“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I think I deserve to drop this particular bomb…” George’s voice made an appearance then, before his body did. “I. Told. You. So.”
“Nobody likes a know-it-all, George,” Xavier groused, sounding more bored than irritated.
George just laughed. “No, but everybody loves me because I’m the matchmaker.” He pumped his fist in the air. “Although,” he continued, his expression darkening, “it’s also my fault we’re wearing this stupid uniform.”
Xavier shrugged. “You know the women love it.”
“Wonder if Perry will,” Edward mused, rubbing his chin as he peered at himself in the mirror.
They were all similarly dressed, the only difference being in the colors of certain parts of their uniform.
Queen Victoria had brought her love of the kilt to the Veronian empire. They were heavily influenced with the Scottish tradition, but theirs came without tartan and was black and plain.
There were few tucks, the pleats were boxy, and somber black added a gravitas to the formalwear.
The royal guard wore a similar outfit, but as he, George, and Xavier were high-ranking soldiers of that particular Armed Force, their attire was a little different.
They wore a chain around their hips. Where the Scottish sporran would rest, they had a medallion. Edward’s was in platinum, George’s gold, and Xavier’s bronze. Each medallion housed the DeSauvier royal crest and was encrusted with the gem of their station. Emeralds for Edward, rubies for George, and sapphires for Xavier.
The medallion was the size of his fist, and it was guarded alongside the royal jewels. Only the Crown Prince, the Prince, and the Duke of Ansian were entitled to wear such a chain with the accompanying medallion.
They wore leather boots that gleamed so brightly, they could see their reflections in them, and into them, they’d tucked black socks that covered their calves to just under the knee.
The sight of his knees was an unusual thing to behold. Usually hidden behind exquisite tailoring, he was just grateful he worked out; otherwise they’d have looked knobbly. Instead, the muscles were developed and he had nothing to fear where their virtue was concerned.
The jackets they all wore were black, tight-fitted, and dotted with more accoutrements of their station.
Epaulets rode their shoulders, their colors of platinum and emerald, gold and ruby, and bronze and sapphire carried on here in the thread that decorated the flaps. Tightly tucked into their waist, they were buttoned and only a hint of the shirt they wore underneath, white linen, was visible. At their throat, they wore cravats. Simple, without the fancy of a Regency dandy, but still damn hard to fix without help.
On the ties, they had lapel pins, miniatures of the medallions hanging around their hips.
Though they hadn’t seen active duty outside of Europe, they had been conscripted at twenty-one and had served until they were twenty-eight. None of them had been required to serve in the wars in Afghanistan or Iraq, but George had almost been shipped out, much to their mother’s terror.
The only reason they hadn’t was because the government of the time had refused to sign off on his being deployed. This had pissed George off—he’d wanted to serve, and their father’s hands had been tied by the administration. Said that the administration’s decision, its control over his life, had been one of the reasons he’d headed off to America for his MBA.
Still, deployed or not, they’d taken part in missions overseas, had been engaged in active duty and wore medals that spoke of that time in service.
These were no tokens. They were proof of the pride they had in their country, the evidence that they, as was the case of every other male in the land, were willing to sacrifice their lives to protect Veronia’s freedom.
“We look like dicks,” George said sourly, coming to stand next to him and Xavier.
“No. We look like chick magnets,” Xavier corrected. “More so, we look like Perry magnets. She reads romances, guys. Women love those Scottish highlander books.”
George snorted. “How would you know?”
“When you told me what you found on her Kindle, I did some research.” He grinned. “I’m a scientist. I like to have all the facts at my disposal.”
“I can’t see you sitting down with chick-lit,” Edward joked.
“They’re two separate genres,” Xavier corrected, refusing to take the bait. “Chick-lit and romance aren’t the same thing.”
George just snorted, then, he glowered at his reflection. “Good job we work out,” was all he said.
“Weird seeing our knees, isn’t it?” Edward replied, understanding exactly where his brother’s train of thought had taken him.
He nodded glumly, then scowled as Edward grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him to face him. As he began on his younger brother’s cravat, George peered at him. “You look calm.”
“What is it with you two? Do you want me to be a nervous wreck?”
George grinned. “No, of course not. I just didn’t think you’d be this comfortable.”
“He was laughing earlier. And I watched him eat breakfast, too.”
George heaved out a sigh. “Aren’t you the lucky one? I was too busy sorting out some last-minute arrangements for the service.”
Edward laughed. “You really should open your own wedding planning business.”
George’s lips twitched. “If my career in the stock markets falls through, I know what to do with my life.”
“You’ve found your calling,” Xavier inserted dramatically.
George rolled his eyes, then, heaving out another sigh, he grumbled, “Go through the schedule.”
Edward blew out a breath. “Again?”
“Yeah. Again. Until I know you’ve got it right.”
He rolled his eyes, but knowing how much work his younger brother had dedicated to his wedding, decided he wouldn’t be a jerk about George’s sudden flights into tyranny when it came to making sure everything was going according to plan.
“As soon as the car comes, we’ll be driving along the coast road to Madela. The minute we hit the city streets, we’ll get out of the car and the three of us will start the walk to the cathedral.”
“Drake must be shitting a brick.”
George shrugged at Xavier’s wry comment. “He knows how it works. Security is crazy, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“I’m not worried,” Xavier replied, peering in the mirror and straightening out his cravat a little more. “Just making a statement.”
“Go on,” George continued, as Edward lifted the linen and began tucking it into place in sweeping folds and loops.
“As we walk through the streets to the cathedral, we’ll be saluted by my old regiment upon approach.”
“Then what?”
“I salute my old regiment in return, and each soldier fires two rounds into the air apiece.”
“Because that’s not a disaster waiting to happen in a crowded public place,” Xavier groused.
“We’ve done it a hundred times before and no one’s ever been hurt. Tradition, man,” George snapped. “Stop interrupting. This is important.”
Edward rolled his eyes again as he reached for the lapel pin George was holding out on the flat of his palm. “Once the shots have been fired, Xavier heads into the church first. He bows to the Reverend who will be waiting at the doors.
“When he’s gone inside, we follow him. He leads the procession into the abbey. Xavier, the Reverend, you, then me.
“As we walk down the aisle, I’m not allowed to greet any of the guests. Only when I approach Father on the throne, and after I bow, can I turn around to face the door.
“Xavier joins Mother and Father at the thrones, you stay at my back throughout the service.” As he placed the lapel pin into the central fold, he grumbled, “Sad though it may be, I have done this before, George.”
“As have Xavier and I, but this time it actually matters.”
“Bloody hell, G
eorge,” Xavier said, wincing at his candor. “That’s harsh.”
“Harsh but true,” was all he said with a shrug. He turned to face the mirror, straightened the cravat a little as he wiggled his neck to get comfortable, then he grinned. “Thanks. Hate doing that.”
“Why do you think I’m in here?” Xavier retorted. “I hate doing mine too.” He cocked a brow at Edward. “Do you need to go through the ceremony too?”
“No,” he barked. “I damn well don’t.”
“Do you think Perry will trip on the way down the aisle again?” Xavier asked.
“No. She’s wearing flats,” George answered as he slicked his hair back.
“Thank God for that,” Edward replied, sighing with relief. “That’s a weight off. I wasn’t sure if Mother would insist.”
“Mother is officially allowed no say in Perry’s wardrobe. Jesus, how the woman can have such taste for herself and zero for Perry is beyond me. You should be grateful,” George remarked, pointing a finger at Edward. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d be marrying a meringue.”
“What’s inside the dress is sweeter than a meringue,” he joked. “I could have born up under the pressure.”
George punched him in the arm. “Wait until you see her before you say another word. You think she was sweet before?” He whistled under his breath. “You owe me, brother.”
Though he knew George was joking, the words took on a meaning of their own when taking the gravitas of the situation into account.
“I really do, George. For everything,” he said softly, catching his brother’s eye so there was no chance of either of them misunderstanding what the other was talking about.
George’s smile was soft, though. Not filled with his usual gregarious ebullience. “I know you do, but you can pay me back by being happy. How’s that for a tradeoff?”
Edward grinned. “I think I can manage that.”
“Oh, darlin’, you look divine.”
“She’s right, Perry. You do,” Cassie murmured softly, lifting a silk handkerchief to her eyes. She dabbed carefully, not wanting to disturb the makeup that had been an hour in the making, and Perry couldn’t blame her.
She’d thought the makeup she’d been having for the royal events had been hardcore? That was nothing compared to today.
She’d been plucked, prodded, and primed. Not a bit of her had been left alone. In certain areas of her person, she was even feeling quite violated.
The need for a Brazilian wax on her wedding day wasn’t something she’d particularly understand. It wasn’t like that area was for public consumption, which made her think it was a prank George had set her up with.
The bastard.
She grimaced as she tugged at her skirt and tried not to fiddle with the veil the dressmaker had helped set atop her head personally.
Luisa Raziona, who was so famous even her countrified momma knew who she was—leaving Perry the odd one out—had seen to the final touches herself. Smoothing out the lines of silk here, ruching the pleats of the skirt at the back.
Truth was, Perry could have worn a sack and she’d have been more grateful than could be for not having to wear the disaster Marianne had concocted.
“It’s better than the other one, isn’t it, Cassie?” she asked, her tone laced with more of a plea for reassurance than she liked.
“It’s wonderful,” Cassie breathed, and Perry saw, deep in her eyes, that the other woman spoke the truth.
She gnawed at her lower lip, then whispered, “You ladies look beautiful, too.”
More than her own dress, she’d actually had a lot of input in their outfits. Mostly because George had said it would be weird as hell if the bride didn’t know what the bridesmaids and her mother were wearing.
As a result, the simple pink sheaths—that had more of a bronzy feel to them than a Georgia sweet peach—had been approved by her.
Cassie, in all her slenderness, looked divine in it. It was simple, elegant, timeless. For a hick, Perry thought she’d done really well in picking that particular dress.
Cassie was the only attendant she actually knew and liked. The rest were part of the DeSauvier clan—nobles who’d be her bridesmaids simply because of their names and ties to the family.
Why, it was enough to warm the heart, wasn’t it? She rolled her eyes at the cynical thought.
On her side, she had a swarm of uncles, aunts and cousins roaming around at the wedding, but the only ones that really mattered were her momma and daddy.
Her momma looked divine in a cerise dress that brought out the blond in her hair. She’d had it touched up at the roots and now had silvery highlights roaming over her head. The bright cerise dress came to just below her knees, was paired with some strappy silvery kitten heels, and she wore a gray, with silver accents, tailored coat that fit at her shoulders, making her look broader than she was, and cut in at the waist so her youthful figure was on show.
Janice had perched a pillbox hat jauntily on her crown, and Perry knew if her daddy was as dapper as her momma had giggled about yesterday, then she was the female equivalent of dapper too.
Delightful?
Pretty?
She honestly didn’t know. But Janice, the housewife, and Janice, the Crown Princess of Veronia’s mother, were two different beasts entirely.
Janice patted her hair and her hat, and Cassie touched her waist self-consciously as she complimented their elegance. It was easier to compliment them than it was to actually look at herself, because, for the first time, she started to believe she could do this.
Who was the woman who looked back at her in the mirror?
These past few weeks she’d been beset by an anxiety that had nauseated her. Not because it made her stomach churn with fright, but because she’d always believed in herself. Had always fought to make sure that even if the rest of the world had no faith in her, she herself did.
So, these past couple of weeks had been hard on her.
But as she stood there, dressed in a gown that would make any princess in Europe gasp in envy, Perry knew, for the first time, that she had this shit.
She could own it.
Because the Perry who’d been bullied at her lab by her superiors, the Perry who had waited for George to declare his feelings for her, well, that Perry was gone.
And in her place was Princess Perry.
She had no idea where that side of herself had come from. Was it from the months of torturous “How to-” classes? The smacks on the hand that Marianne delivered every time she did something wrong?
Perry didn’t know exactly, but hell, it didn’t matter.
She sucked in a shaky breath as she turned to face her reflection once more. Looking at the dress made her look at the new her, and it was disconcerting, to say the least.
Who was the woman whose hair flared out around her shoulders in a wave of mahogany silk?
Whose eyes sparkled like the gems she wore?
She didn’t know, but she was rocking it, and she sucked in a sharp breath as she took in the wonder that was her dress.
Even after George’s redesigns, the dressmakers had had to work on it to make it fit her shape, as his hadn’t suited her either. But they’d put their heads together, and those poor seamstresses had been working like there was no tomorrow.
Like Cassie’s, it was a sheath dress that cut in at the waist and dipped low in front. Not scandalously, but enough to make everyone realize that the things attached to her chest weren’t melons but quite nice boobs.
From top to bottom, the sheath was covered in Sosan lace from the Sosa region of Veronia. It had been stained an antique beige, and the color offset her pearly skin to perfection.
But the dress, for all its majesty, was only the sum of its parts.
What really made her look, as Xavier said, the dog’s bollocks, was the train.
There was a medieval style to it. It clung from her shoulders and draped about her like a floor-to-ceiling wedding coat. But this was no wedding coat that an
y bride had ever worn before.
Those poor seamstresses had created a tapestry of everything that made Veronia great, set amid the bejeweled and embroidered tableau.
This was what the queen of a new king, of a new dynasty, wore.
A reminder of all that made Veronia great.
Of all that made it powerful.
She embodied it, and such a task should have daunted her, but it didn’t.
If anything, she knew she was up to the challenge.
In contrast to the beige wedding dress, the wedding coat was the purest, cleanest white imaginable. That was what made the embroidery so enchanting. It was ghostlike, because it, too, was pure white.
A glimpse of Veronia’s national flower there, of the Ansian thistle here. The only bright bursts of color came from the cuff at her wrist which was visible when she moved and the coat parted, and the ringlet on her head.
Marianne had dug around in the crown jewels like it was a costume box up in the attic—how cool was that?—and had found a tiara that was medieval in fashion. The circlet sat on her forehead with a comfort that surprised her considering it hadn’t been made for her, and though it was heavy and might become a nightmare after the ceremony, it was worth it to look like this. The veil was sheer, like a whisper of silver as it sailed over her head. A simple bias-cut piece that draped to the floor and could be discarded later.
She looked, as her mother said, and as Perry, so uncomfortable with compliments, believed: divine.
“It’s astonishing, Perry. You’re astonishing,” Cassie choked out as she carried on dabbing at her eyes. “You’re going to make Edward the luckiest man in the church today.”
Despite herself, Perry had to smile. Because—and she didn’t give a damn if it made her sound big-headed—Cassie wasn’t wrong.
Her father was as dapper as her mother said he was.
In the journey to the abbey which occurred in a horse-drawn carriage, there was little chance to talk.
The screams of the crowd were too loud, too numerous for gentle conversation.
She kept her head turned to the public, a smile pinned to her face as she waved the way Marianne had taught her with one hand, like she was caressing the air, while the other was held in a tight clasp by her daddy.
Her Highness, Princess Perry_Contemporary Reverse Harem Page 27