His Majesty's Measure

by Pamela DuMond

  Max kissed the base of my throat, then his lips ventured along my collarbone. All the tiny hairs on my arms stood straight up like soldiers on parade. 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, political debates…

  Max trailed kisses down my abdomen.

  “Maybe we should turn on the lights,” I said. “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.”

  “Vivian, 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 the girl I fell in love with. The girl who captured my heart.”

  “Whatever we just did, Max, 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.”

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

  He ran his index finger over my lips. “You’re my country?”

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

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

  “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 my hands and tried not to scream his name, or the lyrics to Bellèno’s National Anthem, which I’d dutifully memorized.

  But something was wrong. I heard the distinct creak of a door opening and muffled whispers. “Hello?’ a familiar voice inquired. “Anyone here?”

  Max lifted his head. “Yes. Close the door! Go away.”

  “Can’t. Coming in.”

  “No!” I scrambled for sheets and blankets but could only find plates of appetizers. I grabbed the festive cheese and cracker platter off the nightstand, slid it over my girlie bits, and slapped my free hand and forearm across my boobs. “Who are you and what do you want?”

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

  “We brought a few more folks,” said Lady Beatrice Hafligher.

  “Because if you don’t show up at the surprise party, Vivian,” Lady Esmeralda Ilona Castille Hapsburg piped in, “we’ll bring it to you.”

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

  Chapter 2

  MAXIMILLIAN

  I proposed to Vivian DeRose because I loved her. I did not propose because I believed we had additional work to do on the Crown Affair.

  The Crown Affair was how I’d met Vivian in the first place. The monarchy had gotten in over its bejeweled head, taking out substantial loans with investors that had ties to shady loan sharks from shadier governments. I was sick to my stomach with worry, doing stupid shit to deal with the anxiety and sleepless nights when thought I’d found a way out of the problem – marry my brother Leopold, the crown prince of Bellèno, off to Lady Catherine ‘Cici’ the daughter of billionaire Lord Angus Fontaine. In return for making his daughter a princess, Lord Fontaine would secure our loans.

  Cici was up for the job but needed to delay her return from Chicago to Bellèno. We hired Vivian to impersonate her for ten days tops, take up the slack until Cici could return, get engaged to, and marry Leopold. Considering there was a massive deception involved, the plan was relatively simple. Train Vivian to be a proper lady. She’d travel to Bellèno for a little over a week, hit a few parties and flirt with my brother while keeping him at arms distance. I didn’t plan on Leo proposing marriage so quickly. Didn’t anticipate that he’d fall for Vivian. Didn’t think I would either.

  My heart took a beating when I thought Vivian was actually going to walk down the aisle at the Royal Cathedral and marry Leo. All hell broke loose when Vivian stood by the altar and revealed she was not really Lady Catherine, and then bolted from the church in spectacular fashion.

  A few tabloids questioned why I waited almost six weeks to travel to Chicago and declare my love. Why I waited so long to make things right. I had good reasons for not racing after her. One: shock. Two: I needed to collect my wits and figure out the next steps in handling the Crown Affair. As far as I could see, that step was damage control. Three: I wondered if she hated me for getting her involved in this crazy scheme. I didn’t know if she’d welcome me with open arms or slam a door in my face.

  And so, I dealt with bankers and lenders, attempting to soothe nervous parties, assuring them all financial promises would be kept. Loans would be repaid. Bellèno’s monarchy would be back on track. Tourism would bring in big bucks. New loan docs were prepared and signed by Lord Angus Fontaine. The country was now on solid ground. The monarchy was golden. I was a wreck.

  Night after night I missed Vivian. I keyed in her number but never hit ‘Send.’ I combed social media sites, searching for her photo in a post but spotted only one shot of her with a friend at a baseball game.

  One brisk autumn afternoon in November, I strolled with my mom, the Queen, outside the palace. We played fetch with her new Labradors in the large fenced in yard. She picked up a rope toy and lobbed it high in the air. Her dogs raced after it, jostling each other. “Have you talked to Vivian?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “She’s getting back to her life. Figuring out what that means. I don’t want to screw up her day-to-day existence any more than I already have.”

  One dog bounded across the lawn the toy firmly in its mouth while the other dog tugged on the end hanging out. “I suspect you love her.”

  “Mom!” I ran one hand through my hair, my heart clenching, suddenly tight and bumping around awkwardly in my chest.

  “I knew it,” she said, pointing her finger at the ground in front of the dogs until they released the rope, and looked up at her expectantly. “You think you’re so good about hiding your feelings, but your stiff upper lip is just like your father’s. It’s a dead giveaway.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “To me—yes. Mind if I offer an opinion?” She picked up the rope as the dogs wagged their tails.

  “Can I stop you?”

  “Monarchies will always have their crises. Power will ebb and flow.” She tossed the toy. “Finding someone you really hit it off with? Not all that common. Don’t wait too long to nail this down. I would never pit my sons against each other but I suspect your brother misses her too.”

  A coughing fit consumed me.

  “Life’s short, Max. It appears to me that Vivian was yours first. Go get your girl before Leo beats you to the punch.”

  “I love you. You’re brilliant.” I kissed her on the cheek and bolted. Two hours later I was at the airport. I texted Lady Esmeralda, and couldn’t believe my good luck when I discovered the Ladies-in-Waiting had already purchased Mugshots Biker Bar, the place in Chicago where Vivian worked. They had some kind of surprise celebration in mind, and yes, I could show up and be the icing on the royal cake.

  I got down on one knee on the dance floor at Mugshots Biker Bar and asked Vivian DeRose to marry me. Lucky man that I was, she said yes.

  Now I was ready to make Vivian mine. No more Crown Affair. No more drama. Finished. That nonsense was in the past. I couldn’t wait to open up this new chapter with the woman I loved.

  Chapte
r 3

  VIVIAN

  I stood in the bride’s private quarters in the Royal Friedricksburgh Cathedral and wrung my hands. My nerves danced about like over-stimulated punk rockers at ‘Eighties Night’ at a club .

  My wedding gown cost enough to feed a small fishing village in Central America for the better part of a year. No—the bride’s family was definitely not paying for this wedding.

  My family consisted of a party of two: my disabled uncle and me. I, the sole breadwinner made a pittance over minimum wage as a cocktail waitress at Mugshot’s Biker Bar. If my family was paying for the wedding, I’d be wearing a depressed, polyester dress from St. Vincent’s Thrift Store, and we’d be smuggling the Korbel Champagne into our swank reception at The Cracker Barrel. I thanked my lucky stars that Max’s dynasty, the king and queen of Bellèno had insisted on picking up the tab.

  This would be my second trip down a royal cathedral’s main aisle. If possible, my gown was even prettier this time: a flowing vintage silk batiste that I had picked out myself—because this time I actually cared. This time I was marrying the guy I loved.

  My hair was styled in a chignon; errant wisps framed my face and tickled the back of my neck. Four-karat diamond drops dangled from my ears and matched the larger pendant resting on my décolletage. The pendant floated down from the delicate white gold necklace. Both were on loan from the Queen.

  Hundreds of years ago the cathedral’s architects designed a private chamber adjacent to the main sanctuary, tucked away in a secure corner. For centuries the occupants of these quarters had an inside view of the comings and goings within the church while shielded from the intrusive gossips.

  Now, my ladies-in-waiting and I were sheltered from the glaring flash of paparazzi cameras trying their best to sneak photos to peddle to gossip magazines and internet sites for a pretty pence. I paced back and forth across the anteroom, practically carving a trench in its floor.

  “Are you training for a 5K?” Lady Esmeralda Ilona Castile Hapsburg the Fourth asked as she applied her signature vixen red lipstick. She was a full-figured girl who wore her dangerous curves with sass and attitude—like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model playing with the strings of her bikini as she rolled around on a wet, sandy Caribbean beach before the big shoot. “Or are you prepping to run with the bulls in Pamplona?”

  I shook my head. “Sadly, neither.”

  “Bridal nerves,” Lady Bea said. “I suffered through them when I married Lucas.”

  My Chicago BFF Lola brushed her son Mateo’s silken dark brown hair. He was our ring-bearer, six-years-old, and impossibly cute.

  “Vivian. Why don’t you tell us about your pre-wedding, ‘To Do List?’” Lola asked.

  “Brilliant!” Lady Joan said. “Nothing soothes a bride like the recitation of the things that must be checked off the ‘To Do List.’”

  “One,” I said. “Marry the right guy this time. That’s it.”

  “You’re lying,” Esmeralda said.

  “You’re right!” I threw my hands up in the air. “My to do list is a mile long, but I’ve got a wicked case of nerves, and I’m in no mood to share it.” I paused at the small window that looked out into the cathedral, pulled back the small claret-colored velvet curtain, and peeked out at the crowd.

  “It’s healthier to get it off your chest,” Esmeralda said. “Come on.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Uncle Florio is seated in the front row. But is he on the bride’s side? It’s a faux pas if he’s on the wrong side.”

  “You should know which side is the bride’s and which is the groom’s,” said Mr. Cartwright. He peered over his thick black-rimmed glasses into a gilded wall mirror and adjusted his silk black bowtie. He was in his late sixties, robust, crinkly faced, and silver haired. I met him last year when I applied for my part-time job as an impersonator with Lady Cici Fontaine. He was the style and etiquette police rolled into one.

  “I must have missed that lesson.”

  Bea and Joan crowded in behind me and peered out the tiny aperture.

  “Your uncle is on the correct side of the church,” Joan said.

  “Roman’s lying on the floor next to Queen Cheree. But he’s panting heavily. What if there’s something wrong with him?” I asked. “Do you think he’s overheated?”

  “A worried look furrows his hairy brow,” Bea said. “Was he fed lunch? Was he walked?”

  “I left explicit instructions. Oh no!” I snapped my fingers. “What if he needs to make a—”

  “Queen Cheree is all over that,” Esmeralda said. “She’ll have one of her guards take your dog out. Stop worrying.”

  I resumed pacing the room that had undoubtedly seen more than its share of worried brides and anxious families. I wasn’t good with this kind of stuff, because, honestly, I didn’t think I’d care until today. But now today had arrived, and it turns out I did.

  I broke out in my tenth nerves-related hot flash of the day and fanned my face. I plucked a pastel tissue from the obligatory box, and dabbed my forehead. “Is it hot in here or is it me?”

  “It’s you.” Esmeralda sipped from a glass of bubbly and nodded at the bottle in a silver ice bucket. “Do you want me to pour you—”

  “No. Besides, we had Champagne when we got dressed.”

  Esmeralda snapped open her pearl-encrusted clutch. “That was three hours ago.”

  “As well as three bottles ago,” I said.

  “You need to chill out and stop exercising before you ruin your makeup.” Esmeralda dug through her bag pulling out Tic-Tacs, lip-gloss, and floss.

  “Stop telling me what to do.” I glared at her and stomped my foot. But my ecru colored designer shoes were still new, the leather a little stiff. “I don’t understand why I can’t wear flats.”

  “Flats will pull your whole back line down. Make your ass flat.” Bea said. “In order to look your best for the cameras, you need a bump-shaped behind.”

  “God knows a woman doesn’t need her back line pulled down,” Mr. Cartwright said.

  “I wish Max and I had just eloped.”

  “The royal House of Bellèno family would never allow you to elope,” Mr. Cartwright said. “You’re not a Real Housewife. There’s too much at stake, too many responsibilities.”

  “I have to move or I’ll explode.”

  “Then move over here,” Esmeralda beckoned.

  I walked the few steps toward her. “Tell me you have something in there more calming than exercise and not as dangerous as alcohol.”

  “Nope. But this is a port in a storm.” She pulled out a mini sanitary pad, ripped off the tape, and extended it toward my face. “It’s super absorbent—”

  “Don’t you dare!” I slapped her hand away. “I’ll have a red stripe across my forehead when I rip it off, and then I’ll be forced to murder you.”

  “The stripe only happens if she applies it backwards,” Bea said. “Esmeralda, how much have you had to drink?”

  Joan shook her finger. “Step away from the feminine hygiene product and leave poor Vivian alone. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s slapped that thing on the wrong way. My forehead stripe showed in all the tabloid photos snapped during The Gold Cup at Ascot.”

  “I bet the photographer would Photoshop it out,” Bea said. “It is, after all, a royal wedding.”

  “But the paparazzi won’t,” Joan said. “Oh, sure, they’ll go out of their way to be nice to the Kardashian girls, but good luck getting All Right Magazine to show some love to an authentic royal.”

  In the distance the organist played Bach. “Isn’t that the musical signal?” Bea asked. “Soon you’ll be walking down the aisle.”

  “No. The signal is when the organist plays Handel’s Water Music. The bridesmaids walk during Handel. I follow them during Pachelbel’s Canon. I can’t wait to get this over with.” I tapped my foot on the rich, tapestry carpet.

  I went out of my way to pick my battles when we planned this wedding. I didn’t care that much about the musi
c during the prelude, but I had really wanted an untraditional processional. Something fun that had a little kick to it. I was torn between “Cake by the Ocean” by DNCE, or “Walk this Way” by Aerosmith.

  A few weeks ago Max’s grandmother had captured my hand at an ‘intimate’ pre-wedding party held for two hundred of the royal Bellèno family’s nearest and dearest, and asked for an important ‘girl to girl’ talk.

  “I’ve already had the ‘Something Special Happens on the Wedding Night’ talk, Royal Nana. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Privacy. I don’t want to share this with everyone and their brother-in-law.” She turned and shuffled away in her walker.

  “I completely understand.” I kissed Max’s cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Be careful.” He pointed at his grandmother and drew a finger across his throat.

  “Hah! You’re funny. I got this.” I smiled and followed after her.

  Royal Nana sat in a plush wingback chair at the far side of the ballroom. I stood next to her and she stared up at me with her twinkling blue eyes. “Sixty-two years ago, Vivian, I walked down the aisle at the same cathedral where you’re getting married and it was the most memorable day of my life. White roses filled the church. The netting in my veil was spun by the nuns at the Holy Cross Convent of St. Bernard nestled high in the French Alps. The Sisters grew rosemary and thyme in their herb garden and their scent was imbued in the delicate fabric like God’s perfume.”

  “That sounds delicious,” I said. “I love Saint Bernards. Was Father Bernard the patron saint for those big, gorgeous dogs?”

  “He was a fat, old, lecherous drunk who sucked up to every Archbishop this side of Rome. But I didn’t care: I wasn’t marrying the pervert—I was marrying the Prince of Bellèno, the handsomest man in the world.”