The Royal Wedding Collection

by Rachel Hauck

  My heart is sick over the war, over Uncle. He’s so thin and so troubled. I’m not sure how much of this he can bear. He is a kind, loving man, but Father in heaven, it is my opinion you did not build him for war but for peace.

  Alice

  Someone call a doctor because she must have been crazy when she decided to hop on that plane with Tanner and explore the world of a royal princess.

  Last night, she slept in a palace suite the size of her house back home. It consisted of large, windowed rooms—a bedroom, a bath and a half, a sitting room, a media room with the widest flat screen she’d ever seen, a library, and a kitchen.

  Reggie stepped out of bed onto a two-inch pile carpet that felt like silk against the soles of her feet. She’d curled her toes into the blue-and-white patterned weave and considered crawling back into bed and getting out once more just to experience the carpet.

  But the light of day burned through her windows, showcasing the luxury and beauty of her living quarters.

  And the portrait of Gram above her bed was breathtaking. The image carried Reggie to another time and another place. Oh, Gram, so young and very beautiful. At least through the eyes of the artist . . .

  Reggie stepped closer to read the artist’s signature. Renoir. Renoir?

  She angled back, exhaling, shaking out her hands as she scoped the height and breadth of the painting. Mercy a-mighty, Gram sat for Renoir.

  Truly, every second of this adventure felt like a fairy tale. Like Reggie would wake up any moment, find herself at home, rousing from the most vivid dream of her life.

  Reaching up, she barely touched the hard dried oils that gelled together and created the image of Gram. The ridges and grooves of the artist’s brush beneath her fingertip were all very, very real.

  Reggie closed her eyes, trying to imagine the gram she knew—stooped and slow with a raspy voice and white hair—as the same woman peering out of the yellow, orange, green, and blue of the painting, so happy and full of hope, with the wind twisting her hair and snapping at the blue scarf around her shoulders.

  Gram, I’m here. I’m here.

  After a moment of waiting, praying, Reggie lowered to the bed, gathering her knees to her chest, tipping back her head and offering her fears and pain to the One who loved her.

  He’d been there for her when Mama died. She had to believe he’d not abandon her now.

  Another heartbeat or two and she slid off the bed, heading for the shower, remembering she had something with Tanner this morning, every step, every movement stiff and difficult, as if she was somehow peeling away the old, dried, dead skin of winter.

  She dressed in her favorite boot-cut jeans, white blouse, and boots—the cockroach kickers with the pointed toes and ornate stitching—and headed down the broad front staircase.

  Jarvis met her in the foyer, bowed, and said, “Breakfast is this way, Your Majesty.”

  “Please, call me Reggie.”

  He seated her alone in a formal dining room half the size of a football field with a highly polished table that seated seventy-five. Reggie knew because she counted. Seventy-five chairs. And she bet if they added a leaf or two, they could easily seat one hundred.

  She ate her eggs and toast with the best sweet blackberry jam, alone. Quiet.

  Serena, her lady’s maid, came in, curtseyed, and asked, “Do you need anything, Your Majesty?”

  “For you to call me Reggie.”

  “Yes, miss.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

  At twenty till ten, Dickenson came to drive her to Wettin Manor. “Mr. Burkhardt will meet us there, Your Majesty.”

  “Reggie, call me Reggie.”

  “Yes, miss.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

  Yeah, this is going to take some time.

  Reggie insisted on riding up front, in the passenger seat, which made Dickenson all kinds of nervous.

  “Wouldn’t you prefer the back, Your Majesty?”

  “How will I keep you from speeding if I’m sitting back there?” She laughed. He did not. “And it’s Reggie, okay?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  The car was not the limo from last night but a brand-new Mercedes. If one could not have a classic car, then a new Mercedes would do. Reggie loved the new car smell. It was second only to the fragrance of humanity lingering in the leather and vinyl of a well-used classic car.

  Down the hillside, a cluster of trees sporting brilliant orange-red foliage captured her attention. “Those leaves are gorgeous. I’ve never seen that color before.”

  A breeze whisked through the treetops, shifting the leaves, exposing their orange underbellies, then their radiant red tops. A gauzy white hue hovered around the hillside with a light trimmed from the cloud-muted sun.

  “They are Princess Alice Oaks, Your Majesty. Named for your great-grandmother by her uncle, the Grand Duke.”

  “Gram had trees named after her?”

  “The story goes that the duke ordered the royal gardener to plant a tree with fall leaves the color of Princess Alice’s hair in honor of her sixteenth birthday.” Dickenson slowed the car to take a hairpin turn. “I see you have the same color tresses.”

  “She was completely white when I knew her . . . The gardener planted all of these trees?”

  Reggie brushed aside her bangs. They were too long, but she’d actually fired up the old straight iron and did something with her hair this morning. She’d had no time for a salon appointment when a nation called.

  “Only one tree was planted, over a hundred years ago,” Dickenson said.

  As they moved toward the bottom of the hill, Reggie peered back over her right shoulder to find the entire hillside engulfed in the flames of Princess Alice trees. Chills scooted down her arms, sinking beneath the skin into her muscles, her sinews, her very core.

  Gram, even the trees remember you.

  Tears surprised her eyes and watered her soul. So many glorious secrets about Gram. It made Reggie yearn to speak to her. So many questions. So many whys.

  The Mercedes hit the bottom of the hill and, within the span of a city block, left the countryside behind and pressed full-on into a busy, bustling Strauberg.

  Reggie tipped her head to see the height of cut-stone buildings, polished to a gleaming gray surface. Pedestrians flooded the streets, moving from corner to corner, hurrying about their day. Men in white shirts and ties clustered around one of the iron streetlamps with a Victorian-style lamp. When they laughed, Reggie smiled.

  “This is the financial district, ma’am.” Dickenson slowed for a red light. “Two streets over is Market Avenue with the shops.”

  She glanced at him. He’d yet to do the same to her. “Are you married, Dickenson?”

  His round cheeks flushed. “No, miss. My wife died some years back. And we didn’t have children, so I found myself in the employ of His Majesty, King Leopold, King Nathaniel II’s father.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife, Dickenson.”

  “She was a lovely, generous soul.”

  “And you miss her.”

  “Every day, miss.”

  “And how did you come to drive for me?”

  “The King’s Office selected me because I am Hessenberg born and raised. I’ve lived in Brighton nearly ten years but I was happy to return home, miss.” He spoke looking straight ahead, harnessing his words as if he didn’t want to say too much. “To drive for you. To be with my old mates again. I can visit me brothers more often now.”

  “Well, I’m happy to know you. Glad you’re working . . . for me . . .” The words felt awkward. But they shouldn’t. Rafe worked for her. And Wally. Why did this feel different?

  “Happy to serve you, miss.” Finally, the man gave her a wide, genuine smile.

  Serve. Ah, that’s why it felt different. “Dickenson, do you think Hessenberg people want a princess again?”

  “I reckon they do. Better than the alternative, becoming Brightonians for the rest of our lives and our children’s.” Dickenson stopped for a red
light, clearing his throat. He still refused to look at her.

  “It’s okay to look at me.”

  “I’d rather keep my eyes ahead, on me job, miss.” But he cut her a quick glance. “You should really be sitting in the back.”

  “Because?”

  “Because you are the princess. Just speak to Mr. Burkhardt. He’ll explain.” Dickenson white-knuckled the steering wheel and pressed his lips taut, gentling down on the gas when the light turned green.

  Reggie let the subject drop. Dickenson wasn’t the only one who’d kept his gaze downcast this morning. Jarvis and Serena both avoided direct eye contact, though Jarvis addressed her more directly than the others.

  She’d ask Tanner about this straightaway, as he would say. Speaking of the man with the long golden hair and ice blue eyes . . .

  She kind of missed that rascal when she woke up this morning. He’d been nothing but a pain in her backside since they met, but somewhere along the way, she’d grown attached to him.

  Dickenson steered the Mercedes through a roundabout, past a center-city park, and down a wide avenue lined with thick-trunked trees dropping colorful leaves onto the avenue.

  Maybe she felt this tug toward Tanner because he was her only friend in Hessenberg and it was easy to anchor her emotions with him. In the meantime, she needed to get ahold of her heart, her thoughts, and figure out this strange mission.

  Was it a permanent call? Temporary? Did she even belong in this tiny sea duchy? With these people? What was expected of her and, good grief, what in the world would those people on the street, waiting at corners to cross or leaning against lampposts, think of her? Demand of her?

  A sediment of anxiety rose from the bottom of her soul and clouded her reasoning.

  Oh Lord, a princess. I can’t . . . Forget discussing protocol when she saw Sir Blue Eyes. She needed to have a heart-to-heart with him and figure a true way out.

  Her phone pinged and she dug it out of her bag. A text from Al.

  Oliver coming next week. Lking gud. Hv fun there.

  She was about to respond Yea! when a text from Mark came through.

  Ur in Hessenberg??! WT—A princess? Hahaha. Wht’s the bit? Call me!

  Reggie groaned. Mark lived in the world he created in his own mind. Did he not hear the letter she read aloud at the garage?

  “Miss, you best duck down,” Dickenson said, pulling into the curved drive of a flat-front, golden-brick building. “Looks like the press is waiting for you.” He blasted the horn, steering the car through a throng of cameramen and reporters waiting under an arched, stone entrance, casting their large, leering shadows against the car windows.

  FIFTEEN

  Tanner shoved his way through the crowd of photographers and reporters toward the Mercedes as Dickenson pulled around.

  One guess. The same leak as the first wave. Seamus Fitzsimmons. Tanner would have to organize security straightaway.

  “Stand aside, please. Stand aside.”

  But the press swarmed like bees to honey. Cameras flashed, videoed, robbing Tanner, Hessenberg, and the rest of the world from a formal, organized introduction of the princess.

  Blasted, loose-lipped, tongue-wagging insider. Seriously, if he found out who specifically leaked her arrival . . .

  “Pardon me.” Tanner reached for the back door, then noticed Regina was sitting up front, next to Dickenson. Why was he not surprised?

  Louis trailed behind him, along with another bloke, Elton, the front lobby man, trying to clear a path for Regina to the door.

  “Stand aside, the lot of you. Move back.” Elton had a commanding presence, for which Tanner was grateful.

  When Regina stepped out, it was all over. The shouting commenced as cameras flashed and bodies crushed against bodies.

  “Are you the princess?”

  “Look here, Princess.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Can I get a look this way, Princess?”

  “Burkhardt, let us talk to her. We’ve a right to know.”

  Tanner ignored the demand and all but shoved Regina through the manor door. Taking her hand, he raced her up the stairs, the mob stalled a few moments by Louis and Elton. But they were no match for that frenzy.

  “Here. This way.” Tanner shot down a second-floor corridor, the rhythm of his heels against the marble in harmony with Regina’s.

  He found a room at the end of the hall, ducked inside, and slammed the door.

  “Oh my gosh, that was scary.” Regina collapsed onto a long wooden pew, its old joints creaking in protest. “I’m shaking.” She held up her hand and in the soft, colored light filtering through the round, stained-glass window in the front of the room, Tanner could see her tremors.

  “I’m so sorry.” Tanner paced down the center aisle, raking back his hair, not caring if he messed up his morning gel job. “Someone . . . someone leaked you were here. There are limited options as to who.”

  “It’s okay. You didn’t know.” Under her mop of red hair, she narrowed her gaze at him. “Did you?”

  “Of course not.” Tanner pulled out his phone, reading the screen. “The king is here, along with the prime minister and the archbishop.” He pressed the phone to his ear. “Louis, we’re on the second floor—” Tanner glanced around, engaging the room for the first time. “In the chapel. What’s going on with the press? Still here. Arrange for the meeting to be here, in the chapel. The press won’t look for us here.”

  Ha!

  “And call Seamus’s office. Let him know.”

  He rang off and sat in the pew in front of Regina. “How are you?”

  “Other than being chased by a mob? I’m shaking. You?”

  “Other than nearly getting my princess,”—the words left his mouth and settled in his heart in a strange yet comfortable way—“crushed by a mob, I’m shaking.”

  She smiled and swooped her bangs out of her eyes. “What’s this about the king and everyone?” Her expression, her gesture, coated the feelings stirring in his chest, beckoning his emotional doors to swing open.

  “I told you last night. You’re meeting the king this morning, along with the prime minister, governor of Hessenberg, and the archbishop.”

  “Excuse me, you never said anything like that to me.”

  “Regina, I did, in the limo, when we were driving up to Meadowbluff.”

  “Did I respond? Did I say, ‘Oh, the king? Wow, I’ve never met a king before! Do I curtsy?’ ” She smacked his arm. “’Cause that’s what I would’ve said.”

  “No, you don’t curtsy. He’s coming to see you. He will bow to you.”

  “To me?” Now she paced down the center aisle, her hands tucked into the hip pockets of her jeans.

  Tanner glanced away, walking to the door, searching for the light panel, anything to get his mind off her . . . well, various assets and charms. He came to work this morning determined to hold his heart and affections at a professional distance.

  But the moment he saw her, he wanted to escape his duties and spend the day with her, alone, discovering her, pondering how well she fit a pair of jeans.

  Give a poor chap a chance.

  “What is this room?” She stood by the altar, inhaling. “It has a sweet presence and aroma.”

  “It’s the chapel. The royal family held services here when they were in the city. As a matter of fact,”—Tanner walked toward her—“this is the Oath of the Throne chapel. Every ascending royal took their oath here upon the death of their predecessor.”

  He’d not thought of that when he randomly directed her down the second-floor corridor.

  “Are services still held here?”

  “It’s a government building.” Tanner shook his head. “So no. Maybe at Christmas there might be a service but—”

  “It feels ‘full’ in here. Does that make sense?” Regina studied the high, flat ceiling with its carved inlays.

  “Oddly, it does.” Tanner grew up with that feeling. In his father’s parish. As if God
himself filled the room.

  “This is incredible. I see all of this and think, ‘This was my family.’ ”

  She was winning him. Over and over again. Her willingness to investigate with an open heart. But he would remain guarded.

  If Regina knew the real Tanner Burkhardt—which she never would—she’d not want him. No woman would want him and, frankly, half the time he wasn’t sure he wanted himself.

  The sooner the king assigned her a more appropriate mentor, the better. Off he’d go back to his safe, albeit stark world.

  “So, Tanner, what’s this meeting about?” Regina made her way back to him, her voice low, concern in her countenance.

  “As I said, you’re meeting with King Nathaniel II, the prime minister, the governor of Hessenberg, and the archbishop.” At last he found a switch panel by the door and powered up the lights. “We’ll discuss our next steps.”

  A patterned, gentle glow spilled down the side walls from the iron and glass sconces. Working another switch turned on the light fixtures above the altar.

  “I don’t know, Tanner.” Regina squeezed her fingers in her hand and walked the length of the aisle. “I–I feel . . . like . . .”—she shook out her hands, then gathered her hair away from her face—“like a cow trying to run with thoroughbreds.”

  He made his way toward her. “You’re far from a cow, trust me. I’m sorry If I miscommunicated about this meeting, but, Regina, you must start thinking of yourself as worthy. The Princess of Hessenberg.”

  “Easy for you to say, Tanner.” She mimicked his accent, trying to smile and lighten the tension in the room.

  He debated. Should he tell her Seamus was the one who filed the petition? She was already so nervous. On the other hand, being armed with the truth would serve her well. “Regina, you should know—”

  “Hello, Tanner?” The chapel door creaked open and Louis entered, leading the king, prime minister, and archbishop into the room.