A Thoroughly Modern Princess

by Wendy Markham

  “You said you would never again believe a word Annabella Winfrey wrote after she ran that piece about you canoodling all over Cannes with that German pop star,” Genevieve reminded her sister.

  “Well, that was preposterous,” Josephine said. “Nobody could possibly canoodle with Dolph Schumer without wearing a nose plug. The man has the worst case of halitosis ever.”

  Genevieve and Emmaline rolled their eyes at each other. Josephine, who was inspecting her reflection in the glare on the window, didn’t notice.

  “I actually saw you canoodling with Dolph,” Emmaline couldn’t resist saying. “And you didn’t appear to be wearing a nose plug.”

  “Nonsense. We were talking. We had a lot in common.”

  Genevieve prodded, “Such as . . . ?”

  “Well . . . my personal trainer, Pierre, and his personal trainer, Jean Paul, are brothers.”

  “Well, that means you and Dolph are a match made in heaven.” Genevieve turned her attention to Emmaline, her expression shifting from amusement to concern. “How are you feeling today, Emmaline?”

  “Much better, thank you. I’m just trying to take care of a few last-minute details.”

  “She was calling a locksmith,” Josephine said airily, turning away from the glass. “You really should delegate such matters to your staff, Emmaline—especially now, of all times. Next thing we know, you’ll be packing your own valises for the honeymoon.”

  Emmaline sighed. “The next thing I know, you’ll be smuggling yourself into one of them so that you can stow away on Remi’s yacht.”

  “A two-week cruise along the French Riviera does sound divine,” Josephine agreed. “But I’ve no desire to be a third wheel, thank you very much.”

  Emmaline caught her sister sneaking another glance at her torso. Folding her arms across her middle, she snapped, “Stop that, Josephine.”

  “Well, have you gained weight?” her sister asked. “It’s hard to tell in that boxy blazer and those pleated trousers.”

  “Maybe a few pounds,” Emmaline admitted reluctantly. “I’ll just have to cut back on all those dec-adent desserts.”

  Decadent desserts? Hardly. Despite a blessedly efficient metabolism, Emmaline hadn’t maintained her famously svelte figure by allowing herself to indulge in rich treats of any sort. Ever.

  But she certainly wouldn’t allow herself to entertain the real reason behind her weight gain. She had managed to hold it together thus far, and she had every intention of continuing to do so.

  “Don’t worry, Emmaline. I know how you feel,” Genevieve said ruefully.

  Startled, Emmaline looked up—then realized with relief that her sister was talking about the weight gain.

  Unlike the younger princesses, poor Genevieve had failed to inherit the royal metabolism. Pleasantly plump, the pear-shaped heiress to the Verdunian throne had endured her share of mean-spirited jibes from the press.

  As a sensitive teenager, Genevieve had been often reduced to tears by cruel public commentary about her weight. But these days the slings seemed to sail right past her. After all, she was newly betrothed to Reginaldo Caprizzi, a sought-after Italian nobleman who considered her the most desirable woman in Europe—and not merely because of her royal birthright.

  As always, thinking about her sister’s romantic engagement filled Emmaline with longing.

  Reginaldo and Genevieve were so in love . . .

  Granger Lockwood’s words echoed back to her.

  Here’s a novel idea: How about marrying for love?

  He made it sound so simple. Clearly, the spoiled American knew nothing about duty—or destiny.

  Emmaline attempted to shove the thought of him from her mind and get back to the matter at hand—then recalled that he was the matter at hand.

  “If you two would excuse me,” Emmaline said abruptly to her sisters, “I have an important telephone call to make.”

  “Ah, yes, the locksmith,” Josephine said, heading for the door.

  “Why on earth do you need a locksmith?” Genevieve asked.

  “Why else? Because I urgently need to unlock something, and I don’t have a key,” Emmaline said simply.

  “I hope he can help you,” Genevieve told her, leaving the office.

  “So do I,” Emmaline said hollowly. “So do I.”

  “Mr. Lockwood! Wait!”

  Granger looked down, startled. A sturdy ankle encased in tan panty hose above a sensible black patent leather pump seemed to have wedged itself between the closing elevator doors.

  Granger looked up as the doors slid open again. His secretary’s anxious face appeared in the gap.

  “What is it now, Delia?” He had been trying to get out of here for the past few hours. But it wasn’t easy, packing up an entire office on a moment’s notice and an empty stomach.

  The lunch Delia had ordered for him was still in its paper bag, perched at the very top of the brimming cardboard carton in his arms. The first thing he intended to do upstairs—after he took something for his still-raging headache—was eat.

  Once his blood sugar was back to normal, Granger figured, he would surely feel more optimistic about his impulsive resignation.

  “There’s an important phone call for you,” Delia said breathlessly.

  “You’ll have to pass it along to Grandfather.” Granger grunted, adjusting the weight of the box in his arms. “I’m no longer employed here, remember?”

  “Yes, but I’m sure that you’ll want to take this call.”

  “I’m sure that I won’t.”

  “It’s from overseas.”

  “Please forward it to Grandfather, Delia,” Granger repeated, balancing the box in one hand and inserting a key into the security slot above the PH—for penthouse—button with the other. “Let him figure out how to handle it.

  So far only Delia knew about his defection—his grandfather had insisted on that.

  Well, fine. Granger would show his grandfather—and the rest of the world—that he didn’t need another penny of the old man’s money. That there was more to life than what cold, hard cash could buy. Wasn’t that the whole point of his exodus?

  “But Mr. Lockwood,” Delia was saying urgently, “this overseas call is from a woman.”

  “A woman? Is it Brynn?” he asked hopefully.

  Brynn Halloway was his closest friend. The fabulously wealthy, fabulously—well, fabulous—Manhattan-based heiress usually spent the summer months traveling the globe. He hadn’t heard from her in weeks. Granger fully expected her to pop up on his doorstep any day now, but she usually did so unannounced. It wasn’t like her to call ahead.

  “No, it isn’t Brynn,” said Delia, a mysterious gleam in her eye.

  “Don’t tell me it’s Millicent?” He was fairly certain he and the IQ-challenged supermodel had exhausted every possible conversational topic last evening. He was also pretty sure she wasn’t yet back in Europe. She had, after all, made a point of informing him that her flight back to Paris wasn’t until tomorrow, implying that she was free again tonight.

  “No, it isn’t Millicent. Her name”—Delia paused meaningfully—“is Emmaline.”

  Granger’s jaw dropped.

  “Princess Emmaline,” Delia added, lest there be any chance of confusion.

  His chest fluttering as though a flock of Grand-father’s exotic birds was trying to break out of his rib cage, Granger bolted out of the elevator, nearly flattening his secretary against the wall.

  “I’ll take it,” he said as he raced by her.

  Delia flashed him a smug smile. “I thought you would.”

  “Let me guess. They’ve allowed you one phone call and you’ve chosen me to come bail you out of prison—I mean, the gilded cage you call home.”

  Granger Lockwood’s voice was deeper than Emmaline remembered. But the irony—and the prison-themed crack—were all too familiar.

  Seated at her desk, clutching the telephone receiver firmly against her ear, she managed to hold her temper in check. After al
l, he had almost hit the nail on the head.

  “What would you say,” she responded, “if I told you that was true? At least the last part.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  Then he asked, incredulously, “You want me to come bail you out? Of prison?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I’ve run into some trouble, Granger. And you’re the only one who . . .” She trailed off, uncertain how to proceed. Now wasn’t the time to get into the full extent of her plight. Not until she knew for certain.

  You do know, she scolded herself. All the pieces fit. The weight gain, the nausea, the missed menstrual period . . .

  But she hadn’t yet confirmed the symptoms with a pregnancy test.

  How could she?

  She could hardly walk into a Chimera pharmacy and purchase one of those over-the-counter test kits. All her life, she had been trailed by reporters who trumpeted her every move. Now, more than ever before, she was conscious of their surveillance, both blatant and covert.

  Nor could she ask the royal gynecologist to administer a pregnancy test. Dr. Pratt was, after all, the one who, just prior to her engagement, had examined and pronounced her fit for marriage to Prince Remi. Virginity was a key prerequisite to marrying the heir to the Buiron throne.

  Which was why they hadn’t even considered checking her for pregnancy at the hospital. Even if the staff had privately suspected the source of her symptoms, it would have been improper for anyone to suggest that the royal bride-to-be was anything but unsullied.

  She shuddered at the thought of how Remi—and his parents, and hers, and their subjects, and the press—would react to the news that an American rogue had stolen her precious chastity and left her, to put it delicately, enceinte.

  Or, as they said in Granger’s corner of the world, knocked up.

  But . . . what if she managed to keep her pregnancy a secret? She could go through with the wedding, and pretend that the child was Remi’s.

  No.

  Even if she could bring herself to deceive her future husband—and the rest of the world—the doctors would know the truth. And even if she could trust them to keep her secret, chances were that somebody would figure it out. Remi—if the child looked nothing like him—or, more likely, the media, when the child was born several months “prematurely.”

  Guilt surged through Emmaline. Her firstborn was intended to be the heir to the throne of Buiron: a careful blend of two royal bloodlines. Not the illegitimate offspring of a seductive American playboy.

  “Yoo hoo, Princess,” the American playboy said seductively in her ear. “Are you still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You were saying . . . ?” When she remained silent, he prodded, “I’m the only one who . . . ?”

  “Can help me,” she said simply, throwing caution to the wind. “You’re the only one who can help me.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  He exhaled audibly. To his credit, he rallied admirably. “Well, Your Highness, your wish is my command. After all, you only get to be a bride once in a lifetime. At least, I hope that’s the case in your case,” he said, without the least bit of sincerity.

  Well, it was no surprise to her that he wasn’t completely behind her marriage to Remi. He had said as much the night they were together. She knew that he protested out of principle, rather than passion. That he didn’t believe in arranged marriages. That it wasn’t that he wanted her for himself . . . no matter what had happened between them.

  Yet she couldn’t help feeling wistful. She couldn’t help wishing that he would at least try to talk her out of the wedding one last time. That he would give her a compelling, personal, passionate reason not to marry Remi . . .

  “So what do you need?” he was asking cheerfully. “A lucky sixpence for your shoe? A kick-ass ice sculpture for the reception? Or—I’ve got it. How about a male stripper with killer abs for your bachelorette party? Because I’ve been going to the gym regularly and I’m—”

  “This isn’t about the wedding,” she cut in, her voice sounding a little shrill even to her own ears.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he replied, “but from what I gather, these days, even on this side of the pond, everything is about the wedding.”

  “Maybe so, but . . .” She lowered her voice, conscious that the stone and plaster palace walls might somehow be thinner than they looked. “Look, Granger, can I trust you?”

  The question was moot, she knew. After all, she had already trusted him in a way that she had never trusted another human being. The consequences were that he was now her only ally, willing or not, in the world.

  “Of course you can trust me.”

  That the banter had vanished from his tone gave her the fortitude to continue.

  “All right, then.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I can’t marry Prince Remi on Saturday. Or ever.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t tell you. I promise I will, but . . . not yet. Not until after you’ve gotten me out of here.”

  “Out of there?” he echoed. “You mean—”

  She took a deep breath and took the final plunge. “I need you to rescue me, Granger. I need you to get me out of Verdunia. Before it’s too late.”

  Three

  “You look breathtaking, my dear,” King Jasper said as Emmaline entered the enormous drawing room, her gown rustling noisily.

  “Thank you, Papa. So do you.” She smiled at her father, who was wearing his monarch’s purple robe and had placed his gold crown on his balding gray head for the occasion. His green eyes, precisely the shade of her own, twinkled at her from beneath his bushy white brows.

  “If you think I’m elegant, you should see your mother,” he said with a smile.

  As if on cue, Queen Yvette swept into the room, resplendent in gilt and sequins, her auburn hair piled high on her head and ringed by her gold and diamond tiara. Mother was so youthful and ravishing that the press frequently commented on the disparity between the queen and the king, who was nearly two decades older and looked it.

  Papa didn’t seem to mind, though. He rarely paid any heed to what was said about him, often commenting that it came with the territory in his line of work. It was only when the press took aim at one of his daughters—most frequently pudgy firstborn Genevieve—that he unleashed his royal wrath.

  “The girls have gone on ahead,” the queen announced, referring to Genevieve, Josephine, and the half dozen other bridesmaids. Earlier, dressed in their periwinkle silk couture gowns, they had joined Emmaline for an endless session with the photographers.

  “It’s almost time to—oh, Emmaline,” the queen interrupted herself, her gaze coming to rest on her daughter. “You look . . .”

  “My word for her was ‘breathtaking,’ ” the king informed his wife, who had trailed off, shaking her head slowly as she stared at Emmaline.

  “Yes, of course she looks breathtaking,” Queen Yvette said with a wave of her bejeweled hand, “but I was going to say wan and pale. Have you eaten, darling?”

  Emmaline nodded, all too accustomed to her mother’s fussing. “Of course.” And I threw it right back up again afterward.

  “It must simply be nerves,” the Queen decided.

  You have no idea, Emmaline thought, as she nodded again. She longed to plop herself down on the nearest damask sofa, but Porfirio had forbidden her to sit. He was disturbed enough about her gown getting crushed during the upcoming carriage ride to the abbey.

  “Perhaps you’d prefer it if I walked,” Emmaline had quipped this morning, as he fretted about how the monstrous train would fit inside the antique coach.

  “And drag the hem through the filthy streets?” Porfirio had been horrified.

  “I was only kidding,” Emmaline muttered, exchanging an eye-rolling glance with Tabitha, who hovered, as always, at her elbow.

  Porfirio was not amused. As far as
she could tell, Porfirio was never amused.

  “Every bride has nerves,” Queen Yvette informed her daughter. “On my wedding day, I was so jittery that I ran three pairs of silk stockings trying to put them on.”

  “I only ran two pairs,” Emmaline told her mother, mustering a smile.

  The queen patted her arm. “The gown looks lovely. Porfirio has outdone himself.”

  Emmaline glanced at her reflection in the full-length gilt-framed mirror beside the ornate marble hearth across the room. She noted that nothing had changed since she had examined herself in the dressing room upstairs. The gown was positively hideous, a vast, voluminous sea of white awash in baubles and frills. Her billowing layered lace and illusion headpiece was no better, though the jeweled tiara—one of Buiron’s most priceless crown jewels—would have been quite lovely alone.

  The king retrieved his gold pocket watch on its thick chain from the folds of his robe. “It’s time,” he informed his wife.

  She nodded and took his arm. “We’ll see you at the abbey, darling.”

  Emmaline nodded, swallowing hard over the lump that rose in her throat as she gazed at her parents. This was the last time she would see them before . . . well, before everything changed. Suddenly, all she wanted was to hurtle herself into their arms, dress be damned, and sob the whole story to them.

  But she couldn’t do that to them. They would be devastated.

  Is what you’re going to do any better? her inner voice chided.

  Yes. Because I’m doing it my way, she told her conscience firmly, lifting her chin a notch and forcing herself to smile at her parents.

  The queen appeared hesitant, still looking carefully at Emmaline, as though sensing her inner turmoil. “Are you quite certain you wish to ride alone in the carriage? Papa would be happy to—”

  “No, I’d rather be alone,” Emmaline said, sticking stubbornly to the drastic change of plans she had implemented just yesterday, much to Fenella’s dismay. The social secretary had insisted that it would be more fitting for the royal bride to be transported to the ceremony with her father at her side in the horse-drawn cream-colored wedding coach.

  But for once, Emmaline had held her ground. She had told Fenella—and everybody else who tried to sway her—that she wanted to use her last moments as a single woman in reflective solitude.