by Leslie North
“Hi,” she squeaked out, and then winced. She was supposed to be a damn queen soon, for crying out loud. Queens didn’t squeak.
He stopped, catching sight of her, and she waited to see what he would do.
His eyes swept up and down her figure. She mentally went over her outfit: a loose Bohemian-esque ivory dress that basically looked like a pile of lacy fabric, silver bangle bracelets and dark red lipstick, with her wedge sandals across the room instead of on her feet because she hated wearing shoes indoors. Was it too much? Did she not seem royal enough? She’d thought she’d dressed up for the occasion, but standing in front of him she suddenly felt underdressed and a little bit childish.
“Your Majesty,” he greeted her in a voice as smooth as melted chocolate. She melted a little herself—until his words registered. Your Majesty. It was the first time anyone had ever called her that. Oh God, what was happening? She couldn’t be a Your Majesty. Most of her life she’d barely qualified as a Hey You. She had no idea what she was doing. She didn’t want him to call her by such a lofty title when she didn’t even know yet if she truly wanted to stick with this.
“Um, call me Penelope, please. Or… just Pen is fine.”
He smiled then, and it crinkled those beautiful eyes even more, but this time it didn’t relax her. “Pen it is,” he answered, stepping closer to her as the guard moved quietly outside and closed the door, leaving the two alone for their first meeting. “You can call me Simon,” her fiancé added.
She stuck out her hand for him to shake and then immediately felt ridiculous for it, but didn’t know what else to do. A nod seemed too distant, a kiss on the cheek too forward. They didn’t even know each other and yet they were engaged. Or they were about to be, as soon as Simon officially proposed.
He kissed her proffered hand graciously, easing her anxiety over the stupid handshake idea—and then as if on cue, went down on one knee. He pulled a large box he’d been carrying from under his arm and held it out to her.
“Oh my God, surely the ring isn’t that big,” she gasped, and then blushed furiously. But seriously—the thing was the size of a shoebox. She had dainty hands by any measure, and if the rock he’d gotten her was big enough to need that sort of a box, it would eat her alive.
He coughed, sounding like he might be trying to hide a chuckle. “No,” he said, and opened it, showing her a pair of embellished leather clogs inside. “This is the traditional Danovian gift from a man to his future bride. I’d hoped you might wear them during the wedding, to honor the traditions of my country.”
No wonder it had looked like a shoebox. “Oh,” she said, feeling even more ridiculous than before. “Of course.” The clogs weren’t bad, actually. A little old-fashioned, but they’d look funky and chic with the right maxi skirt.
Simon dug in the corner of the box and pulled out a much more normal-sized ring box. He opened it to show her a rock that, while still fairly massive, at least didn’t need its own postal code. “Penelope Vanessa Anne Maria Rinaldi Alcott, will you marry me?” he asked, and, feeling like she was in a dream—one of those super-stressful ones where you were trying to give a speech while naked, not the good fairytale kind most women hoped to feel at this moment—she extended her left hand. He slid the ring on. It was way too loose and fell off immediately, clinking delicately to the floor.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry…” She trailed off as he gallantly swept his hands across the floor, searching for the ring on the patterned tile.
“No worries, here it is,” he said, coming back up onto his knees, ring in hand. “Take two?”
She swallowed and held her hand out again. This had to be an omen. She clenched her hand into a fist to keep the ring from falling off again as they sat on the couch, a solid two feet of space between them. Simon went on about the arrangements and ceremonies they’d have scheduled over the next few days. He rattled off the customs of her country better than she could’ve, which was more than a little unsettling. Just how much research had he done on her—and why hadn’t she done more on him? She really didn’t know him at all, this man she was about to marry.
Well, she did know a few things. Like the fact that he was in a full military dress uniform and had memorized the next two weeks’ worth of events, while she didn’t even remember exactly where she’d put her shoes and was about to have a panic attack if he mentioned one more speech they’d have to make, tradition they’d need to fulfill, or stack of paperwork they’d have to sign before their big day.
This was all wrong. She’d been willing to give this arranged marriage thing a shot, but she could see now that the two of them could never work. He was so strict, so down-to-earth with his perfectly trimmed haircut and his formal small talk, and she craved creativity. She wasn’t silly enough to think she should hold out for Prince Charming or love at first sight, but she and Simon were just a plain bad match. They were simply too different—plus she wasn’t even sure she wanted to be queen anyway, and was it fair to lead him on if she really thought she might abdicate? It would be horrible of her to allow him to tie his life to hers when she felt this uncertain about her own future.
She had to get him out of the room, out of her life. Right now.
She stood. “Simon, look—” she started, but he interrupted her.
“Is that a treehouse?” He’d caught sight of her sketch on the table, and the surprise and delight in his voice broke through his earlier formal veneer.
“Uh… yes,” she said, caught off guard. “It’s a new design I’m trying to work out for my toy store. I keep running into a problem with the roof, though.”
He picked it up, examining it for a moment. “Oh, I see. Hm… Have you thought about pitching it a little steeper? Maybe 45 degrees or so? And give it a wider overhang on the sides. See, like this.” He picked up her pencil and then stopped and looked up, waiting for her permission to tweak the sketch.
“Um, sure, go ahead.” She watched as he erased part of the roof’s line and drew in the new angles. His strokes were bold, smooth, certain. There was a warm sort of joy in his eyes as he worked, completely at odds with the all-business Duke who’d been rattling off schedules at her a moment ago.
“There!” he said, presenting the paper with a flourish and a grin. She took it gingerly and sat back down, taking the pencil from him, writing in the new dimensions and doing the math to make sure they’d work out.
“Huh,” she said, sitting back, unable to help the smile that stole over her face. “You know what, that would work perfectly. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Tree houses are kind of my thing.” That smile of his made his whole face so vibrant and open—and suddenly, she could see a future with this man after all. Maybe Strict Simon wasn’t actually so strait-laced. She just had to figure out what made him tick. Treehouses were at the top of the list, apparently. “I’m sorry, I interrupted you earlier, didn’t I?” he went on. “What were you about to say?”
Her fears seemed small now, in comparison to this joyful man who’d just helped her design a kickass treehouse. It had to be an omen. Maybe she could do this. She could rule, with a guy like him to support her.
She cleared her throat. “I was just going to say yes.”
“Pardon?”
She raised her left hand, still curled into a fist to keep the ring from falling off. “The moment kind of got lost earlier—but yes.” She took a deep breath, her heart fluttering. “I will marry you.”
3
Simon was half an hour early for his meeting with Danovar’s head of security, but that was okay, because he’d brought some reading material to keep him busy. A cloud of dust erupted when he set the stack of books—all of which were at least a hundred years old, and most of which hadn’t been cracked in nearly as long—on the table in front of him. Some people dealt with anxiety by turning to alcohol or drugs or junk food, but not Simon. The more nervous he was, the higher his stack of books got. At this point he could probably build a killer fort out of all the a
ncient tomes he’d borrowed from Escona’s royal library. He was lucky his flight back home had been on a private jet, otherwise he’d have had to pay a fortune in excess luggage fees.
He pulled down the book on top of the stack—Dynastes Laws of the Seventeenth Century—and flipped through to the section regarding the timeline for succession. The laws in here were the whole reason he and Pen had to get married in such a rush. The Advancing of Dynastes Law of 1645 stated that the Queen had to be married by age thirty, but couldn’t get married for a year after her coronation. With her birthday only a few months away, time was ticking.
Although he’d already read the entire text of the law twice already, he slipped his reading glasses on and carefully read it again. He wanted to be absolutely certain he understood all the legal and historical implications of what he was about to do before the reading of the royal banns and the engagement portraits later today. After that was done, the whole world would know about his commitment to marry Pen, and he always followed through on his commitments. Before reaching that point of no return he wanted to be as prepared as possible. This was possibly the biggest decision of his life, after all.
The door creaked open behind him. “Good old Simon, nose buried in the books again,” said a deep voice in a lilting Danovian accent. A head full of long blond hair poked into view: Phillip, moving a stack of books off a chair to sit at his cousin’s side. He looked good, Simon noted—easy smile, blue eyes bright, leaning back to put his feet up on the table like they belonged there. Matrimony apparently agreed with the King of Danovar.
“Just trying to make sure I understand all the relevant laws,” Simon answered, slipping his reading glasses off and glancing at the clock. He’d gotten so lost in the text that half an hour had already flew by, and it was nearly time for the meeting.
The door opened again and Drake, Phillip’s head of security, slipped in. “Your Majesty, Duke Stuart,” he greeted them, then held out a thick manila folder to Simon. “The information you requested. I’ll give you the full rundown of everything I could gather, but time was a bit tight—there were some rumors about Nathaniel I would’ve liked to chase down more fully before our meeting. They’re likely not relevant, though.”
Simon took the folder. “Thank you, Drake, this looks very thorough.”
Phillip raised his brow. “What’s this now?”
Drake answered for him, as Simon was already absorbed in his new reading material. “Penelope Alcott’s personal and public history and her royal legitimacy, along with information on every Esconian monarch from the last two decades,” the guard said.
Phillip turned back to his cousin. “You’re researching your fiancée?” Simon made a vague affirmative noise in response, trying not to lose his place. Phillip shook his head and pulled out his phone, swiping the screen up and opening a rugby app. “Good thing I’m just here for moral support,” he said as today’s big game started playing.
Simon divided his attention over the next twenty minutes between the game—he and Phillip tried to watch together whenever they could, which was why he’d invited his cousin to the meeting—the folder, and Drake’s dry but insightful presentation. When the head of security was done he saw himself out, and Phillip and Simon lapsed into silence as the game escalated.
Simon winced when a fist fight broke out between the players. “Oof, Laurence has got to learn to watch his back around that skinny flanker.” He turned a page in the folder and shook his head. “And speaking of people to watch out for, Pen’s uncle Nathaniel sure is a piece of work. Did you see some of these conspiracy theories he crafted into policy while he was King? It got pretty ridiculous. Her other uncle, Forbush, did a much better job when he was on the throne before that. Pity about the law that forced him to abdicate once he decided to marry his husband, though.” He glanced at his pile of books. “Although if I’m not mistaken, Parliament finally abolished that ridiculous bit of outdated legislation last year. Too late for Forbush, but future heirs will have more freedom, at least.” Future heirs. His and Penelope’s children. The thought felt too big, and he flipped deeper into the folder, trying to distract himself.
Phillip glanced up from the game with a frown. “Why do you even need to do that research? Checking into the line of inheritance seems a bit unnecessary—don’t you think Escona would’ve triple-checked that they were handing their crown to the right person before they told Penelope she was next up?”
Simon sighed. “I’m sure they did,” he admitted, “but I just want to make absolutely sure I’m as prepared as possible for everything about the coronation and marriage. This is a huge commitment.”
“But you’re making sure you’re as prepared as possible in every way, right?”
“What do you mean?” Simon squinted at the piles of books surrounding him, suddenly worried he’d missed something.
“I mean not everything can be solved by researching it to death. Instead of being worried Escona’s legions of lawyers missed something, maybe you should be wooing your future wife. All the laws in the kingdom won’t do you any good if she kicks you out on the first day.”
Simon stopped squinting at his books and looked up, startled.
Phillip sighed and pulled his feet off the table, folding his hands in his lap as he considered his words. “I know you’ve been searching for your place lately,” he said. “And I know Danovar hasn’t really provided you with a true home and security the way you’ve wanted. But might I suggest that the best way to attain all of that is to focus on making Penelope happy, rather than on the crown?”
Making Penelope happy. He knew some ways he’d like to make her happy, for sure. His gaze went unfocused as he remembered the way she’d looked when he’d walked into that sitting room last week—that mass of untamed dark curls tumbling over her burnished-bronze shoulders, those big, dark eyes, the way her unusual dress showed off those traditional Esconian features. He could still picture the way her crimson lips wrapped around his name. He’d wanted to kiss her right then and there, pick her up and press her against the wall and see those gorgeous lips part in ecstasy as she moaned for him. And soon, hopefully, they would both enjoy a night like that. But right now, doing this research was the best way to support her. He knew she lacked confidence in her ability to rule. He could bolster her by spending his time poring over her country’s laws and traditions and history, not by unnecessarily romancing her.
“Pen knows that’s a low priority right now,” Simon said, brushing off Phillip’s concern. “She needs me to be a strong king, and this research is how I get there.”
The on-screen fight broke up and the rugby players got back to the game. Phillip let the conversation drop as Simon went back to the folder, but even as he read, he couldn’t quite get his mind off the picture of Pen in that dress, and how Pen might look under the dress, and exactly what techniques he might employ to ascertain those details.
He shook himself out of the thought. Sexy daydreams—and hopefully, their fulfillment—were for later, after they were married and stable.
Still, though, he had the feeling that Penelope Alcott would be a hard woman to get off his mind.
4
Simon sat on a loveseat at Penelope’s side and tried not to glare at the photographer. Their engagement portrait session had dragged on for the last five hours, and if that gratingly cheerful man told them to “look in love” one more time Simon was going to rip the camera out of his hands and shove it down his throat. And that was saying a lot, since Simon normally wasn’t the quick-tempered sort.
Simon sighed and leaned against the arm of the loveseat. The truth was, it wasn’t the man who was irritating him. It was Simon’s own inability to look in love, because how was he supposed to pull that off with a woman he knew basically nothing about? The two of them had finally gotten a bit more comfortable with each other as the day went on, but they were getting to the more intimate, informal portraits now, and their uncertainty over silly things—whether to clasp hands or i
ntertwine their fingers, for example—was jarring. Sure, he’d researched the heck out of her, but a career in politics had taught him a long time ago that a dossier just couldn’t do a person justice. He wanted to put her at ease, wanted to put them both at ease, but had no idea where to start.
“What’s with the grimace? A little less Strict Simon, a little more moon-eyed groom,” the photographer scolded, and Simon tried to rearrange his facial features into a doting look while imagining choking the man with his own camera strap.
From her spot on the other side of the loveseat, Pen forced a smile back at him. The chair was barely big enough for them both but there were still a solid three inches of space between them. He hated to think she felt as awkward as he did.
Maybe some small talk would help. “This is a lovely receiving room,” he commented. It was the first time he’d been in the family area of Castle Alcott. It was decorated in duskier hues than the Danovian castle, and the architecture leaned more Spanish than English, but it was similar enough to feel at least a little familiar to him.
“Oh,” Pen said, glancing around like it was the first time she’d really looked at the room. “It is, isn’t it? I guess I’ve only been back here once or twice.”
He frowned, surprised. “But this is the Queen’s receiving room,” he said, and then winced. Of course—she’d only found out she was going to be Queen a few weeks ago, and she’d only moved into the palace a few days ago. This wing was probably nearly as unfamiliar to her as it was to him. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot.”
She smiled tightly, but the damage was done, and they were even more awkward than before.