“That’s the appealing thing about New York,” Marie said with studied mildness. “It puts you in the path of people you otherwise wouldn’t meet.”
“And you also met Philip Gregory, I understand. Or should I say didn’t meet?”
Clearly Mr. Benz had already filled him in.
“It didn’t go well,” she confirmed. There was no point in dissembling.
“And the other retailers?”
“Shall we discuss this at a more opportune time, when we don’t have guests waiting? I have some ideas on that front.”
Ideas he would shoot down, she was certain, even though he was doing nothing himself to address the problem.
Mr. Benz entered. Bless him, even though he and Marie didn’t always see eye to eye, he was forever trying to help pick up the slack caused by her father’s . . . what? She would have said grief, but three years had gone by. It seemed that what really animated him these days was anger. She feared her mother had had more of a tempering influence on him than they knew.
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness, I’ve called the cabinet to come tomorrow and the next day. We can debrief the New York trip”—Mr. Benz glanced grimly at Marie—“and I’d like to discuss strategy for the MPs’ breakfast on the twentieth.”
“That sounds fine,” Marie said. “I’d like to add an agenda item, if I may.”
Both men raised their eyebrows at her. “The UN speech went extremely well. I’d like to discuss follow-up strategy, including raising the number of refugees we accept. And if we come to an agreement, we can informally raise the idea at the breakfast and encourage parliament to take it up in the new year.”
“We’re a small country,” her father snapped. “How many people do you think we can accept?”
Marie took a deep breath and checked herself from deploying her usual arguments: they couldn’t leave the rest of Europe to deal with the crisis. Had he not seen the terrible pictures from the Mediterranean?
Did he not have a heart? Had it died along with Maman?
She knew from experience that those arguments didn’t work. And she had a new idea. “I’ve been doing some reading. I believe our smallness can actually be an asset in this context.” She was going to suggest that they have individual villages come together to sponsor families. She’d gathered some information on American church groups doing that, and she suspected the tight bonds of Eldovian villages could be leveraged in a similar fashion.
Her father was starting to ramp up, but Mr. Benz stepped in to smooth things over. “I’d be happy to put your project on the agenda for the first cabinet meeting in the new year if that suits? We’ve told everyone two half days of meetings this week. Then the MPs’ breakfast. Then we’ll break for the holiday, so I’m wary of overloading the agenda.”
He was putting her off. He was just being nicer about it than Father, who would say that she wasn’t on the cabinet anyway. She could go to New York and do his job for him, but he didn’t see any need to listen to her ideas. It made Marie’s blood boil.
“Why don’t we discuss my trip briefly before cocktails?” her father asked, and the question diffused some of her frustration.
“Yes. I had no idea you were making such a trip.” She was glad he had, though. Her father and the duke were close, if unlikely, friends. The Houses of Accola and Aquilla had battled over the Eldovian throne centuries ago, and though there hadn’t been hostilities for generations, there had been a long-standing chill between the two noble families. Riems, the seat of the House of Aquilla, was on the other side of the country, over a mountain ridge, and other than waging political battles by proxy in parliament, the royal and ducal families had essentially ignored each other’s existence—until her father’s generation. The future king and future duke had gone to boarding school together and become friends. As they’d grown up and risen to power, that friendship had extended to include their wives and children—and had become an alliance that was playing out in parliament and that had the potential to see the two houses collaborate economically.
“How is everyone?” she asked.
“Maximillian has announced his desire to take a PhD.”
“I beg your pardon?” She’d spoken too sharply, betrayed her surprise, so she tried again. “I thought he was staying in Cambridge for Christmas.” Like Dani, Max had professed a need to hole up over the break and write—in his case, his master’s thesis. Knowing Max, she wasn’t at all convinced that writing was what he would fill his holiday with, but she didn’t ask questions. As much as Marie adored Max, his absence—over the holidays, and in general—suited them both.
Because that new alliance between the Houses of Accola and Aquilla? Her father and Max’s had a plan for strengthening it, for making sure it outlasted them. A plan she’d known about for as long as she could remember—but one she preferred not to think about.
“Max is in Cambridge for the holiday, yes. However, he has recently informed the duke of a newfound fascination with the social history of the Blitz and therefore a desire to stay on in Cambridge for a PhD. Aquilla asked me to come discuss the matter with him.”
She couldn’t have been more shocked if her father had slapped her.
And happy. Shocked and happy. That would buy them, what? Three years? “And how did that discussion go?” She tried to pitch the question as if she were indifferent to the answer.
Her father narrowed his eyes. “Shall we take this up at, as you say, a more opportune time? We must dress for dinner.”
Well, she could text Max herself. He was a more reliable source anyway. “Yes. I’ll see you shortly. I’ve asked for cocktails to be served in the green parlor.”
He nodded and turned, but he paused with a hand on the door and looked back at her. Smiled. His old smile. “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”
She sucked in a breath. Thought of those years after her mother died when she was still in university and wanted nothing more than to quit. To come home. She had missed him so much then, but he’d given her no indication that he felt the same. She’d been starving for a kind word from him, but all he’d done was force her to stay in school. They’d grieved apart, and a gulf had grown between them, one she never knew how to cross.
Now, though, he looked so much like her old papa that she was moving toward him before she could overthink it. She reached up and hugged him, even though he was still wearing his snowy coat. “I missed you, too.”
They parted, and he left. Mr. Benz started to follow him—where the king went, generally his equerry did, too—but paused and looked at Marie for a beat. She thought she detected sympathy in that look, but that must not be right. Mr. Benz did efficiency, not sympathy.
By the time everyone had assembled for cocktails, Marie’s father was back to his usual cranky self. She had described him to Leo and Gabby as the sad king, but she actually had no idea where that phrase had come from. Like his mother before him, he was a master of passive aggression when he wanted to be. He could convey an entire cornucopia of negative emotions, irritation and superiority chief among them, without actually saying anything.
Like the way, after she’d introduced Leo and Gabby, he let his eyes slide down Leo’s body and then raised them a tiny bit too high on the way back up. You couldn’t call it an eye roll exactly, but you couldn’t call it not an eye roll, either.
He had done the same thing to her, issuing a silent rebuke. He had expected to find her in a dress. She’d kept her jeans on, though, in an attempt to make her guests feel more comfortable.
And anyway, Leo looked good. Although he was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, he had added a light blazer. But the sleeves were rolled up. It was like his forearms had to be free. She stifled a sigh.
“And what is it that you do, Mr. Ricci?” her father asked.
“I drive a cab, and I’m the caretaker of the apartment building we live in.” He gestured at his sister.
Her father rearranged his facial expression almost imperceptibly, but it wa
s enough to convey disapproval. Marie’s face heated. She’d forgotten what a snob he could be, mostly because he rarely encountered anyone who didn’t run in their circles. But he had always been a little bit like this when her friends had come to the palace when she was in school.
“He was going to be an architect!” Gabby piped up.
What? She turned to Leo in surprise. He was making a dismissive gesture as he shot a quelling look at his sister.
Gabby ignored it. “It’s true! He was partway through college when our parents died, and he had to drop out. But he knows so much about architecture. Like, so much.”
Marie felt a little stab of hurt that Leo hadn’t told her any of this, especially given their extensive chat about architecture in Madison Square Park. In fact, she’d expressly asked if he’d gone to university, and he’d said no.
“Yes,” Leo said mildly. “The unexpected death of our parents required some rearrangement of plans.”
A footman called Luis approached Gabby with two glasses on a small tray. One, rimmed in sugar, was light pink and full of tiny, fizzing bubbles. The other was some variation on hot chocolate, with a mountain of the kitchen’s famous homemade marshmallows floating on the top. “For the young miss,” Luis said, “ginger raspberry smash or hot milk chocolate with honey-caramel marshmallows.”
Gabby’s eyes widened. Marie’s heart twisted as Gabby curtsied—to Luis—and took both drinks. Marie glanced at her father, who was reacting with predictable disdain.
“I think you’re meant to choose one or the other,” Leo said softly.
“Nonsense.” Marie stepped forward and picked up the drink Gabby had hurriedly set back on the tray. “One’s for now; one’s for later.” She set the hot chocolate on a side table and nodded at Luis to dismiss him. “I recommend starting with the raspberry, since it’s lighter, and moving on to the chocolate. At least that’s how I always do it.”
Her father shot her a look. He knew that she’d never in her life had either of those drinks. Well. She shot him a look right back. She wasn’t about to stand by while he embarrassed her guests.
“I notice that the palace seems to have central heating,” Leo said. “When was that added? The walls are stone, aren’t they? That must have been quite the project.”
The question thawed her father somewhat. The palace was one of his favorite topics. “It’s not as old as it looks. My great-grandfather had it built in the 1860s. He was a devotee of the Romanesque Revival movement. The palace was built with central heating—though the system has, of course, been upgraded since then.”
From there, the conversation was easier, if not warmer. Leo—the architect; it boggled the mind—seemed genuinely interested in the history of the palace and asked intelligent questions. Dinner was a little awkward—Marie had requested a simple meal in the breakfast room, but her father had overruled her and ordered a four-course repast served in the formal dining room. She made a point of slowly picking up the proper utensil for each course so the Ricci siblings could see what she was doing. It helped that Gabby talked almost nonstop, and during lulls, Leo asked her father questions about the palace.
Eventually, they were done. Leo took a yawning Gabby to her room along with Frau Lehman, who seemed to have decided to take personal responsibility for Gabby instead of assigning a maid. Would they read stories? Talk about the day? Marie wanted to go with them, so much, to be part of whatever routine would unfold, but of course that wasn’t her place. So, as they took their leave, she stumbled through an awkward good-night, hesitating over whether she should remind Leo of her invitation to go for a walk. Probably not. It was late, and no doubt he was tired, too. Anyway, she needed to talk to Max.
At her suite, she had her phone out before she’d fully closed the door. PhD????? We’re out of touch for a few weeks and you drop this bomb?
Max: Hey M, xo. How was NYC?
Marie: Don’t change the subject. Since when are you interested in doing a PhD?
Max: Since I accidentally already wrote my master’s thesis. But don’t tell my father that. He thinks I still need the spring semester to finish it up. And this Christmas break. Definitely need to spend the break here and not there. Working v v hard.
She understood Max’s desire to avoid Riems over the holidays. The duke was, to put it the way Max would, an unmitigated asshole. It was funny, though, to think of Max taking refuge at school when she had spent two years doing the reverse: wanting so desperately, after her mother died, to come home, but not being allowed to.
Marie: Well, we’ll miss you at the ball. As for the PhD, I appreciate what you’re doing, but don’t do a degree you don’t want to do.
Max: Don’t take this the wrong way. You know I love you, but I want to do a PhD a lot more than I want to . . . do you. LOL.
Marie: No offense taken. Where is the turkey baster emoji when you need it?
Max: Right? Anyway, in all seriousness, I just thought this would buy us some time. It’s not like I actually have to be good at PhD-ing. I can flunk out . . . slowly.
Marie: You have to get in, though!
Max: I’m the Baron of Laudon! I’m the heir to the Duke of Aquilla! I’m in!
Marie: Well, I can’t pretend this isn’t the best news I’ve had in a long time.
Max: Yeah, I heard it didn’t go well with Gregory.
Marie: How does everyone know about this? Did a “Marie fails at America” memo go out?
Max: IDK, but I heard it from Mother. Anyway, re the PhD/reprieve, don’t get too excited. The duke is NOT pleased. When I originally floated the idea, he said no, but apparently now he’s thinking about it.
Marie: Is that why my father was there?
Max: I have no idea. But they made me Skype with them, and they seemed rather fixated on finding out if my sudden interest in the social history of the Blitz was genuine. I felt like I was being examined. Sebastian, of course, is hard at work in the mines and can do no wrong.
Poor Max. His younger brother, Seb, worked in the family mining business, though of course not literally in the mines. He was definitely the favored son. Too bad he couldn’t have been born first.
Marie: The irony is I bet you could do a really amazing PhD on the social history of the Blitz if you applied yourself to social history as much as you apply yourself to other social activities.
Max: I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Marie laughed. Talking with Max always made her happy. That was another irony. Max wouldn’t make a bad husband, at least when it came to the compatibility part. It was the romantic part. The love part. The sex part. Having grown up with their families so close, Max was like her annoying brother.
Hence the turkey baster plan. But their underlying compatibility was why neither of them had provoked an outright confrontation with either set of parents. They both knew it could be worse. Much worse. So they rubbed along in denial while Max finished school.
Or, more accurately, kept going to school. Which, in addition to avoiding the marriage their parents had been talking about since they were children, would allow him to tomcat around, as was his wont, free from the prying eyes of his parents and countrymen.
Marie: You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re lucky you’re only a minor royal, or your exploits would be all over the tabloids. If this were the nineteenth century, you’d be a rake.
Max: So since it’s the twenty-first century, I’m what? A slut?
Marie: You said it, not me.
Max: You wound me.
Leo: Is that walk still on offer?
The simple question—and the identity of its sender suddenly appearing as a notification—sent a bolt of electricity through Marie, making her fingers clumsy as she pecked out an answer.
Marie: Yes! The moon is almost full, so it’s an ideal night for a walk.
Max: What???
Oh, no. She’d seen Leo’s message in the preview notification, and in her haste hadn’t backed out of her stream with
Max.
Marie: Sorry, that wasn’t for you.
Max: Who was it for? Who are you going on moonlit walks with????
Marie: We have guests for Christmas.
Max: Guests? What guests?
Marie: Someone I met in New York.
Max: Oh. Okay. Who is she?
Marie hesitated over whether to correct him. On the one hand, he’d be like a dog with a bone if she told him about Leo, and she didn’t need that kind of scrutiny. On the other, his exploits were legendary, and aside from a little good-natured teasing she didn’t get on his case. She felt like this might be a “what’s good for the goose is good for the gander” situation. But no. It was better to noncommittally agree.
Max: And more importantly, is she single?
Marie: You’re more than a thousand kilometers away.
Max: So? Maybe I *should* come home for Christmas.
All right. She could not resist.
Marie: My guest is not a she.
Max: WHAT.
She got up and retrieved a sweater from her armoire. By the time she’d pulled it over her head, he had exploded.
Max: M! Explain! WHO IS HE?
Max: HELLO?
Marie: Good night, Max. xo
Chapter Nine
Leo wasn’t sure what he expected. Maybe a horse-drawn carriage to pull up and whisk them away? He certainly hadn’t thought they’d just walk out of the palace unaccompanied, but that was exactly what they did. Marie came to collect him from his room and led him through silent halls to the imposing marble entryway he’d glimpsed but not really processed when they’d arrived. But there was the big tree she’d talked about, and the fireplace, complete with stockings. It was impressive, even in the dim light of evening when it wasn’t officially on display. But he could see what she’d meant about liking his homespun version better.
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