The Royal Groom

by Lori Wilde

  “You just said—”

  “Hearsay.”

  “Not when it comes from the subject.”

  “Still not proof. If I told you I was secretly married to Meghan Markle, and she was a bigamist, would you rush to print it?”

  “Of course not. I’d check other sources for confirmation.”

  “Knowing it could be a fabrication?”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  “See, I’ve proved my case. You want to believe sensationalist garbage.”

  “That’s not true.” She stared out the window, only dimly aware he was entering an expressway. He was exasperating, and she wished she hadn’t come.

  “How much longer will this charade last?” she asked crossly.

  “You’ll be pleased with the brevity of our engagement.”

  “Do you ever give a straight answer? If you weren’t a prince, you’d probably be a politician.”

  “I’m flattered you think I’m not one.”

  “Royalty doesn’t have to run for office.”

  “No, but free people have the right to abolish their monarchy.”

  “You can be voted out of your job?”

  “Of course, although the possibility is remote. In fact, there’s a worse danger. If I fail to produce an heir, the Principality of Schwanstein will be annexed to Austria on my death.”

  “While we’re on the subject, aren’t you driving too fast?” She glanced at the speedometer. “Or are you trying to read the bumper sticker on that pickup?”

  “If you’re asking whether I learned my lesson, I did.”

  “Where are we going, Max?”

  “Prince Abducts Reporter?”

  “I’m a writer, a magazine writer. There’s a difference.” He swerved abruptly from the middle to the left lane and sped past a red van. “And you’re not a race-car driver!”

  “Are you asking me to slow down?”

  “Yes! Please!”

  He immediately fell into line behind a white compact with no bumper sticker.

  “Is this better?”

  He was steering with one hand, his driving style bordering on recklessness even at the lower speed.

  “Yes, thank you, but I’d feel better if you used two hands.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  “Then tell me where we’re going.”

  “To see my great-aunt Lucinda, the last of the Goths, my grandfather’s sister. She was ninety last May, and her tongue is as sharp as a chopping knife, so be warned. She has an uncanny gift for taking people apart to see what makes them tick. She never liked my father.”

  “Why not?”

  “She loathed the Duke and Duchess of Windsor—no one is quite sure why. Maybe they slighted her in some way back when she was a debutante. Whatever the reason, she’s a virulent royal basher.”

  “She didn’t approve of your mother’s marriage?”

  “No. Mother was her favorite. She wanted her to be the wife of a president—or at least a senator.”

  “But she never married herself.”

  “You’re sure you don’t know about Lucinda?” He slowed for a tollbooth. “I forgot about these blasted things. Do you have fifty cents in coins?”

  “It’s the least I can do,” she said dryly, digging into the bottom of her purse for some loose change and handing it to him. “What about Lucinda?”

  He tossed the coins into the hopper and waited a moment for the green light to flash.

  “The great love of her life was a president.”

  “She had...”

  “An affair, yes.”

  “I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Things were done more discreetly in her day.”

  “Which president? How...?”

  “It’s her secret, Leigh. Please respect her privacy in your article.”

  “Whatever you think about me, I wouldn’t stoop that low by repeating old rumors.”

  “There weren’t any rumors. I’m just explaining why she didn’t think the Prince of Schwanstein was suitable for her favorite niece. She gloried in real power.”

  Leigh expected a grandiose old mansion or an exclusive resident hotel. Instead, their long trip ended at an impressive but not overly large 1920s Tudor-style home with frontage on Lake Michigan. She wasn’t even sure whether they were in Illinois or Wisconsin, and Max had lapsed into a brooding silence.

  “Is she expecting us?” Leigh asked when they drove through the open gateway of an ornate cast-iron fence.

  “She’d probably slap my wrist with her fan if I didn’t call first.”

  “Is she really such a terror? If you’re trying to make me nervous, you’ve succeeded.”

  “You’ll have to judge for yourself. She’ll have heard the news,” he said, stopping the car in a circular drive in front of a brick and half-timbered house. “We’ll see if you pass muster.”

  “Max, this wasn’t part of our deal! Aren’t you going to tell her the truth?”

  “I’ll let you make that decision.”

  He went up a tier of circular steps, leaving her to follow, and pressed a chime that reverberated through the dark paneled door.

  The uniformed woman who opened it was as tall as Max and had beefy arms almost as thick as her neck and iron-gray hair braided on top of her head.

  “Your Highness,” she said in heavily accented English. “So good you’ve come to see her. Ach, she’s been impossible since you called. So many orders. So much fuss.”

  “Leigh, this is Miss Schmidt. She’s been with my aunt for how long—forty years, forty-five?”

  “Ja, you’re close. Forty-seven come next April.”

  Leigh followed Max through an art-deco time warp to a rear sitting room with white wicker furnishings and a big bay window.

  “Aunt Lucinda.”

  Max hurried forward and kissed the proffered cheek of a tall slender woman in severe brown trousers and an ivory turtleneck sweater. Her hair was white and piled haphazardly on top of her head, strands falling onto the sides of her wrinkled cheeks. Her sapphire-blue eyes apparently hadn’t faded with age.

  “So, this is your fiancée.” She took Leigh’s hand and squeezed it with surprising firmness. “You don’t look anything like that Wallis Simpson woman. That’s good. I can’t abide the vampire look, all black hair and red lips. Only a congenital idiot like Eddie would want to climb into bed with her.”

  “Aunt Lucinda—”

  “Oh, now, you keep still, Max. I don’t leave the house much anymore, but I know what’s going on out there.” She gestured dramatically. “Nothing I say is going to shock your young lady.”

  She picked up a folded ivory fan and opened it with a flourish, fanning herself for an instant, then snapping it shut and shaking it at Max.

  “I warned your father—an heir and a spare. It’s the only thing the Brits do right. Imagine if they’d had to depend on Eddie.” She wagged the fan at Leigh. “I hope you have a bun in the oven. These things shouldn’t be left to chance.” She wagged the fan at Leigh.

  “No,” Leigh said emphatically before Max could answer. “And frankly, Miss Goth, it’s not your concern.”

  She watched Lucinda clutch the closed fan and drum it on the arm of a wicker chair, expecting to have her knuckles whacked for her impudence. Instead, the old woman laughed hoarsely, her whole face wrinkling with glee.

  “I like your fiancée, Max. She has spunk—or whatever you call it today when a female speaks her mind. You and your father, both so handsome and so popular with the girls. I warned your mother—it’s no picnic to be involved with royalty. Have you thought about the ramifications, young lady?”

  “Leigh. My name is Leigh Bailey.”

  “Ah, an Irish name. That explains it. Max, I have something for you, a portrait of your mother taken by my dear friend, Howard Styles. It’s in a silver frame in the green bedroom. Go fetch it, dear, while Leigh and I talk girl talk. Now don’t look sullen. Just run along.”

  Max smiled indulgent
ly, winked at Leigh, and left her alone with the dragon lady.

  Later they had tea—cucumber sandwiches, cherry and lemon tarts, and scalding hot brew served in handleless Chinese cups.

  “I don’t go to weddings,” Lucinda said when they were getting ready to leave. “I was a bridesmaid thirty-seven times, and what a bore it was every time. But if you decide to marry him, you’re to have my diamond tiara, my dear.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “We have to leave, Aunt Lucinda,” Max said.

  “Run along, run along. Leigh will join you in a moment.”

  When Max was out of hearing, the old woman smiled slyly, leaned close, and told Leigh one more thing.

  On the way home Leigh was gratified to learn Max was as curious about things as he accused her of being.

  “So you really enjoyed your talk with Aunt Lucinda?” he asked as they neared the city. “She doesn’t usually take to people the way she did to you.”

  “Oh, yes, she’s a delight, and she adores you.” Leigh knew he wasn’t satisfied with the sketchy summary she’d given him of her conversation alone with the old woman. Served him right for being so mysterious about their destination.

  “If so, she’s an expert at concealing it.”

  “Because she barks orders and sends you to fetch things?”

  “She’s eccentric. I’m fond of her, so I indulge her. What was the secret she told you before we left? You didn’t tell her about our arrangement, did you?”

  “No, it would have spoiled her fun.”

  “Then what was so secretive?”

  “That, Your Highness,” she said firmly, “is just between us girls.”

  Lucinda had been engaging and surprising, jumping from the past to the present with the agility of a kick boxer, but she had to be mistaken about Max. After she’d shooed him out, his great-aunt had insisted he was besotted with his fiancée.

  But Leigh wasn’t really his fiancée, and she knew better than to listen to an old woman who still believed in fairy-tale romance.

  7

  Max was annoyed.

  He was an expert at concealing it, but Leigh saw the way his right eyebrow rose slightly higher than his left, unintentionally revealing his skepticism about what Randolph Davies, the chairman of the board of the Chicago Children’s Hospital, was saying.

  “Surely the best nursing care isn’t a frill, is it?” Max asked as his entourage followed the pompous pencil-thin man onto the Staff Only elevator.

  The hospital was a major recipient of funds from the Goth Foundation, established by Max’s grandfather. One of Max’s responsibilities was to review the foundation’s grants.

  “CCH is on the cutting edge of new technologies,” Davies went on, ignoring the prince’s question as the doors slid open on the fifth floor.

  Leigh looked at Max and nearly laughed out loud at his pained restraint. He was not pleased, although she was probably the only one who saw his eyes narrow. He started to drum his fingers on his left palm, then instantly checked himself.

  Poor Max, she thought, smiling at how odd it was to feel sorry for a man with his advantages. Still, it had to be frustrating listening to a self-serving man like Davies without the option of putting him in his place. The hospital’s PR person, a sharp-faced woman with tight auburn curls, had taken notes throughout the luncheon in the hospital’s private dining room. She kept on scribbling during the long tour of the facilities.

  Except for a few politely reserved words when they were introduced, Max said nothing to the woman directly, but Leigh realized how tedious it was for him to be under such close scrutiny. Did he feel the same way about her presence, knowing she might write about anything he did? She wished they could forget their deal and just be friends. Fat chance.

  Davies droned on, oblivious to his royal guest’s dissatisfaction, but Leigh was fascinated by Max’s public persona. He stopped often to exchange a few words with hospital staff, learning more by asking his own questions than Davies had any intention of telling him.

  He loved talking to the children, going into several rooms where the occupants were wide-eyed, resisting their naps. Davies waited in the hallway, frown lines creasing his forehead while Max visited a wan-faced little girl who seemed too small for her hospital bed. He bent down and whispered something in her ear, leaving her with a contented smile.

  “I’m glad you asked me to come,” Leigh said when the tour finally ended and Hans had been dispatched to bring the sedan up to the main entrance. “It must be wonderful to be involved with something so worthwhile.”

  “My role is minimal. The foundation has a very hardworking board and a dedicated director. I wish there was more I could do.”

  “There’s the ball. Albert said the cream of Chicago society will be there to meet you—and donate money to the CCH.”

  “Albert gossips like an old woman,” Max said with good humor.

  “Women don’t have a monopoly on gossip. It’s the men in our office who wear out the carpet in front of the coffee machine pontificating over rumors.”

  “And today women own athletic franchises and run corporations. I stand corrected, Ms. Bailey.” He sounded stern, but laugh lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed him.

  “You look tired. Will you have time for a nap before the ball?” she asked.

  “A nap?” He made the princely harrumph sound. “I have a conference call with a California firm at four, then I’ll tackle the day’s business.”

  “I concede. You’re busy. You’re important. You don’t have to make that noise at me.”

  “What noise?” He frowned.

  “Harrumph.” She tried to imitate it but ended up giggling.

  “Harrumph? Do I do that?”

  “Whenever you look down your royal nose at me.”

  “If I do it again, I’ll sentence myself to the dungeons.” He smiled broadly, and her heart did wild little flip-flops, reminding her that this gorgeous man was her fiancé—at least temporarily.

  “Does Schwanstein have dungeons?” She gave a mock shudder.

  “Certainly, in the old castle. I was forbidden to play in them as a boy, which made them the object of more than one secret expedition with my friends.”

  “I have a hard time imagining you as a boy.”

  “I was a rascal—in disgrace as often as not. And unlike my early predecessors, I didn’t have a whipping boy.”

  “A whipping boy?”

  “Someone to take my punishment for me. Being a prince isn’t what it once was.”

  “It suits you, though.”

  He was standing so close the brisk fall breeze didn’t carry away the spicy tang of his aftershave. “In what way?”

  “Here’s the car,” she said, saved from answering an unanswerable question.

  At the hotel she had time for a short nap before her appointment with the stylist, who was coming to the room to do her hair and makeup for the ball. But she couldn’t lie still.

  She was alternately excited and scared. The Silver and Gold Ball was the most elegant and prestigious event of the Chicago social scene, and this year was supposed to top anything on the East or West Coast. Hopefully it would also raise a bundle for the CCH, especially with Prince Max there to call attention to the needs of sick children.

  The stylist, elegant herself with blunt-cut platinum hair and a burgundy smock, arrived exactly on time, and Leigh whispered thanks to Albert under her breath. She’d have to find a way to thank him for all his help, and she doubted a year’s subscription to Celebrity would fit the bill.

  The stylist stayed to help her with the silver evening gown. The strapless bodice left her shoulders bare while subtle underwiring pushed up her breasts and shaped them into lush mounds. She wiggled, bent, and stretched when her helper wasn’t looking, finally satisfied her nipples wouldn’t pop out of the daring top.

  The clinging floor-length skirt had a short train in back controlled by a silver ribbon tied to her left wrist. She only had to bend
her elbow to avoid stepping on it when she turned. In spite of the complicated design, the gown was the ultimate in elegant simplicity. It shimmered like liquid silver and made Leigh feel like a real princess.

  The shoes didn’t make her so happy. The slender inch-and-a-half heels were designed for dancing, but one slim strap across her toes was all that held them on.

  At the last minute the stylist draped the midnight blue cape around her shoulders and refused the tip Leigh offered.

  “The prince took care of everything,” she said. “You’re a very fortunate woman.”

  Hans came to escort her down to the limo where Max was waiting, standing beside the rear door. He smiled warmly when he saw her, and his face told her even more than words could.

  “You’re absolutely beautiful,” he said for her ears only as he helped her into the car.

  Fred and Hans stationed themselves on the jump seats. The romantic moment only lasted an instant, not even enough time to feast her eyes on how wonderful Max looked.

  The ball was black tie, with women required to wear gold or silver evening gowns. Max complemented her gown by wearing heavy silver cufflinks shaped like the heads of the mythical beasts on the Schwanstein crest.

  They’d ridden only a few blocks when he reached over and took one of her gloved hands in his, sliding his little finger between the tiny buttons to caress her wrist. Streetlights illuminated the interior enough for his handholding to be obvious to the bodyguards, but they were as expressionless as the famous stone lions guarding the Chicago Art Institute.

  “I wish I could have every dance with you,” Max said softly, releasing her hand and leaning so close his words tickled her ear.

  He bent and lightly brushed his lips against her throat, then caught one of her dangly rhinestone earrings between his fingers. “These should be diamonds.”

  “No, they shouldn’t. This is all pretend, Max. Real diamonds wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “Appropriate?” He gave a short harsh laugh. “How many hopes and desires have been impaled on that word?”

  “Are you being philosophical?” she asked, trying to tell herself there was no reason to read anything special into his question.