Chapter Two
When I first saw His Highness, I forgot to breathe.
I was expecting some stuffed shirt, either a tweedy, arrogant young man or a fat, arrogant, old one. What I saw was a Mediterranean concoction that melted my knees, a honey-brown liqueur that I wanted to drink until I drowned in it. His stylish suit could not conceal the hardness of his body, lean and lithe and graceful at every turn. His black eyes saw everything, and when they swept over me I wilted, shamed by my desire.
I was not a princess. This was not my world. I was just a maid, an ordinary person on the edge of this glittering realm of aristocracy.
I was glad, then, that I would not be attending dinner. As a personal maid, I had been present when he first entered the house, standing by my lady. Then I handed her—my sweet golden flower—off to him, and watched them go on into the main dining room. Of course Amanda loved him. And of course he loved her. They were a fairytale, and my part in it was limited to convincing my naïve young mistress to wear nothing under her gown.
Amanda had been almost red with embarrassment at the idea of appearing in public like that, but I had talked her into it anyway. Partly because the gown really did look better that way, but mostly because that’s how I would have worn it. To spend all evening in the company of man like that, with nothing on underneath, would leave me as limp as a wet rag. With the predictable result.
My room was next to Amanda’s, and the previous night we had slept with the door open, giggling to each other like schoolgirls, but I was certain the door would be closed tonight. I could only hope it was reasonably soundproof.
“He is lovely, isn’t he?” Maria might be old, but she was still a woman. In traditional fashion, the male and female servants took their dinners in separate rooms. The arrangement was fine with me. I’d sworn off men, after all, until I had my future under control.
“I read in the Daily Herald that he was seen in Monaco with this month’s Vogue cover-girl,” snipped the laundry-girl.
“Lucky her,” I countered. Jealousy was so petty.
“Now, now,” Maria defended him. “I’m sure he was as much a gentleman there as he always is here.”
“He’s been here before?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Maria. “He’s been betrothed to Amanda since she was twelve. A marriage of state, you see.”
The traditional price of royalty. I hadn’t thought it applied anymore. But in Cheroigne House, tradition didn’t seem to know it was dead and buried.
“Do they—” I started, but then stopped, embarrassed. It wasn’t my place to ask that question.
“Of course they do,” Maria answered anyway. “Who wouldn’t love our dear Amanda? And how she loves him! Maybe in the old days girls had to marry fat old kings, but not anymore. He’s been a frequent guest of the House these six years, and a perfect gentleman every time. You can’t believe everything you read in the papers,” she admonished.
“They had a picture,” grumbled the laundry-girl, but not very loudly.
Amanda hadn’t told me much about Petros, but she had been looking forward to this night with unquenchable eagerness. I just assumed she wanted a chance to dress up and entertain, but now I understood she wanted him. So did I, but then, so did every woman in this house. The image of old Maria flopping on the kitchen table and yanking up her skirts made me choke on my croissant, coughing until I was red in the face. Maria pounded my back while the laundry-girl ignored me sourly, disapproving of my attention-seeking, no doubt.
A tinge of guilt made me avoid their eyes. Even while I had been fighting for breath, romantic notions of him charging into the kitchen to save me, wrapping those sculpted arms around me for a Heimlich maneuver, had flashed across my watery vision. Any excuse to get his hands on me.
But I had to stop thinking like this. Not only was I beneath his class, Amanda was in love with him. And in these last two days, I had become her friend. For the first time, I was in the company of a woman who did not view me as competition. Amanda simply had no concept of it. And why should she, with her charmed life?
My jealousy wasn’t any better. She wasn’t responsible for her station in life. I couldn’t blame her for being born rich and beautiful. She had everything, but it wasn’t her fault, just like it wasn’t my fault that I had been born with nothing. I should count myself lucky just to be a witness to this young love, this glorious fantasy that everyone dreamed about and I was now getting to live. Secondhand, but still closer than the Daily Herald.
—
After all that self-consolation, I was unprepared for the end of the evening. It was a subtle thing, something that no one else remarked on or even noticed. A trivial thing, even, but it struck a hollow gong deep inside me.
As His Highness was leaving—he wouldn’t be staying the night, after all—he kissed Amanda goodbye.
Like a sister.
A brush of the lips, without passion, without desire. Affection, love, but not even a hint of sexuality. Amanda didn’t notice—her eyes fluttered rapturously, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
Like a flash of distant lighting, it occurred to me that Amanda didn’t know there was anything wrong.
Alone with her in our rooms, I was suddenly uncomfortable.
“What did you think?” she babbled. “Do you think he liked the dress? Did you think he was handsome?”
“He’s more than handsome,” I assured her. “He’s almost as beautiful as you are.”
She blushed at that, not with vanity, but innocence. “I love it so much when he comes to visit.” She stared dreamily into the mirror.
“You never visit him?”
“Of course not. That wouldn’t be…proper.”
“Does he ever spend the night here?” I was starting to get worried.
“Of course not!” She almost blushed. “That wouldn’t be proper, either.”
A fearful suspicion crept out of the shadows of my mind.
“Then you haven’t—I mean, you two haven’t—” In the presence of so much innocence, I couldn’t finish.
Amanda didn’t answer, just stared at me with widening eyes.
“Oh, my,” I said lamely. Oh my, indeed.
Shyly clutching a pillow to her chest, Amanda worked up the nerve to ask me. “Have…have you?”
The string of pathetic boys I had screwed in various cars, apartments, and even once in an alley hardly seemed like bragging material at the moment.
“Yes, I have,” I answered, declining to elaborate. “Most girls our age have, Amanda.”
“But you’re not married!”
“So?” What century did this girl think she was living in? “It’s been ages since you had to be a virgin to get married. Times have changed.”
As soon as I said it, I realized my error. Ages had passed in the rest of the world, perhaps, but time had a different meaning here.
“Not in Cheroigne House,” Amanda said ruefully.
When I still looked dubious, she explained. “There’s a test, with a doctor. It’s part of the procedure of a royal marriage. They have to certify I am a virgin.”
All the beauty of her clothes, her jewels, her mansion, seemed hollow and empty at that point. My outrage boiled over, and I could not stop myself from objecting.
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s my duty,” she answered, gentle but resolute. “And I don’t mind. Petros is the only one I want, anyway.”
But are you the only one Petros wants, I thought savagely. They don’t test the men for virginity.
Amanda was not completely oblivious. Looking at my face, she guessed my thoughts. “I don’t know,” she answered them, “and I don’t care. Someday he will be mine, and that’s good enough for me.”
Stupid, stupid me, I couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Not with that kiss,” I muttered.
“What do you mean?” she cried.
“Nothing, forget it.”
But she would not be denied. “Tell me! You must tell
me!”
Fearing tears, I relented.
“He kissed you like a sister, Amanda. Not like a woman, like a sister.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve kissed enough men to know,” I said. “If you’d ever kissed even one boy, you’d have to know.”
“He’s the only one. Ever.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Not even a…stableboy?” Didn’t princesses always kiss the stableboys?
“No, of course not. Why would I?”
Well, of course, why would she?
“How is it different?” she asked sadly.
“It’s just, different. Like, does he ever use his tongue?”
From her face I could see the answer. The idea that a French girl had never been French kissed was just depressing.
“Does he touch your hair? Pull your head back? Anything?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know any of that.”
And then the tears burst after all. She threw her face into the pillowed and cried.
“Why would he want me? Stupid, silly me!”
I put my arms around her and tried to comfort her. It was not a problem I had ever encountered. Men, in my experience, had always wanted sex. Usually, that was all they wanted. The idea that Petros didn’t want it from Amanda was just incomprehensible.
Briefly, I considered the possibility that our prince was inclined to different pursuits. But the memory of his eyes raking over my body dispelled that fear.
“He’s been coming here for years, right? Ever since you were twelve?”
“Yes,” she said, the sobs gently dying now. “I knew then that we would be married someday. It didn’t mean anything to me, except that we would have a grand wedding and live in a castle. He was young, only eighteen, but he was always nice to me. He brought me presents from far away and made me laugh.”
“Nobody asked you if you wanted to marry him?”
“Grandma told me I had the right to refuse. But I never wanted to. I just wanted to grow up soon, so we could be together all the time.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” I mused. “Maybe he still thinks of you as a little girl.”
“But I’m not! I’m eighteen now. We’re to be married soon.”
“Soon? No date is set?”
“Not yet,” she admitted. This was bad news. Men who didn’t set dates tended not to keep them.
“Then we just have to make him see you differently, Amanda.” I was sure she could compete with any starlet, with just a little coaching. She had the looks and the personality. All she needed was a spark.
“How?” she wondered.
“Maybe you should kiss him next time. And let him know…” What was she going to let him know? She didn’t know anything.
“I don’t know how to kiss,” she confirmed.
“Then you’ll learn.”
“But,” her face grew very doubtful, “Johann the stableman is married. And old. And he smells funny, too.”
“Not him,” I laughed. The idea of that lumpy old man groping this dewy flower was ludicrous. “I think we can do better.”
“Who?” she asked, and it was a good question. The answer was obvious. I didn’t mind, it was for a good cause. And besides, it might be kind of fun. She was just that pretty.
“If you don’t think it’s too gross, maybe I could show you. Just as friends, of course.”
“Oh, please!” she begged, and the earnest desire in her face made something inside of me warm and moist.
“Well, the first thing, it’s like this.” I gave up on words, they wouldn’t help her. Gently I took a fistful of those golden curls in my hand, from the nape of her neck. Slowly pulling her head back, I bent over her. We both closed our eyes and I put my lips to hers. They were softer and more delicate than I had expected—a totally different experience than kissing a man.
Gingerly at first, I pushed my tongue against her lips. When she resisted, I probed a little harder. Her innocence aroused me, luring me in, like a delicate rosebud ready to blossom.
“Open your mouth,” I whispered, opening my eyes just inches from her face. She looked up at me with an earnest trust, closed her eyes again and parted her lips. I bent my mouth to hers and sent my tongue inside. She met me with hers, then went limp and let me have my way. I hadn’t been kissed in months, and she was sweet and warm.
I found myself enjoying it.
Surprise made me retreat. The next surprise was that she followed, her tongue thrusting into my mouth. Together we wrestled, in and out, until I felt my breasts straining against my starched uniform, my nipples standing up hard and eager.
I broke off the kiss then, and looked away. I couldn’t speak.
“That was…nice,” she said, her voice low and breathy. The arousal in it made me shiver. If Petros had been here, he would have torn her clothes off and had her right there.
I almost did.
“We should practice some more,” I said instead. Part of me wanted to flee, to run away, but I didn’t move.
“Yes, please,” she agreed.
“But later.”
“Of course,” she said. “Later.”
Then we kissed again. This time I stopped when I found my hand creeping to her breast.
“Definitely later.”
“Definitely,” she agreed, and I retreated to my room.
Changing into my nightgown, I wondered what had just happened. Her eagerness I could understand. She was young, inexperienced, untouched. Anything would feel good to her. But what about me? Was three months off men enough to sign me up for the other team?
Or was it that she was just so sweet and clean, everything about her seemed shameless? I loved her, in the way you love kittens and babies and everything gentle and good. But there was more than that…I found her eagerness arousing, begging to be unleashed and brought to ecstasy, hot and sweaty and wholly woman.
Firmly fixing my mind on Petros, picturing him in illicit visions, I slipped my hand between my thighs and rubbed myself furiously. Thinking of what he would feel like, around me, on me, in me. Thinking of his hands and strong arms, his hot breath in my ear. I climaxed in record time.
But as I fell into sleep, I could still taste her in my mouth.
Chapter Three
Whatever embarrassment or shame I might have felt evaporated in the morning when Amanda greeted me with a bright and hopeful smile.
“I was always afraid there was something missing,” she confided in me. “I couldn’t bring myself to admit it. But now I know we can fix it.”
Her naiveté was infectious, and I found myself believing that even world-traveling princes could be turned into good husbands. At least we would try.
Amanda was doing her part. Her days were taken up with language lessons, English, Italian, and of course Greek. Tutors lectured her in history and etiquette, even heraldry—a more dry and dusty subject one could hardly imagine—and she listened to them all with more polite interest than I could ever have faked.
For exercise there were the horses. Like all girls, I had fantasized about owning a pony. House Cheroigne had an entire stable. Not sweet little riding horses, but majestic thoroughbreds that had to be faced as equals and mastered. Amanda embraced the challenge with glowing passion, and watching her put a stallion through its paces gave me a ray of hope. If she could transfer that confidence to training Petros, he would become a fine husband after all.
The stablemaster rounded up a gentle nag for me, so that I could pretend to be involved. I had fun, yes, but I was also humbled. It seemed unreasonable to call what I was doing riding, when the word was also supposed to describe the superb athletics that Amanda spent hours a day performing.
She was training for an upcoming contest. As always, she had the honor of House Cheroigne to defend. In this case, that included a half-dozen men and horses who labored full-time preparing for a handful of events each year. She was not just trying to win for herself, but to honor these men who gave more loyal
ty than money could buy. To fail would be to let them down. Amanda assumed the responsibility as her natural duty.
Watching her gallop around a course of obstacles, executing heart-racing jumps and head-spinning turns, I found myself glimpsing the woman she could become. Head held high, facing every ditch and fence with equanimity, confident in her skill, assured of her complete knowledge of every horse’s tiniest quirk and quality, supported by the bond of trust between horse and rider, she was never more beautiful to me. Such promise, such hope for a future so bright.
It touched something buried deep inside me, something I thought had been lost forever. I turned away from it, afraid to let it grow again. But the image of her face, speckled with mud and sweat and a huge smile, would never fade.
—
This particular gymkhana was being held just outside of town, at our local fairgrounds. It was odd to be out in the real world as a servant of an aristocrat. All the times I had come to the local fairs I had certainly never imagined this future. But I was surrounded by other servants, and after a while it all seemed perfectly natural.
For an hour or more I was occupied with helping Amanda get ready. But eventually it was time for her to enter the field.
“A kiss for luck,” she whispered to me.
“Don’t be silly,” I said. We were surrounded by a small crowd, the families of other contestants, random strangers, and a handful of press.
But just before she turned to go, I pulled her close to me. In her blush I saw that she expected a kiss after all, and I was disarmed by her simple intimacy. I almost did kiss her.
Instead, I reached out to touch her earlobe.
“I don’t think you want to wear these out there.” She had on a pair of diamond earrings, set in gold. As sparkly as they were—and that was very sparkly, because the stones were huge—if they fell in the mud they would be lost forever.
La Bonne Page 2