMond

  “Oh, but there was a call,” he said. “Someone called the royal Palais Princier de Monaco, got through to Princess Charlene, and asked if Prince Albert was in the can.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I rolled away from him, but his strong arm encircling my waist stopped me mid-turn.

  “And when sweet, unsuspecting Charlene said she didn’t know what the caller was talking about, one of your ‘Ladies’ replied, “For the love of your country, it’s time to let Prince Albert out of the can!”

  “I thought that was funny.” I tried to stifle my giggles but snorted instead.

  “No, that was not funny,” he said. “I had to send a formal letter of apology, twenty pounds of Friedricksburgh chocolate, and lederhosen outfits for the royal twins.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “We were just goofing around.” I glanced at the antique ruby ring that he slid onto the 4th finger of my left hand ten months ago when he asked me to marry him. It was gorgeous, the main stone circled in diamonds, understated, and perfect, just like him. How was it even possible that I had scored such a great guy? Oh, right…Through a web of lies and deception when I posed as Lady Elizabeth Billingsley.

  Yes, it was a part-time job. No, I wasn’t a drug smuggler, jewel thief, or a high priced prostitute. But hey—at least I copped to my crimes and even busted my own cover when I was standing at the church altar, right before I was about to marry his brother, Crown Prince Cristoph George Edward Timmel the Third. I said, “I don’t” instead of “I do,” and confessed to being a fake, a phony, and a hired impersonator. Then I ran back to my pathetic, mundane life in Chicago and stayed out of the spotlight.

  But Nick tracked me down, declared he’d fallen in love with, and wanted to marry the real me: Lucy Trabbicio, not Lady Elizabeth Billingsley. Now I was in a royal palace sharing a king-size bed with a gorgeous man instead of lying on a lumpy twin mattress in a one-bedroom apartment that I normally split with my yellow Labrador, Tulip, on the Windy City’s Southside. I’d visited half of the countries in Europe, hobnobbed with royalty, and I was living in heaven instead of purgatory.

  Nick kissed my neck, his lips venturing out along my collarbone. All the tiny hairs on my arms stood up tall and straight like soldiers on parade. This felt pretty good. No, no, we had a million things to do and this wasn’t the right time. I struggled to keep my wits about me and concentrated on boring things: Brussels sprouts, the national debt, vice presidential political debates…

  Nick trailed kisses down my abdomen but I grasped his hair and stopped him in his tracks. “Wait a minute. Wait just one minute. What do you think you’re doing? We just finished round two. Give a girl a breather, please.”

  He looked up at me and grinned. “We’re young, lusty, and healthy. Round three, darling.” He tickled my stomach and I giggled. “And then we can wander down to the kitchen and raid the pantry. I’m craving a Friedricksburgh chocolate croissant.”

  “No-no, too many carbs. I have to squeeze into my wedding dress in a few days. It’s super dark in here, Nick, and I can’t see my Fitbit. I promised my Ladies that I’d walk ten thousand steps today. We’re supporting each other in our Say Yes to Fitting in the Dress quest.”

  “Support groups are great. I’m sure you got in those steps,” he said and lightly slapped my ass.

  “Hey!” I jumped.

  “Albeit horizontally.” He winked.

  “Those still count,” I said and stuck out my chin. “Maybe we should turn on the lights. Get serious about the dress, the exercising, the over the top parties. We could embrace the whole crazy royal wedding extravaganza thing, put the pedal to the metal, and get this puppy done.”

  “Lucy, my love, you look delectable in candlelight and I’d rather embrace you.” He ran his thumb down my cheek. “I’m tired of the glare of the cameras, the crush of people, and all the chores that need to be scratched off the ‘To Do’ list. We’re getting married in a few days, and tonight I just want—no—actually, I need some quality quiet time with you, the girl I fell in love with. The girl who captured my heart.”

  “Whatever we just did, Nick, was definitely not quiet, and might be outlawed in a few of the flyover states in America’s Heartland.”

  He smiled. “Until twenty years ago, it was also forbidden in several European principalities and parts of Russia.” He grazed the flat of his palm across my collarbone. “Let’s do it again. Except this time—a little wilder. I think I was holding back a bit. You’re a firecracker in the sack, my love.”

  “Fine!” I sighed. “Carry on, soldier. Your country needs you.”

  “You’re my country?” He ran his index finger over my lips and my breath caught in my throat.

  “You asked me to marry you, you put a ring on it, and you just planted the royal flag,” I said. “You’d better believe I’m your country.”

  “It’s within my royal duties to serve and protect, Lucy.”

  “Why don’t you serve first and we’ll deal with the protect part later?”

  And then he served. Oh, how he served. I grasped the headboard with both of my hands and tried not to scream his name, or the lyrics to Fredonia’s National Anthem, which I’d dutifully memorized.

  But something was wrong. Through our gasps and moans, I heard the distinct creaks of a door opening and muffled whispers. Someone switched on an overhead light, and the soft glow of a crystal chandelier that dangled overhead from the vaulted ceiling illuminated the room.

  “Oh my God!” I scrambled for sheets and blankets but could only find plates of appetizers. I grabbed the festive cheese and cracker silver platter off the nightstand, slid it over my private girlie parts, and slapped my free hand and forearm across my boobs. “Who are you people and what do you want?” I asked.

  “We’re not just people,” Lady Joan Brady said. “We’re your ladies-in-waiting.”

  “We brought a few more folks,” said Lady Cheryl Cavitt Carlson.

  “Because if you won’t come to the surprise party, Lucy,” Lady Esmeralda Ilona Castille Hapsburg piped in, “then we’ll bring it to you.”

  The overhead lights in Nick’s bedroom clicked on and a robust crowd of people shouted, “Surprise!”

  PRAISE

  "I just couldn't tear myself away from it..." Jenny James

  * * *

  "This romance is a treat you do NOT want to miss!” Marie Brown

  * * *

  "Ms. Dumond has the perfect formula for romance..." Isha Coleman

  DESCRIPTION

  Lucy Trabbicio, former cocktail waitress and American ‘girl-next-door’ commoner, is about to marry the man of her dreams, Prince Nicholas of Fredonia, in the year’s most anticipated royal wedding.

  * * *

  But Lucy’s road to the altar takes an unexpected detour when her groom-to-be mysteriously no-shows. Is it a case of cold feet? Or are more sinister motives at play?

  * * *

  Now it’s up to Lucy and her take-no-prisoners Ladies-in-Waiting to solve the debacle, and get her back into Prince Nick’s hunky arms.

  * * *

  Royally Wed is a whirlwind of royal romance, humor, intrigue, and friendship. Will Lucy be Royally Wed?

  One-click Royally Wed now!

  ROYALLY WED is also available in print and Audio -- narrated by Lesley Ann Fogle. Royally Wed © 2016 Pamela DuMond

  Excerpt of Ms. Match Meets a Millionaire

  PRAISE

  * * *

  5 stars. “I LOVED it…Ethan a multi-millionaire avoids relationships because his past won’t let him go. Mostly broke Harper, who works for a matchmaking firm… my attachment only grew with each hilarious encounter.” Jeanie Jackson

  * * *

  DESCRIPTION

  I, Harper Emily Schubert, am an underpaid assistant working at a matchmaking agency, surviving on Insta-Ramen and dreams.

  * * *

  How is it possible that I made a love match that resulted in the society marriage of the year?


  * * *

  Christmas season is upon us and I plan on enjoying this gorgeous wedding by drinking too much Champagne, eating 5 star food, and relaxing for a change. I don’t plan on running into a gorgeous, tuxedo-clad brick wall of a man.

  * * *

  I don’t plan on him stopping my fall by grabbing onto my boob and Not. Letting. Go.

  * * *

  I most definitely don’t plan on this impossibly handsome man being my new client.

  * * *

  Ethan’s heir to the Rosseaux Hotel fortune, whip smart, hilariously funny, and so yummy. I’m tempted to… good God I want to... but dating clients is a big, fat ‘No-No.’

  * * *

  It’s not fair that our chemistry is through the roof. Not possible that a guy from his side of the tracks wants someone as broken as me. Practically a sin that we can’t be together. Aren’t some rules meant to be broken?

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  Harper

  “Tradition insists, Mrs. Lesley Biltenhouse, that I remove your garter with my teeth.”

  The geeky- cute, middle-aged groom knelt and rested his chin on the bride’s thigh. He gazed up at her, smitten. “Or our first year of married life will go to hell.”

  “You just made that up, John.” Lesley smoothed her three-and-a-half carat diamond-encrusted hand across his shaggy salt and pepper hair, tucking a wayward lock behind his ear.

  “But it sounded convincing.” He grinned, dove back to her garter, snagged it between his teeth, and dragged it down her leg. The bride stifled her giggles and the black-tie wedding crowd erupted in laughter and enthusiastic applause.

  I leaned back against the wall of the grand ballroom at the posh Rosseaux Hotel on the Magnificent Mile in downtown Chicago and applauded along with them. The skin on the back of my arms erupted in goosebumps.

  Breathe, Harper. This is not a dress rehearsal. You made this happen. Breathe.

  I smoothed my designer tea-length gown down my legs, the raw silk scratchy against my bare knees. Its prickly roughness grounded me in reality, which was good. I couldn’t afford to be kidnapped by commercialism, swept away like a chick in one of those stupid commercials for Dead Sea bath salts. I had too much to get done, too much at stake.

  I, Harper Emily Schubert, a woman whose income hovered slightly above the poverty line, was the person responsible for brokering the Biltenhouse marriage resulting in the swank, society Chicago wedding of the year. My bosses at the Mr. Cupid Matchmaking Agency had rewarded my efforts, promoting me from shlepper of coffee and water-er of plants to junior agent. I’d start my new position on Monday, but this weekend was mine all mine, and I planned on enjoying myself tonight.

  I sipped the top-shelf Champagne and glanced around at all the gorgeousness an expensive, tasteful wedding offered. The Rosseaux Hotel was built in the 1920s, a throwback to elegance and old-fashioned glamour. The ballroom was decked out for the Christmas holidays: Italian lights twinkled, draped over wreathes hung on the wallpapered ballroom walls as well as the fifteen-foot Douglas fir in the corner, decorated with sparkling Tiffany ornaments. I inhaled the scent of pine needles and freshly-cut flower arrangements that intermingled with notes of expensive perfumes and colognes.

  Heaven. I’d landed in heaven.

  I tipped my head back and drained my glass of Champagne. The bubbles swirled into my bloodstream and my shoulders slid off my ears for the first time in the year since I’d moved to Chicago. I stretched my neck right to left, then side to side, and decided one more drink couldn’t hurt. I swiveled to look for a waiter but collided boobs first into a tall, solid, brick wall of a man carrying a tray. “Oof!”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “I’m sorry!” My face was buried against his rock-hard chest and I spotted only a flash of muscular largeness, a hint of his black tux, and a glimpse of chiseled cheekbones as we mashed up against each other.

  Oh no.

  Oh, crappity-crap.

  This would not do.

  I’d leased my gown from Cinderella For a Night and had had my hair styled at the South Dearborn Beauty Academy. I needed to fit in with this crowd. These people were potential clients. I couldn’t afford to be seen canoodling in public at this wedding. I leaned back on my heels, sucked in my core, and pulled a few inches away from the hot waiter.

  My small movement pitched the hot waiter off balance. He bobbled the serving tray high in the air with one hand, and grabbed onto a large decanter with his other, saving it from falling. But a crystal tumbler filled with liquor seized the opportunity to break free and wobbled at the edge of the tray.

  “Dammit!” I said, watching the glass plummet toward my cleavage.

  “Dammit!” he said, his eyes widening as he abandoned the decanter and reached for the tumbler.

  I sucked in my stomach. The glass skimmed past my chest and crashed onto the carpet, splashing thick amber liquor onto my legs and skirt at exactly the same time the hot waiter’s hand landed squarely on my silken bodice, where it remained, large fingers firmly clamped on my boob. The feeling wasn’t all that unpleasant.

  I glared up at the guy ready to kill or dismember him, but his hazel eyes—or were they green—appeared remorseful, as did the set of his jaw, and the pout of his very full lips. “Hand off my boobs!” I whispered. I glanced around, hoping against hope no one had spotted this.

  “Correction. Boob, singular,” he said.

  “Who are you, the grammar police? Hands off!”

  “Awfully sorry about that.” He removed his hand and stared down at my chest. “Lovely, really. Warm. Soft.”

  “What?”

  “Your breast. From the quick time we’ve spent together I can tell they’re real. Shocking in today’s world.”

  “Right.” I glared at the tall man whom I’d just inadvertently gone to second base with. He was handsome as hell, tight, muscular, and I suspected he could have given David Gandy a run for his reign as king of underwear models.

  I felt something warm, moist, and sticky in my nether regions and it smelled suspiciously like scotch. I peered down at my rental gown. The skirt was soggy and stained. Blood rushed to my cheeks. I wouldn’t be getting my deposit back. “Damn!”

  “You have every right to be furious. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he said, sliding the tray onto an unoccupied table and snagging a discarded table napkin smeared with remnants of chicken cordon bleu. He dropped to his knees in front of me, dabbing the cloth on my skirt. “I’ll fix this.”

  “No. You’re just going to make it worse.” I stared down at his thick head of black hair and wide muscular shoulders that strained at the confines of his upscale penguin suit. He worked his way up my shins that had suddenly sprouted goosebumps. “I’ll handle it.”

  “No. I’ll handle it.” He graduated to my thighs. Pat. Pat. Pat.

  Several wedding guests were watching me.

  Getting felt up.

  By the persistent hot waiter.

  In the middle of the poshest wedding reception of the year.

  “Really you don’t have to do this,” I said. His warm breath penetrated the drenched silk of my gown, heating my skin. My face flushed and I broke into a sweat because in spite of this whole disaster tingles zipped up and down my spine, and this time it wasn’t from the Champagne. “Let’s just call it a night, okay?”

  “That’s awfully forward of you,” he said. “But if you insist. Your place or mine?”

  “That’s not what I meant!”

  He smiled up at me and my heart melted for a moment. His full lips. His twinkling eyes. The way he waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive, naughty fashion. “I know. Just trying to cheer you up. Can you believe someone actually married John ‘Dork’ Biltenhouse? I heard a matchmaker fixed them up. Who do you think the idiot was?”

  “A very smart idiot.” His grip was firm, large fingers pushing through my dress. It felt like he was working. Attempting to accomplish something, righting a wrong, not trying
to cop a feel. That said, if this had happened to me on the “L” train, I’d have clocked him over the head with my purse. “Enough. The attendant in the ladies’ room can help me—”

  “Stop worrying, Cupcake.” He winked. “I got this.”

  “Uh…” He was so earnest, so incredibly gorgeous, that for a second I forgot how to breathe. It dawned on me that waiters weren’t usually this hot unless they were struggling actors. I knew only too well how difficult it was to survive in a big city when you were down on your luck, playing a part that you didn’t quite have down yet, and my anger dissipated.

  Then I wondered if my run in with the hot server was part of my promotion package. Not literally. I didn’t work for an escort service after all. But cosmically. Like divine intervention. Life had been super tough the last year and a half. Maybe meeting the sinfully delicious server was the gods’ attempts to make up for all the baloney I’d been through.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Harper. What’s yours?”

  “You tell me. What name springs to mind when you look at me?” He stared at me with a hint of a smile on his handsome face, the beginning of twinkle wrinkles crinkling around the corners of his eyes. He was so…