Long Live Queen Perry: Contemporary Reverse Harem (Kingdom of Veronia Book 3)

by Serena Akeroyd

  Long Live Queen Perry

  Serena Akeroyd

  Book three in the Kingdom of Veronia series

  The right of Gemma Mazurke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

  Copyright © Gemma Mazurke 2018

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  THE END

  “Being happy is better than being King.”

  African Proverb

  Chapter One

  Yorke Abbey, although she’d been married there, was no less daunting than it had been a mere three weeks ago.

  In fact, though the wedding had been the largest spectacle of her life, it was nothing in comparison to what was about to happen.

  To put it frankly, Perry DeSauvier was shitting herself.

  Actually, “shitting herself” in no way described the terror she was feeling at this moment.

  The worst thing was, that terror had two faces.

  Three weeks ago, she’d been on honeymoon, after having married the Crown Prince of this great land. She’d been happy. Still slightly bewildered to find herself the bride of a Royal, but gradually adapting to her new status in life. A status that involved her being the crown princess of Veronia, as well as the secret girlfriend/lover/partner of her husband’s younger brother and cousin.

  She’d been in Dubai. On a luxurious honeymoon in a wonderful palace where a Bedouin tent had been set up in the Arab-style courtyard, overlooking a twinkling fountain and a pool so shiny that it made mirrors seem like non-reflective surfaces.

  Those early days of her marriage were supposed to have been her chance to catch her breath. A moment in time for her to adapt, to transition from the environmental scientist of old, to the Crown Princess of new.

  Then, her mother-in-law had been assassinated.

  The King, fractions of an inch away from death himself, had been terribly wounded in the assassination attempt on his life. The bullet had spared vital organs, thank God, but it had nicked his spinal cord.

  Philippe DeSauvier, on the brink of surgery that he might never wake up from, had made the decision to abdicate i.e. to renounce the throne in favor of his son—meaning that her husband was no longer the Crown Prince of Veronia, but the King.

  Which made her the Queen.

  The fucking Queen.

  “You look perfect, Perry,” Cassie Whitings, her new friend, whispered.

  The older woman’s throat was definitely clogged, but the whole country had been in a state of mourning since Marianne’s death and Philippe’s abdication.

  If the people behind the assassination, a group called the UnReals, had intended to create dissent among the people, they had failed. If anything, the public had rallied in their grief. Any anti-royalist sentiment was looked upon with outright hatred. The rebels were being vilified in the press, anything against the Royal family was viewed with not only scorn, but distrust and disdain.

  But that was too late for Marianne. Too late for Philippe as well. He’d been right to abdicate—he still lived, but he’d yet to awaken from his surgery, and they had no idea if he ever would wake up either.

  “Thank you, Cassie,” she whispered, her voice as weak as Cassie’s own.

  Nerves made her jittery. Her hands were trembling, and her throat was aching with suppressed emotion. Her stomach was in a state of terror. The butterflies were slowly being overtaken by a nausea so powerful, Perry was petrified she’d puke in front of the millions around the world who were watching the coronation.

  For the tenth time, she settled her skirts about her legs, and peered down at her feet.

  It was wrong, oh, so wrong, but under the terrifying gown she was wearing—a silk gown embroidered with crystals and other embroidery that was so heavy her shoulders and back were already aching—she sported flip-flops. Fancy ones, ones that cost an eye-twitching amount of money, but flip-flops nonetheless.

  They had been George’s solution. She’d been so terrified of tripping or falling over her skirts as she walked down the aisle of the Abbey, that he’d suggested she wear the simple coverings on her feet.

  It would have been a wonderful solution if she wasn’t horrified by the idea that the world would see them peeking out from underneath the hems...

  That was the last thing they needed. She could see—and dread—the headlines in her mind’s eye. A flip-flop-wearing future queen walking toward the man who was now king in more than just name. For Edward had already been crowned, and was the ruler of this grand country.

  She’d watched the majestic procession from the antechamber at the head of the Abbey. Petrified over what was about to happen—the ceremony that would proclaim her his Queen—she’d found little comfort in her husband’s stoic reaction to being King.

  To Perry, he’d looked so at ease, so comfortable with how things were proceeding, it made her own nerves jitter all the more.

  Sure, since his birth, he’d known this day would come. Whereas she totally hadn’t. But he was so calm, so fearless. Even though twice in the space of a handful of months his name had been declared to the world at large—because how her gorgeous husband could have Gottfried, Berthold and Donatus as names, she wasn’t sure. Maximilian and Christoph made up for some of the others a bit, but not that much.

  In the face of those crimes against humanity being revealed, yet again, she wasn’t sure whether it made her love him more or made her be envious of his serenity—enough to hate him just a smidgen.

  A teensy weeny bit.

  Before God and his country, Edward had knelt on the cold stone slabs of the Abbey’s floor, had laid himself prostrate before the altar, while three of Veronia’s highest clerics circled him, chanting words in Latin, before sprinkling holy water on his back.

  She was surprised at how religious the ceremony was, considering that Edward himself had told her that Veronia didn’t have a national re
ligion. But the overtones were definitely here, and she supposed it made sense considering how old the ceremony was.

  Just because the nation didn’t have one now, didn’t mean it hadn’t been religious in the past. And here was proof of that.

  Her part in the ritual was approaching, and watching Edward’s wasn’t helping ease the fear.

  With her anxiety levels shooting through the roof, she watched as two of the clerics helped him stand.

  Holding out their hands, Edward grabbed a hold of them and used them for support.

  George had explained this tiny action was a metaphor—a part of the ceremony that showed the people that Edward would always seek a helping hand, that he wouldn’t turn his back on support in times of need. Be it from the government or another country.

  The King, in Veronia’s eyes, should be humble.

  And considering that, to become King, Edward had to kneel on the cold floor, she didn’t think he could lower himself much further.

  Still, he was now on his feet, and a page appeared from the side of the nave to grab the train of his cloak.

  The boy was only eight, if that, but he seemed to have more confidence than Perry herself. He wore a black suit coat with tails, knee-length black breeches that tucked into black stockings. The shirt he wore was plain, but around his neck, he had a waterfall cravat. On his feet, he wore polished black shoes with silver buckles.

  The child, a son of some courtier or other, managed to look both precocious and cute as hell as he gathered the ermine train that fell in great swathes about Edward’s feet. The fur was pure white with black dashes dotted here and there. It lined the cloak, which on the outer part, was a royal, rich burgundy velvet.

  The cloak seemed to fall off Edward’s shoulders. She wasn’t sure how it stayed on, because it seemed impossible to her that it remained in place. But magic or secret fastenings kept it in line, and the deep red highlighted Edward’s swarthiness in a way that made everything south of Perry’s waist flare to life.

  With the page holding his train, Edward turned to face the congregation. For a second, she was taken aback at how handsome he was.

  Edward was one of the world’s youngest kings, and at that moment, Perry knew she had probably broken a billion women’s hopes because she had taken him.

  And he was hers.

  All hers.

  Crazy though it was, her nerves disappeared at the thought.

  This incredibly beautiful, smart, wonderful, charming, empathetic king was hers.

  He stood there, facing the abbey’s entrance for countless seconds. Giving her and the rest of the world time to take in just how powerful he was at that moment, and he seemed to wear that power with the same ease with which he wore his gravity-defying cloak.

  He was dressed similarly to the page, with a black fitted suit coat that was cut short at the front and graduated into tails at the back. Edward, however, wore full-length trousers, and a white silk bow tie instead of a cravat.

  His right breast was dotted with the myriad medals and rank insignia he’d earned during his time in the Veronian Armed Forces. His left breast was home to a large brooch that only the King of Veronia wore on state occasions—the royal lion and unicorn fighting one another in pure gold so bright, and so yellow, that in the right light, it hurt the eyes to look upon.

  Across his chest, he wore a sash. It was in Veronia’s national color, a royal blue that was almost cerulean in hue; it spoke of Veronia’s rich trading history with the Orient, back when such a color would have cost the earth to produce.

  Her dress was that same royal blue, but unfortunately for her, blue was not her color.

  Still, nothing was her color at that moment. Her skin, usually creamy, was pasty with her fear.

  A fear Edward didn’t seem to be feeling.

  In the grand opulence of his ceremonial wear, it was hard to recognize the man she’d slept with last night. Hard to see the husband, who had shaved this morning beside her in the bathroom, as the king standing before his people.

  While Edward stood at the altar, his gaze focused on a point visible to only him, three men strode sedately down the aisle.

  Just like the young page in breeches and tails, these were somber-faced and dour with the seriousness of the task ahead of them. For, in their arms, they held burgundy velvet cushions which supported the Crown Jewels.

  Like a dance, when the first page was two-thirds of the way down the aisle, Edward turned and retreated to the throne behind him. He ascended the three small steps, turned once more to face the crowd, and took a seat on the ornate gold throne. To his right, there was a smaller but equally detailed and bejeweled seat: Perry’s.

  As nerves once again bubbled in her veins, making her lightheaded, she watched as the same three clerics approached the pages, each one taking the ancient pieces in hand.

  The first cleric retrieved a scepter. The gem-encrusted ball was topped with a solid gold, engraved cross. Edward held out his hand and the cleric placed it in his open palm.

  The second cleric retrieved a chain. Even with the distance between her and the altar, a good fifty or more feet, she heard the echoing sounds of the heavy chain clanking as the cleric stepped toward the throne. Edward sat straighter as the man placed the chain over his head, settling it over his cloaked shoulders, where the centerpiece, the royal seal, sat over the sash crossing his chest.

  Finally, the Reverend who had officiated her wedding, the highest cleric in the land, clasped the crown in his hands as he, too, approached the throne. With little ceremony, he placed it atop Edward’s bowed head.

  It wasn’t as grand as the British Imperial State Crown. At least, not from what she’d seen in pictures. This was…kind of short. It didn’t cover his head, but settled on his temples, so his leonine hair was fully visible. It was crenellated, but with sharp points, and each point was tipped with a gemstone so large she could see it from here.

  The clerics circled Edward once more, more Latin was chanted, and out of nowhere, the choir at the back of the abbey began to sing.

  She closed her eyes, terror whirling through her as she realized the end of the song was her cue.

  Perry spun around, and whispered to Cassie, “I’m not sure if I can do this, Cass.”

  Cass’s bright blue eyes widened in dismay but she reached for Perry’s hands and squeezed them. “Of course you can.”

  She shook her head. “If I didn’t have to walk down the aisle by myself, I don’t think I’d feel as terrified. What if I fall?”

  Cassie sighed. “I swear, you spend half your time petrified you’re going to fall. But you never do.”

  “Is that a challenge? I don’t fall because somebody is always there to catch me,” she said grimly. “Edward, George, my father… nobody will be out there to save me, Cass.”

  “You’re wearing flip-flops. For God’s sake, Perry. How much trouble can you get into wearing those?”

  She worried her bottom lip nervously with her fingers. “Do you think I should go barefoot?”

  Cassie rolled her lips inward, and though Perry knew Cassie was stemming her laughter, she didn’t take offense. “I think you’d regret it. The floor is freezing.”

  Perry slipped off her shoe, pressed her sole to the floor, and winced. Fall was almost over, and with it, winter approached. She’d been feeling the chill of the stone through her flip-flops, but hadn’t noticed it because of her nerves. There was no way she’d be able to walk down the long aisle, then stand around throughout her part of the ceremony, not without her feet going numb, anyway.

  She lifted a hand to her brow, but as she began to rub at her temple, Cassie’s fingers came out to slap her wrist. “Stop that. You’ll ruin your makeup.”

  Perry sucked in a deep breath when she heard the soprano soloist in the choir reach the crescendo of the song.

  “Do I look okay?” she asked hurriedly, her head swiveling around to face the abbey and her immediate future.

  “I already told you. You l
ook perfect.”

  Cassie’s earnestness eased her nerves some, and she wished like hell her friend could follow her down the aisle, but Cassie would stay here until Perry reached the altar. After, she would slip into the congregation where she would watch the rest of the service with her husband and children who were watching the coronation in the pews.

  Perry peered down at herself, and not for the first time, questioned her judgment. Judgment that had brought her to this petrifying moment in her life.

  She knew a lot of women would have killed to be in her position, but at that moment, she’d kill to be anywhere else.

  She knew she was being selfish: her husband’s mother Marianne was dead. A good woman, a loving mother, and a caring Queen had been slaughtered, all because an angry political group wanted to make a stand. Wanted to send a message. And yet, all Perry could think of was herself.

  This situation was fair on no one. Perry should be in Dubai still. Her husband should be chilling out at the side of the pool. Her lovers should be relaxing and eating as they enjoyed their honeymoon.

  Instead, Xavier and George were part of the congregation, watching as she and Edward became the leaders of Veronia.

  She wanted them at her side—needed them. Cassie was lovely, but Xavier and George were hers. They’d buoy her confidence, tease her out of her anxiety. Kiss her, hug her, remind her that she could do this.

  She needed them more than she’d ever needed anyone.

  A haunting melody suddenly whispered along the sound waves. Recognizing it, she clenched her eyes closed as the song finally came to a halt. The piercing notes ceased echoing around the abbey’s domed ceilings, her cue for the next part of this ritual.

  Cassie grabbed her shoulders, gently shook her, and in a half-whisper and half-snarl, hissed, “You’ve got this. Dammit. You own this, Perry. You hear me? You’re the strongest woman I know. Rock this shit.”

  Licking her lips as she absorbed her friend’s strident words, Perry nodded and allowed herself to be spun around. Swallowing thickly, she gulped down a long breath of air, and nodded at the footman standing at the doors.