A Thoroughly Modern Princess

by Wendy Markham

  “I meant about Granger and me. Why would you think we love each other?”

  “I can see it in your eyes,” Josephine said truthfully, hoping that her sister couldn’t see in her eyes the feelings she was trying so desperately to mask.

  “Well, that doesn’t matter now,” Emmaline said, sounding as desolate as she looked, lying there in the big, empty bed. “Neither Granger nor Remi will have me.”

  “Remi won’t have you?” Josephine asked, as a guilt-laced thrill shot through her. “Why not?”

  Her sister looked down, toying with the folds of the quilt. “He says he’s gone off to think about our future, but I can’t imagine that he’ll take me back now. Not after . . .”

  “After what?”

  “After everything I’ve done.” Emmaline closed her eyes and leaned back. “I’d like to be alone now, Josephine. I need to rest. It’s been a difficult day.”

  “I’m sorry, Emmaline.”

  Sorry for so many things . . .

  Josephine crossed to the bed and pressed a kiss against her sister’s cheek before tiptoeing out of the room.

  Twelve

  “You really should eat a bit of something,” Tabitha said gently two days later. “At least try to sip some soup.”

  Emmaline lifted her aching head from the pillow to glance at the bedside table. On it was a wooden tray of food that had undoubtedly grown cold since a maid had brought it up from the kitchen at lunchtime. Untouched, the bowl of consomme, toasted cheese sandwich, and tea were elegantly accompanied by two pink linen napkins and a pink rose in a bud vase. Beside the tray was a nearly empty box of tissues.

  “I’m not hungry, thank you,” Emmaline said glumly, rubbing her tear-swollen eyes as Tabitha bent to retrieve a litter of soggy, crumpled tissues that had bounced out of the overflowing wastebasket a few feet from the bed.

  “Perhaps not. But you must eat, if not for your own sake, then . . .” Tabitha trailed off.

  Emmaline darted a sharp gaze at the lady-in-waiting.

  “If not for my own sake,” she said warily, “then for whose?”

  Tabitha shrugged, eyes downcast.

  She knows, Emmaline realized. How on earth does she know?

  “Tabitha, were you eavesdropping when I spoke to Prince Remi the other day?”

  “Of course not!” Tabitha met her gaze staunchly, shaking her head. “I would never eavesdrop, Your Highness.”

  “Not intentionally, but perhaps you happened to overhear . . . ?”

  “I didn’t overhear your conversation with Prince Remi,” Tabitha protested.

  “Then what did you overhear?” Emmaline sat up in bed, her abrupt movement jarring the tray of food at her side. A tide of soup sloshed over the rim of the bowl.

  Emmaline automatically reached for one of the pink linen napkins to sop it up.

  “Your Highness . . . ?”

  She saw Tabitha’s hand poised to take the napkin from her.

  Of course.

  Emmaline froze, clutching the soggy cloth.

  Had she been away this long? Had she actually managed to get used to cleaning up after herself?

  All her life, others had been hovering in her shadow, quite capable of—and quite willing to do—the dirty work. After all, a princess was expected, indeed, encouraged, to keep her hands unsullied.

  Emmaline was still a princess.

  And now that she was back in her palace . . .

  Emmaline slowly handed the napkin to Tabitha, who took it and finished wiping up the soup.

  When the lady-in-waiting had set the wet napkin aside, Emmaline asked again, “What was it that you overheard, Tabitha?”

  “I heard you vomiting in the lavatory earlier. Yesterday, too. We all did.”

  “You all heard? The entire household staff?”

  “All of us who were within earshot. But the others assume you’ve caught a distressing gastrointestinal virus.”

  “I see. And what do you assume, Tabitha?”

  “That you are enceinte,” came a reply that was anything but tentative.

  Emmaline sighed.

  Tabitha added hurriedly, “If I’m mistaken, Your Highness, then please—”

  “You’re not mistaken, Tabitha. I am pregnant.”

  Empathy flickered in Tabitha’s familiar face. “Does Mr. Lockwood know?”

  “Mr. Lockwood?” Her heart pounding, Emmaline feigned shock. “Why on earth would I tell Mr. Lockwood?”

  Tabitha merely gazed at her.

  “Oh, all right,” Emmaline said after a long, uncomfortable moment. “Yes, Mr. Lockwood knows. And so does Prince Remi.”

  Tabitha’s breath caught in her throat. “Was . . . was His Royal Highness disturbed by the news?”

  Disturbed?

  Disturbed.

  That was one way to put it.

  “Yes, Tabitha, he was certainly quite disturbed.” Emmaline looked out the window adjacent to the bed. All she could see was a patch of dismal gray sky. When had the clouds rolled in? It had started off as a beautiful day.

  “Prince Remi is back in Buiron, pondering the situation,” Emmaline told Tabitha.

  She winced at the memory of how he had stormed out after she broke the news about the baby. She had no reason to believe that she would ever hear from him again. She couldn’t blame him for being hurt and angry.

  But if Remi wouldn’t marry her, she was destined to be a single mother. Her baby would never have a father. Not unless . . .

  No.

  No, you mustn’t even consider going back to Granger, she scolded herself. He had his own life to lead.

  It had been a mistake to call him on Sunday. But after Remi left, she had found herself missing Granger desperately, needing to hear his voice, if only one more time. She had known as soon as she spoke to him that it would never be enough just to talk to him. She wanted to see him. Just one more time . . .

  But one more time wouldn’t be enough, either.

  She wanted more than that.

  She wanted the impossible.

  Tabitha’s voice interrupted her melancholy deliberation. “Prince Remi may forgive you when he’s had time to think things through, Your Highness.”

  “I doubt that.” Emmaline stared into space, thinking about poor Remi. And about her poor, fatherless future child.

  What had she done?

  “Please, Tabitha,” she said dully. “You must not breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  “Of course not, Your Highness.”

  “If the press ever found out, there would be a tremendous scandal. It would only bring more pain to Prince Remi.”

  “I understand.”

  To her surprise, Emmaline felt a soft touch on her arm. She looked up to see Tabitha standing beside her, wearing an expression of concern.

  “Is there anything I can do, Your Highness?”

  Emmaline swallowed against the ever-present lump in her throat.

  “No, Tabitha,” she said quietly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  The question stunned her. Never before, in all their years of friendship, had Tabitha posed so intimate a question.

  Emmaline gave careful thought to her reply before saying, “Prince Remi is a good, kind, decent man.”

  “Yes, he is . . . but I was referring to Mr. Lockwood, Your Highness.”

  “You were asking if I am in love with Mr. Lockwood?” Emmaline felt a telltale flush warming her cheeks. “Why on earth would you think—?”

  “I apologize, Your Highness,” Tabitha said quickly.

  “It’s all right. I can understand why you might assume—but I can assure you that this particular assumption is entirely erroneous. I am certainly not in love with Mr. Lockwood . . .”

  Oh, aren’t you?

  Why does the mere thought of him make you quiver?

  She closed her eyes, trying desperately to forget him—but instead remembering. Remembering everything, from that first moment . . .<
br />
  She took a deep breath, and smelled roses.

  Her eyes snapped open. Her gaze fell on the bedside table. On the bud vase.

  Why on earth did the kitchen staff find it necessary to adorn every meal tray with flowers? And a rose, of all things . . .

  Emmaline made a mental note to speak to someone about it as soon as possible. She couldn’t possibly forget Granger Lockwood or that fateful day in the garden when the very air she breathed was continually scented with roses.

  “I am certainly not in love with Mr. Lockwood,” Emmaline repeated.

  She squirmed, cleared her throat, and continued firmly, “. . . and Mr. Lockwood is certainly not in love with me.”

  At least that part was entirely true.

  But saying it aloud was more distressing than she had anticipated. She was left feeling bleak and wistful.

  Granger Lockwood didn’t love her.

  Of course, if Granger Lockwood did love her—and if she loved him—matters would only be more complicated.

  If they were in love, she would still be in New York, and he would be begging his grandfather to take him back.

  And if they were in love, it would only be a matter of time before Granger broke her heart.

  Then where would she be? Miles from home, penniless and alone with a baby to raise.

  It was far better this way, with her heart intact and her feet planted firmly on the ground right here in Verdunia, where she belonged.

  Night had fallen over Chimera when Granger and Brynn emerged from the airport terminal and stepped into the waiting limo.

  “The Traviata Hotel, please,” Granger told the uniformed driver, still feeling groggy, having slept through most of the overseas journey.

  “What? Why aren’t you going straight to the palace?” Brynn asked, reapplying her red lipstick in the glow of a miniature lighted mirror she had pulled from her purse.

  “I am,” Granger said. “I’m dropping you off at the hotel first.”

  “No, you aren’t.”

  “I’m not?”

  Brynn shook her head decisively, snapped her mirror closed, and put it away with her lipstick. “You’re going to need me.”

  Granger rolled his eyes. “Look, Cyrano, regardless of your way with words, I think I’m perfectly capable of speaking to Emmaline on my own.”

  “She wouldn’t take your call.”

  That, unfortunately, was true. He had made several attempts, over the past few days, to reach Emmaline at the palace. He couldn’t get past the switchboard.

  “She wouldn’t take your call, either,” he pointed out to Brynn.

  “My guess is that she didn’t know either of us was trying to reach her. She probably told the palace operator to hold all calls for her. And who can blame her? The press is camped out at her doorstep and the entire world is hounding her.”

  He nodded. According to the news, the princess had been holed up in her castle ever since her return to Verdunia. The royal family had yet to issue a statement, and the media—not to mention the general public—were rife with rumor and wild with curiosity.

  “So what’s your plan, loverboy?” Brynn asked him.

  “I’m going to talk to Emmaline. I’m going to tell her that . . .”

  That what?

  That she had to come back to the States with him, so that they could raise their child together as paupers?

  Together.

  The word sent shivers through him. He simply wanted to be with her. Every minute, every day. But . . . why?

  He told himself it was just that he had grown accustomed to having her around.

  But he had never felt this way before. Women had come and gone from his life, and he had never missed any of them more than momentarily. When the others left, he didn’t feel as if . . .

  As if he had lost Charlotte all over again.

  But Charlotte never really existed, Granger reminded himself. His poor infant sister had lived only in his imagination.

  Perhaps it was the same with Emmaline—at least, with the Emmaline he remembered. The sweet, vulnerable, witty, human Emmaline a man like Granger Lockwood could love.

  “You’re going to tell her . . .” Brynn prompted, beside him in the limo.

  “I can’t possibly tell her . . .”

  “Tell her what?”

  “That I love her.”

  Too late, he caught up with the conversation and realized what he had said.

  “Be-because I don’t love her, of course,” he stammered, glad Brynn had put away that ridiculous lighted mirror and couldn’t use it to glimpse his face in the shadowy backseat. “I’ll simply tell her that she belongs in New York.”

  “With you.”

  “With me,” he agreed.

  “Not here, with Prince Remi.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you don’t love her any more than he does,” Brynn said in what might have been an accusing tone—or perhaps she was baiting him. Perhaps she suspected that he was lying about his feelings.

  That was one thing he couldn’t stand about Brynn—the way she thought she knew him better than he knew himself.

  “I care about her, and she’s carrying my child,” Granger said stubbornly. “That’s reason enough for her to come back with me.”

  “How will you take care of her and the baby?”

  He sighed. They had been over this, repeatedly, ever since he had told Brynn that he had walked away from Lockwood Enterprises for the second time.

  “Brynn, you know as well as I do that I’m going to go back to New York and earn a living, like any regular father-to-be would do.”

  “But you’re not going to marry Emmaline.”

  His breath caught in his throat.

  Marry Emmaline?

  Marry Emmaline.

  There it was.

  The notion that had been on his mind for two days now, the terrifying, wonderful, terrifying notion.

  “I’ll marry Emmaline,” he told Brynn, careful to keep his emotions in check, “if that’s what she wants.”

  “Then it would be a loveless marriage,” Brynn replied, watching him intently.

  He refused to argue.

  Brynn went on, “So you happen to think that a loveless marriage to the disinherited scion of the Lockwood family would be infinitely more appealing to Princess Emmaline than a loveless marriage to the heir of the Buironese throne.”

  “I happen to think that I’m infinitely more appealing and a hell of a lot more fun than Prince Remi,” Granger retorted.

  “I hope the princess shares your opinion.” Brynn cleared her throat. “And since there’s no way you’re going to be able to get into the gilded cage—”

  “What do you mean there’s no way?”

  “Well, what are you going to do? Just show up at the palace?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to show up at the palace . . .”

  “Along with throngs of other people,” Brynn put in.

  “They’re strangers. Emmaline knows me.”

  “And you think she’ll want to see you? If she wanted to see you she’d have gotten in touch by now.”

  “I wasn’t home,” he pointed out. “I’ve been staying at your place. And traveling.”

  Yes, and checking his voice mail at the apartment every other moment since he’d left, to no avail—a fact Brynn knew as well as he did.

  “Go on,” Brynn said with exaggerated patience. “I’m listening. What are you going to do when they won’t let you simply stroll into the palace and sweep the princess off her feet?”

  “I’m going to insist. I’m not going to leave until Emmaline agrees to see me.”

  Brynn sighed. “This is what I mean. You need a plan, Granger.”

  “I have a plan.”

  “A plan that will work. You don’t have one. That’s where I come in.”

  It was Granger’s turn to sigh.

  He supposed he had no choice but to listen to Brynn at this point
.

  After all, if it weren’t for her—and her money—he wouldn’t be here in the first place. He would be back on Eldridge Street, helpless, alone, wallowing in despair.

  “Okay,” he told Brynn reluctantly. “I’ll listen. Tell me how we’re going to break into the gilded cage.”

  Seated on the sofa in her private sitting room, Emmaline stared at the glass of milk and plate of buttered whole grain toast she had reluctantly ordered from the kitchen as a pre-bed snack.

  Tabitha was right. She had to start eating again, regardless of her nausea and lack of appetite.

  She picked up a slice, forced herself to take a bite, chew, and swallow. The toast plunked leadenly to the depths of her stomach.

  Ick.

  Think of the baby. The baby needs nourishment.

  She was about to take another bite when she heard a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” she called, grateful for the distraction, yet unwilling to see anybody.

  “It’s Josephine.”

  Emmaline sighed. “Come in.”

  Her sister sailed into the room, carrying a small gift package.

  “This is for you,” Josephine announced, handing the elaborately wrapped present to Emmaline.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Josephine said. “Thank Pierre.”

  “Who on earth is Pierre?”

  “My personal trainer. He asked me to give you this. He said that you’ve obviously been under a tremendous amount of stress and thought you could use this.”

  Emmaline unwrapped an unusual pendant hanging from a silver chain. “What is it?”

  “He said to tell you it was a crystal that would bring you positive energy. You’re supposed to wear it for luck.”

  “That’s sweet of him,” Emmaline said, wondering absently whether she had ever met Pierre.

  “Yes, it was sweet of him,” Josephine agreed. “Although frankly, I was a bit surprised that he was so concerned about your well-being. He didn’t even ask how I was coping the whole time you were missing.”

  Emmaline bit back a smile. How like Josephine. She had missed her sister, she realized. Self-centeredness and all.

  “Anyway, I told Pierre I didn’t think you’d wear anything so New Age,” Josephine went on, “but he insisted.”