by Ember Casey
“Thank you.” I whisper back to him. “Your suit is…nice.” I wish I could think of something kinder to say, but his tight formal clothing is less than attractive. But I must admit, there is something about seeing him in his royal military uniform that makes my heart speed a bit in my chest, if only for a moment.
I will not allow myself to be attracted to this man. I’m not even going to allow myself to admit that he is attractive, even if his suit is ridiculous.
He chuckles. The ceremony calls for us to join hands now while still knelt before the priest, and William pulls my hand in his, lacing his fingers through mine.
“I hate this suit.” He whispers, obviously barely holding back a laugh. “My family insisted.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “Tradition and all.”
I hold back my frown, trying to keep my face as expressionless as possible.
“I had the most…interesting dream last night.” His grip on my hand tightens.
I’m not sure if it’s the way he says the words or merely his touch, but I’m wholly unprepared for the jolt of something that races up my arm as he squeezes my hand again.
“I’ll tell you all about it after our reception.” There’s some level of amusement in his voice, and I’m not certain if he’s amused by his dream or is somehow attempting to make fun of me in front of all these people.
We stand as the traditional Montovian part of the ceremony ends. We turn to face each other and he pulls my other hand into his as the priest prepares to have us recite our vows.
I seem to be on autopilot, and I barely hear what I’m saying or what William is saying to me. Part of me is waiting—and waiting—for the priest to ask for objections to our marriage. Part of me wants to be the one who objects.
But for some reason, the question is never asked, and before I know what is happening—before I can fully prepare myself for the meaning of the words—the priest is speaking again.
And I’m trembling when I hear the final words he says to us.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
William
Husband and wife.
Justine and I are officially married. I must be in shock, because I thought I would feel…different, somehow. Instead, it’s almost surreal. As if nothing has changed at all. All the priest did was say a couple of words, and now my life will be completely different from this point forward.
At most weddings, this would be the point of the ceremony where the newlyweds share their first married kiss. Unfortunately, though, that tradition is left out of Montovian royal weddings—apparently long ago it was decided that it was “untoward” for any royal couple to kiss in front of the Montovian people. While such thinking is a thing of the past, the wedding tradition remains, much to my disappointment.
I glance down at Justine. My arm is still on hers, and her eyes are on the priest. I wonder if she’s purposely avoiding looking at me.
My eyes fall to her lips. She isn’t wearing much makeup, even today—but there’s a faint sheen to her lips, making them look soft and plush. I lick my bottom lip, fighting the urge to kiss her in spite of the outdated tradition.
But my moment is quickly lost.
“Let us welcome the new couple,” the priest says, raising his arms. “And bless them before God and all of Montovia.”
The crowd behind us rises to their feet, applauding and cheering. For a moment I stand there, oddly stunned by this whole situation, until I feel a hand on my shoulder. Andrew is there.
“Proceed back down the aisle,” he tells me.
Yes, that’s right—this isn’t over yet.
Justine’s arm is still in mine, and I tug her gently along, pulling her back down the steps and down the length of the nave. The organ begins playing the Montovian wedding march again.
I’m dizzy, almost delirious. The surreal feeling is slowly fading, and my nerves have taken its place again as the importance of all of this finally, fully sinks in.
What have I done?
We’ve reached the doors to the cathedral, and I push them open. Outside, the street is full of people. I may be the third son of the family, but my wedding is still cause for celebration.
The crowd cheers when they see us. Everything becomes a blur—people throwing white flower petals, children laughing and waving miniature Montovian flags, one entire corner of the square breaking into the Montovian national anthem…
Justine’s hand tightens slightly on my arm, and I turn and glance down at her. Her face is perfectly composed—none of the strong emotions I saw in her eyes earlier are there anymore. Instead, her lips curl into a slow smile as she looks out at the people gathered.
She knows the part she has to play, I tell myself. I should remember mine. I push down the nerves and fight back the dizziness I feel, allowing my mouth to twist into a grin. I raise my free arm, waving to the crowd.
The cheers multiply. Justine follows my lead, raising her hand and waving. The crowd responds to her even more loudly than they respond to me. I’m pleased—even though we won’t be living here in Montovia, I’m glad our people like her and welcome her with such enthusiasm.
Hearing their rousing support brings me back to myself a little, and I breathe a sigh of relief. The nerves will pass, as will the strangeness. In my heart, I know I’ve made the right decision.
There’s a car waiting for us at the base of the steps, with the Royal Guard all around to keep the crowd back. I lead Justine down to the vehicle and hand her inside. When she’s seated, I straighten and give one more wave to the crowd before climbing in beside her.
The people continue to sing as the car pulls away. Their voices carry through the windows of the car, only slightly muffled by the glass.
Justine is sitting stiffly, staring out at the crowd. She’s pressed as far away from me as the seat allows.
Slowly, I reach across the distance between us and touch her hand. She flinches and yanks her fingers away.
“No one can see us,” she says. “There’s no reason to keep up the charade.”
Ouch. I knew Justine wasn’t exactly pleased to marry me, but I hadn’t imagined she’d shun even the slightest bit of physical contact or affection.
I lean my elbow against the door and sigh. I’m not used to women flinching from my touch. Still, I knew Justine would be a challenge. She’s probably just as overwhelmed as I am.
Instead of trying to touch her again, I just watch her. The sunlight coming in through the window brings out the shades of gold and red in her otherwise dark hair and highlights a few pale freckles on her cheeks that I hadn’t noticed before. She wears a single, modestly sized sapphire on a chain around her long, graceful neck. Below that, her breasts—
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stare at me,” she says without turning to look at me.
I look away, smiling in spite of myself. “I wasn’t trying to stare. But is it really a crime, a man looking at his new wife?”
“We may be husband and wife in name,” she responds, “but that doesn’t make us husband and wife in all respects.”
“Not yet, perhaps,” I say. “But we must start somewhere, mustn’t we?” I look back over at her.
She doesn’t respond. In fact, she doesn’t say a word the entire way back to the palace.
All the better, I tell myself. I have a feeling that any of my attempts at conversation are going to go awry with her, at least until she’s over the shock of the fact that we’re married.
I still watch her, just more covertly this time. Her face is still blank, but her fingers have curled, gripping the lace of her dress. I can see the beat of her pulse at her throat, faster than it should be. She’s tense. Nervous.
And I just have to put her at ease. Be the perfect gentleman tonight.
The car stops in front of the palace. There’s a small army waiting for us—most of the household staff has come to welcome us. They give a small cheer as I descend from the car and reach back to help Justine. She ignores my outstretched han
d, instead choosing to climb out on her own. Apparently now that we’re away from the crowd, she’s no longer interested in putting on pretenses.
Let her have her moment, I tell myself. Soon enough we’ll have to put on our little show again. The reception is about to begin.
They’ve designated one of the smaller ballrooms for the purpose. When it’s time for Leo or Andrew to get married, the celebration will be huge, but tonight, it will be a little more subdued.
Which, by royal standards, is still pretty spectacular.
The ballroom has been decorated in ivory and purple. The walls have been hung with garlands, and the tables and chairs around the edges of the room are decorated with braided ribbons. Banners bearing the Montovian crest—some over a century old—hang from the ceiling. There’s also a banner representing Rosvalia, hung over one of the gilded chairs at the head of the room.
Our seats for the night.
We’ll make our grand entrance shortly, once the rest of my family and our guests have arrived from the cathedral. In the meantime, there’s another tradition to attend to.
“This way,” I tell Justine. I start to reach for her arm, then think better of it. I lead her to a door at the back of the ballroom, to the left of our official seats for the night. Everything is already prepared for us.
The room is small, but beautifully decorated. Like in the ballroom, the walls are hung with fresh strands of flowers, and in this enclosed space, their perfumey scent is quite heady. Otherwise, the room is empty except for a table covered by a silk cloth bearing Montovia’s crest. On the table is a large, carved cup plated with pure gold. Montovia’s seal has been fastened to one side, while Rosvalia’s seal is on the other.
The tradition of a newly married couple sharing a cup isn’t unique to Montovia, but we have our own twist on the custom.
“Has someone filled you in on the sharing of the cup?” I ask her.
“No,” she says with a shake of her head.
I stride over to the table. “In our country, whenever two members of the nobility join houses, they drink from the same cup.” I slide my finger along the edge of the goblet. “This particular cup has been in my family since the mid-seventeen hundreds, but the tradition itself is much older than that. The wine was secured from one of Rosvalia’s vineyards, as a way of showing honor to you. We each take a drink, symbolizing the fact that our lives and possessions are now as one.”
Her face is still blank, but she gives a small nod. “I understand.”
“But that’s not the only thing,” I continue. “After we serve each other, then there is one more tradition.” I smile. “We share our first official kiss.”
Justine
My gaze snaps to William’s. “You’re lying.”
“Hardly, Princess. It’s a tradition that is over seven hundred years old.” He grins for a moment before lifting a brow suggestively. “You wouldn’t want to break such an old custom—”
“And yet, you’re willing to break with the current tradition of—you know—asking a woman for her hand in marriage. You’re willing to make an arrangement for a wife you don’t know—on terms that are questionable—for…what? So you can finally be the brother making a spectacle of himself?”
His smile doesn’t fall, but something glimmers for a moment in his eyes.
I struck a nerve. I’ll have to remember that.
I narrow my gaze. Something has taken over inside me, and I’m not even sure what it is. All I’m sure of is that this emotion—this rage—runs deep, and it probably isn’t only about this wedding.
“You’ve treated me like property already, Your Highness. You bartered with my father over me like some item to be traded. If you had asked me—”
“Would the outcome have been different, Princess?” His smile finally falls. “Can you honestly say you would not have agreed? That you would have disobeyed your father’s wishes?”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “Of course I would have agreed. I—”
“Then what difference does it make?”
It takes every ounce of my will not to stomp on his foot again, just as I did the night he announced our betrothal to the world without me by his side.
I take in a long breath and blow it out slowly, never breaking my gaze with the man who is now my husband.
My husband.
“The difference it makes, Your Highness, is that you have begun our marriage on the wrong foot. You have not earned my trust. And trust—”
He cocks his head, interrupting me. “If I were to get on one knee right now…? If I were to drop to my knee and beg you to be my wife…?” His grin returns. “Would that make a difference, Princess?”
Something about the way he’s treating this situation—as though it were some huge joke—is rubbing me the wrong way, making my anger burn even hotter in my chest.
It’s only then that it occurs to me that perhaps he is in on my father’s secret. Perhaps I am the one being made the fool here. Why did I not see it before? The betrothal was thrust upon me without my consent, so why would I think anything has changed? It is just as likely my father and this prince of Montovia have made their own arrangement, especially now that I’ve seen how William doesn’t like being compared with his brothers. Perhaps he and my father have joined forces against some common enemy—Prince Andrew, perhaps, or maybe King Edmund, the Montovian king himself.
Regardless of the who, I can sense there’s something going on here that I still don’t know.
“No, Your Highness. It would not make a difference.” I cross my arms over my chest. “What would make a difference is you telling me why you agreed to this. I understand that leaving me out of the agreement must have had something to do with expediency—”
“Exactly.” He pauses, and his smile falls again. “That is exactly it. It had to do with expediency. The offer was made, and I was asked to sign it. There was no time—”
“To get me into the room?” I nod, though I have no intention of letting him off the hook. Ever. “There was no time to send someone down the corridor of your family’s palace?” I nod again, and I’m certain he can sense the sarcasm in my words. “I’m certain the additional seven minutes it would have taken for someone to make a phone call to the guest wing to fetch me would have delayed the agreement and made it impossible.”
This time, it is William’s cheeks that burn a deep red. “Princess…”
“Don’t you see, Your Highness? There is no way—no possible way—you can ever gain my trust. If you didn’t respect me and my needs enough to ask my opinion—my permission—to make the most important decision of my life, I’m not sure how you think you’re going to change my mind.”
“I—”
“It would take a lot more—a hell of a lot more—than you dropping to your knees and begging me to be your wife to get me to change my mind about you.” Not that I ever will, no matter what happens.
He looks into my eyes for a moment—too long a moment—before he finally drops to one knee, pulling my hand into his. “But perhaps it is the best place to begin.” He looks up at me. The grin is gone, and if I didn’t know better, I would think he was being serious. “Princess, will you be my wife?”
I yank my hand from his. “My name is not Princess.” I glare at him for another moment. “And I’m already your wife, Your Highness.”
He rises, standing in front of me again. “And my name is not Your Highness. You would do well to start calling me by my given name—”
“And you would do well to stop calling me Princess as though it is some sort of pet name.” My gaze narrows. “Or perhaps you are using it as an insult?”
Something glimmers again in his eyes, and I know I’ve struck another chord in him.
“Is that it?” I shake my head, finally understanding. “You have something against other royals, is that it? Or is it just nobility in general? I don’t believe either of us chose our birthright, Your Highness—”
He grabs my hand again. “William.
I insist that you call me by my given name, Princess.”
“Again with Princess. I see.” I try to pull my hand away, but he squeezes it tightly in his. “It is the same double standard, isn’t it? It’s all right for you to enter into an arrangement for my hand—my life—with my father, so why shouldn’t you be able to dictate the terms of how we will address each other?” I glare at him. “And why shouldn’t you be able to have your way with me? Why shouldn’t you be able to do whatever you please? After all, I’m only some piece of property. It isn’t as though I’m a person. It isn’t as though I have feelings. It isn’t as though I might have things I want to do with my life outside Rosvalia. I’m simply some thing to be used as a bargaining chip.”
“Princess, I hardly…” His mouth falls open for a split-second. “Justine—”
“Tell me, William. You own me now.” My gaze narrows to a slit. “What are you planning to do with me?”
“It isn’t like that, I swear—”
“Will I at least have some say over where it is you take my body? Will you at least let me choose if I would prefer to give myself over to you on a bed? Or will you be deciding that for me as well?”
His face flushes a color of crimson I can’t say I’ve seen before. “Justine—”
“Tell me, William. Is it enjoyable for you to force that upon a woman, too?”
“Of course not—”
“But you have taken my life from me. Why would I expect anything less than for you to take my body from me, as well?”
When he doesn’t respond, I can’t help but continue. “Will you enjoy it, William?” I wait again for his response, but none comes. “Then tell me, will you prefer that I fight you when you take my body from me without my consent? Or would you prefer having me lie on my back, lifeless, so that you can have your way with me? At least do me the favor of allowing me that choice, if you’re not willing to allow me any other choices in my life.”
He finally tears his gaze from mine, and he turns to the gold cup that has been set upon the table in the small room we’re in.