A Thoroughly Modern Princess

by Wendy Markham

  Naturally, the event would be well photographed.

  Emmaline sighed.

  Weren’t they all?

  Especially now, with the royal wedding mere months away.

  Of course, her clothing for the outing had been carefully chosen long before this morning. There were two selections, both neatly pressed and ready to don: a long-sleeved blue linen suit in case the weather was damp or chilly, and a pretty floral dress intended for warm sunshine.

  That outfit, with all the accompanying accessories, including a broad-brimmed hat, waited in Emmaline’s dressing room next door. It would take very little time to put it on, really.

  She checked her diamond-studded platinum watch, which matched the engagement ring concealed in her pocket.

  There would be a good ten minutes to spare.

  Fifteen, if she hurried.

  Nothing scandalous could possibly happen in fifteen minutes.

  What a shame, she thought, and was at once taken aback and thrilled by her own bawdiness.

  She focused again on Granger Lockwood, whose gaze remained fixed on her.

  He raised both his eyebrows and an index finger, palm inward. He wagged the finger at her, beckoning.

  Emmaline thought about the clothing that had been laid out for her, and the lunch plans that had been made for her, and the mother-in-law who, along with her offspring, Prince Remi, had been selected for her.

  With that, she made her decision.

  Her own decision.

  One of the first—and, although she didn’t know it then, the most important—in her life.

  She smiled at Granger Lockwood IV. And she said, “I’ll be right down.”

  One

  “Can somebody please turn on the air-conditioning?” Emmaline asked peevishly, her voice muffled as two seamstresses, aided by Tabitha, her longtime lady-in-waiting, pulled the heavy silk gown over her head.

  “I’m afraid the air-conditioning is on already, Your Highness,” one of the seamstresses informed her as the dress settled around her with a deafening rustle.

  “Well, can somebody turn it on full-blast?” Emmaline asked, reaching up to wipe a trickle of sweat from her hairline.

  “It is on full-blast,” came the maddening reply.

  “I sincerely doubt that.” Emmaline brandished her sweat-streaked fingers.

  Tabitha caught hold of Emmaline’s hand. “Oh my goodness, Your Highness, your makeup is running! Quickly, somebody, please . . . before it drips onto the dress!”

  A mad bustle erupted in the designer’s studio as both seamstresses and both their assistants rushed for towels.

  Emmaline stood motionless, captive hand in the air, feeling additional beads of sweat popping out on her brow.

  They must be lying about the air-conditioning. It was so bloody hot in there, and it couldn’t be blamed only on the fact that she was swathed in layers of silk, wired undergarments, and petticoats that were to give her wedding gown its distinct lines.

  Within moments, Emmaline’s fingers had been swiftly cleaned with a damp cloth and her face was well blotted with a dry one, lest the beige foundation trickle down and smear on the white confection she found herself wearing.

  She certainly would have preferred to forgo her usual heavy makeup on this hot and humid late summer morning, but it would never do to have the photographers who now followed her everywhere capture the bride-to-be looking anything less than radiant.

  She would also have preferred a much simpler wedding dress than this frou-frou number—complete with a twenty-five-foot train—that had been created for her by Porfirio, one of the world’s foremost fashion designers, who now hovered fussily at her side, emitting troubled moans at the prospect of tinted perspiration spurting forth from the bride-to-be.

  And Emmaline certainly would have preferred a far simpler wedding day than the vast state affair that had been painstakingly planned for her and Remi, and now loomed less than a week away.

  In fact—and here was a novel concept—she would have preferred to chose her own groom.

  But that, of course, was out of the—

  “All right, ladies, now the buttons. The buttons,” Porfirio ordered, clapping his hands in a brisk staccato. “Quickly, please. We haven’t got all day.”

  As the seamstresses and their assistants began fastening the elaborate rows of buttons at her back, Emmaline’s gaze met Porfirio’s in the mirror. He flashed her a synthetic smile. She expertly returned it.

  What a silly man, she thought, continuing to regard him as he turned his attention back to the dress. That outfit he had on seemed positively clownish. Were purple suede gauchos worn with a lime green tank top and lime green espadrilles really the height of Buironese fashion?

  She had no idea whether Porfirio was his first name or his last—not that it mattered. It was the only one he used. Here in Buiron, only the royals and Porfirio were known by a single name, and the latter was far more regal and eccentric, if that was possible, than most members of Remi’s family.

  Emmaline had hoped to use one of her favorite designers in Paris or Milan to create her wedding gown, but Queen Cecile had insisted—

  “Ouch!”

  “I’m so sorry, Your Highness!” a seamstress said behind her. “I was just trying to pull the seam together while Giselle fastened the button, but it seems to be—”

  “Ouch!” Emmaline squealed again, as the seamstress gave another tug and the fabric dug into her waist.

  Another profuse apology ensued, followed by the timid suggestion that Emmaline hold her breath.

  She inhaled, detecting the faint and unpleasant scent of something deep-fried hovering in the air.

  The tugging resumed.

  She watched herself in the mirror, noting that her alabaster skin appeared paler than usual beneath the mask of makeup. What she wouldn’t give for a healthy tan. But those carefree days were long gone. For the past few years, Mother—backed by Dr. Estrow, the royal dermatologist—had insisted that Emmaline coat herself in SPF 45 sunscreen and a brimmed hat every time she ventured into the light of day.

  “You must protect yourself,” Mother had said. “Skin cancer can kill you. And what about freckles?”

  Freckles.

  Yes, to the queen’s way of thinking, freckles and cancer were equally malignant.

  Surveying her reflection, Emmaline noticed that as the dress came down over her head, a few tendrils of long dark hair must have escaped her updo and now dangled about her face and shoulders. She rather liked the look, and for a moment toyed with the idea of wearing her hair down on her wedding day.

  But that, of course, would never do. For one thing, she hadn’t appeared in public with her hair flowing in an undignified manner since her mouth was full of baby teeth. For another, her personal stylist had already concluded that her customary topknot would best suit the diamond-encrusted tiara headpiece and veil—the icing on the cake, as it were.

  Herself being the cake.

  After giving herself another head-to-toe once-over, Emmaline scowled into her own wide-set green eyes in the mirror.

  This was simply too much dress, too much lace, too much—everything—for one petite princess. Barely over five feet tall, even in these heeled satin pumps, she was awash in a cloud of white, yet this getup was anything but light and airy. It weighed a ton.

  Help! she silently begged the diminutive woman in the mirror.

  The woman gazed back, unable to come to her aid.

  Claustrophobia set in.

  She was being crushed by her dress, not to mention roasted alive.

  The brick-walled, hardwood-floored studio was positively stifling, despite the so-called air-conditioning and the ceiling fans swirling overhead. Of course, it was August, and August was notoriously hot and humid in Buiron. This room was unbearable.

  Emmaline began to exhale.

  “Oh no, Your Highness, not yet. Please take another deep breath and hold it.”

  Emmaline obliged, again noting th
e unappetizing deep-fried aroma.

  “Is there a restaurant in this building?” she asked, her voice strangled and breathless.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t,” Porfirio said, “but if you’re hungry, Your Highness, I would be happy to—”

  “No, I’m not hungry,” she protested, beginning to feel terribly dizzy. Food was the last thing she wanted right now.

  She had eaten her usual light breakfast at the palace earlier, before leaving Verdunia for the drive to Buiron. But today the low-fat yogurt and fresh fruit didn’t seem to be sitting well with her.

  “There we go,” Tabitha said, giving Emmaline’s silk-encased arm a little pat. “The bodice is all fastened now.”

  Emmaline exhaled in relief. “Thank goodness. I was beginning to feel a bit faint. I was going to ask if you could stand in for me—after all, we’re precisely the same size.”

  “I doubt that would be possible,” Tabitha said, and added reassuringly, “They just have to gather the train and then bustle—”

  She broke off in mid-sentence as a clattering sound, reminiscent of corn popping, suddenly erupted in the room.

  At Porfirio’s horrified shriek, Emmaline’s bodyguard Clyde, who had been stationed just outside the door, burst in, pistol drawn.

  In the commotion that followed, Emmaline found herself gripping a chair back for support. Her thoughts—and her breakfast—whirled into an inner spin cycle.

  She heard Tabitha assuring Clyde that there was no reason for alarm; heard Porfirio barking orders at the seamstresses, who scrambled about on the hardwood floor gathering up the pearl buttons . . .

  The buttons that had popped when Emmaline’s bodice suddenly gave way.

  If she could focus on something other than her inner maelstrom of nausea, this would be positively humiliating.

  Finally Clyde resumed his position outside the door, and Porfirio and the seamstresses launched a harried conference in the far corner of the room.

  Emmaline looked at Tabitha. “I don’t suppose I can sit down in this garment?”

  “I don’t suppose you can.” Tabitha offered a wan smile.

  Emmaline’s attempt to return it only made her tummy churn harder. “I thought he was supposed to be one of the world’s finest dress designers,” she muttered under her breath. “Surely he’s capable of sewing a row of buttons tightly enough?”

  Tabitha offered nothing but a tactful shrug.

  Emmaline knew what she was thinking. That Emmaline must have gained weight since the last fitting.

  But it didn’t seem possible. If anything, wedding jitters had killed her appetite. She had been so distracted, so exhausted . . .

  So preoccupied by thoughts she had no right to be thinking, about a man she expected never to see again.

  Well, with any luck.

  “Surely it won’t be long before they have the dress ready for you, Your Highness,” Tabitha was saying. “Then you can rest and get something to eat.”

  “I’ve a feeling it had better be celery sticks,” Emmaline said wryly, surveying herself in the mirror. Was it her imagination, or was her bustline spilling almost indecently from the neckline of the gown? It must be this push-up brassiere. It certainly worked wonders for her figure.

  “Celery sticks?” Tabitha echoed. “Surely you’ll need more than—”

  “Tabitha, do you think I’ve put on weight?” Emmaline asked abruptly.

  “No,” Tabitha said loyally.

  “Tabitha, you and I are both fully aware that I seem to have burst the seams of this dress.”

  “I wouldn’t use the word ‘burst,’ Your Highness.”

  “Well, I would,” Emmaline said.

  Tabitha sighed and shook her head.

  She was Emmaline’s age exactly, the daughter of Papa’s longtime valet.

  As toddlers, Emmaline and Tabitha had bonded in the palace swimming pool and gymnasium, establishing a steadfast friendship that began with little regard for bloodline or peerage.

  As Emmaline grew into her royal role, she continued to nurture her relationship with Tabitha, until her friend formally became part of her staff as a lady-in-waiting. The arrangement suited them both. Tabitha was required to curtsy before her and address Emmaline by her official title, but she never seemed to mind. And Emmaline relied on Tabitha’s faithful listening and calming skills whenever something went awry in her life.

  As now.

  “Are you sure you don’t smell something horrid in here?” she asked, sniffing the air through a wrinkled nose.

  “Something horrid?” Tabitha echoed.

  “Something deep-fried. Fried clams, or fried fish, or . . .” She shook her head in distaste.

  “We passed a seafood restaurant a few doors down when we arrived,” Tabitha said. “But the windows are closed and surely you can’t smell the odor from here.”

  “Surely I can,” Emmaline retorted. “And it’s making me feel quite . . .”

  She trailed off as another wave of queasiness swept over her.

  This time it didn’t ebb as quickly. In fact, it didn’t seem to be ebbing at all.

  “Your Highness . . . ?” Tabitha watched her, full of concern.

  “Tabitha, I believe I’m going to—”

  “—and then she threw up.”

  “Really!” Granger wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “What did you do?”

  “What could I do?” The man—whose name, Granger recalled, was Stan or Steve—something with an St—gave an exaggerated shrug, nearly knocking his empty glass off the bar. “I brought her to the vet. And the vet said, well, you shoulda known better than to give a dog six Hostess chocolate cupcakes. Lemme ask you somethin’—How the hell was I supposed to know that? Did you know that?”

  “Hell, no.” Granger took a big gulp of his beer.

  Not imported lager or microbrewed ale or even bottled brew.

  No, the mug in front of him held good old draft beer straight from the tap of this dive bar somewhere in the East Village, a good fifty blocks—and a world—away from Granger’s uptown apartment.

  He had wandered in by chance, after checking out a real estate site across the street. The site wasn’t going to work out, but the bar had what he needed: air-conditioning, a place to sit down, and cold beer.

  It had to be a hundred degrees out, and a hundred percent humidity—typical dog-days-in-Manhattan weather. The kind of weather that made a man crave an ice cold beer, even before noon on a weekday.

  “Me neither,” the unshaven stranger seated on the stool beside him was saying, stifling a hiccup. “I di’n know that. What was I s’posed to do? Eat the cupcakes in front of her? She was begging, up on her hind legs. So I gave her some. Okay, six. But I di’n know it could make her sick. They should make that kind of information more public, tha’s all I’m sayin’. That way, nobody ge’s hurt. Nobody vomits.”

  “So what happened?”

  “To the vomit? I cleaned it up.”

  “Geez. That’s rough.” Keeping one eye on the television set above the bar—the noon newscast was on and he was anxious to check whether the Dow was still up—Granger shook his head in sympathy, feeling for his new friend . . .

  Stash. That was it. His name was Stash.

  The bartender placed another round in front of them.

  “Nah, this one’s on me,” Granger said, putting a hand on Stash’s arm as he reached for his wallet.

  “The las’ one was on you, too.”

  “It’s okay,” Granger said. “Really. Put your money away.”

  “You’re good people, Gallagher.”

  “Granger.”

  “Ranger?”

  “Granger.”

  “Granger?” Stash squinted, clearly befuddled, having lost track of the conversational thread.

  “My name. It’s Granger,” Granger said patiently, as the televised newscast went to a commercial. “So what happened next? After you cleaned up the vomit?”

  “What do you think? I paid the vet. Fi
gured tha’ way, my girlfriend wouldn’t get the bill. Figured she’d never hafta know. But the damn vet sent her somethin’ in the mail anyway. And when she got it, she threw me out. Said I shoulda been more responsible.”

  “That’s a damn shame.”

  “A damn shame,” Stash agreed. “ ’Cause I never asked to baby-sit her damn dog in the first place, y’know what I’m sayin’? It was her idea. Not mine. She asked me and I said sure. As a favor. ’Cause I’m the kinda guy who likes to do favors. Y’know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But jus’ between you an’ me?” Stash leaned closer on his stool.

  “Yeah?” Granger could smell the liquor fumes on Stash’s breath, mingling with garlic and brine, courtesy of a recent indulgence from the jar of pickled eggs on the countertop.

  “I never liked that dog in the firs’ place. It was a real girl dog, y’know what I’m sayin’? All kitten-sized and white and curly, jus’ a real yappy little thing. You got a dog?”

  Granger nodded. “Two dogs.”

  “What kin’?”

  “A black Lab and a German shepherd.”

  His new friend slapped the bar so hard that his new drink sloshed over. “Tha’s what I’m sayin’, Ranger! A Lab and a shepherd. Real dogs. Man dogs. Not yappy little girl dogs. You give a man dog a coupla chocolate cupcakes, and it’s not gonna spew all over the place.”

  “True.”

  “How ’bout a girlfriend? You got one?”

  “A few,” Granger admitted.

  Stash slapped him on the shoulders, nearly knocking him off the stool. “Good for you. Good for you. Don’t settle for one. Especially one with a girl dog.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Stash drained his glass in a gulp. “Hey, Johnny. ’Nother round. This one’s on me.”

  “Sorry, Stash. Gotta cut you off,” the bartender said, his gaze intent on a televised commercial for hemorrhoid suppositories.

  “Johnny, you know I’m jus’ gonna go down the street an’ give my business to McBrien’s Pub if you won’t serve me.”