Ruling the Princess

by Christi Barth

  “She’s not average, you nincompoop. She’s a princess.”

  He whirled around to see a wizened prune of a woman who barely came up to his ribs. She brandished a brown purse big enough to be considered luggage. Oh, and a scowl that was twice as big as the damned purse.

  “Ma’am, please stop hitting me.”

  “I’ll stop as soon as you stop.”

  “I’m not the one inflicting blunt force trauma.” He deftly evaded the next thwack and glanced at Clara, who didn’t seem inclined to come to his rescue. So Theo grabbed the old woman’s wrist—hoped it didn’t snap like a twig from osteoporosis, which American television commercials made seem more pervasive than the common cold—and took away her purse.

  “Now you’re robbing me!” she screeched.

  “I’m diffusing a threat. Before your aim falters and you accidentally hit the princess.”

  She wobbled into a curtsey aimed at Genny. “Your Highness, I’m Lucille Lortois, and I’m so sorry.”

  “For smacking Lord Theo?” The princess clasped her hand, patting the top of it. “Trust me, Lucille, I think everyone has that impulse upon first meeting him.”

  It wasn’t like Theo was doubled over, asking for an ambulance. But he had been the recipient of several sturdy hits from an object that felt like it held half a quarry’s worth of rocks. While not up-to-date on Moncriano’s laws, he was certain that public assault wasn’t supposed to earn you a grip-and-grin with royalty rather than a citation.

  Her white curls didn’t tremble. Crepey legs in bright orange shorts, however, did. Fierce brown raisins of eyes shot daggers at Theo before shifting to the princess. “I don’t want you to wear bargain pantyhose, Your Highness.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Now Clara sprang into action, pushing over a ladderback chair under the senior.

  Theo didn’t begrudge an old lady her opinions. To do his job effectively, though, he needed an explanation of them.

  “Why, exactly? Why do you care—especially if it ultimately gets paid by your taxes—that the princess not wear the same brand as you? That she gets something better?”

  “Because she is better. The House of Villani has ruled this country for centuries. Their lineage was put in place by the grace of God. They are the very best of our kingdom. Princess Genevieve is a role model for every girl, every woman in the kingdom. She can’t do it with ladders in her stockings. She’d be a laughingstock. And we’d have no one to look up to anymore.”

  There it was.

  Laid out in exceedingly simple terms.

  Agreeing wasn’t necessary. Nor was understanding. But Theo wouldn’t be able to finish his assignment properly unless he accepted the role the princess played.

  Smirking, Genevieve said, “You’ve managed to render Lord Theo speechless, Lucille. That calls for a reward. If you give your address to Clara, I’ll send you a packet of my brand of hose. Thank you for sticking up for me.”

  Genevieve walked away—regally, of course, with a tall neck and a graceful glide of a stride. Theo had to hustle to catch up several rows over. She draped her arm around a mannequin then bent over.

  Shoulders shaking.

  The princess was having a royal laugh attack.

  At his expense. Again.

  Suddenly, it didn’t matter that she’d shot down his factory idea. That they’d argued just minutes ago. Her laughter was contagious. All Theo wanted to do was chuckle along with her.

  So he did.

  “If you discover there’s a video of that woman purse-thwapping me, I’m pretty sure my friend Simon would pay you top dollar for the link.”

  “Good. That just might be enough to cover my pantyhose budget for the month.”

  They looked at each other and burst out laughing again.

  Together.

  Ohhhh, fuck.

  Theo was a goner for this woman. He’d gone and fallen for the princess. When he was supposed to be the one laying down the law to her.

  That was even funnier than being attacked by a woman so old and frail that a hearty belch would knock her over.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunrises were wonderful. A beautiful reward for staying up all night, whether having fun or cramming for tests or stuck in an airplane crossing an ocean. Genevieve loved them.

  Occasionally.

  Sunrises were not meant to be viewed as a regular start to an ordinary day. In that case, they became a glaring reminder of why caffeine was a worldwide addiction. Or, in the case of today, a reminder of what happened to her schedule when she ignored propriety and gave in to spontaneity.

  Good thing she’d memorized “Moonlight Sonata” by the age of seven. It meant she could shut her eyes against the giant, bright ball burning through the windows while she practiced.

  Her left hand stretched out to make the slow arpeggios that started the Beethoven piece. Soooo slow. So easy to fall into a dirge-like tempo that gave her a few extra beats to yawn…

  The door to the music room crashed open. The unexpected noise slammed her jaws shut, and her fingers curled off the keys. Whipping her neck around so fast that it cracked, Genevieve sighed when she saw her brother.

  “Christian, can’t you enter a room like a normal person? Rather than like Genghis Khan on an angry day? You’re so loud.”

  “I didn’t tap dance my way in here.” But he did stomp/squeak his riding boots across the parquet floor until he joined her at the grand piano. “What’s wrong? Do you have a hangover? And if so, why wasn’t I invited to the party?”

  Because it would’ve been weird to have her brother along on her evening with Theo? Her…well, not a date. Nothing so formal. Just another time when they met officially and somehow slid over into entirely unofficial things.

  Last night had been a trip to the wine cave. Theo wanted to make the point that if old, important bottles weren’t being drunk, they could be auctioned off. Genny wanted to prove that they were holding one-hundred-year-old bottles for a reason and they’d continue to age and get better. That it was their fiduciary responsibility to not open the wine before its time.

  The agreement they’d come to, three bottles later? Not every bottle could stand the test of time. But the one that held up had been remarkable. Along with the charcuterie plate and macarons.

  Oh, and the kisses.

  Those had been spectacular.

  And she’d decided to stop ordering wines from the U.S. in instances it would cut corners, such as at large, palace-sponsored events. California Cabs were delicious, but so were any number of wines produced on this continent.

  “No hangover. Not alcohol induced, anyway. I’m just exhausted.”

  “Yeah? That’s what happens when you get up at dawn.” He tugged on her messy ponytail before pointing out the window at the sun just cresting the trees.

  “It was the only time I could squeeze in some practice.”

  “You’re not a concert pianist. Your job does not rely on you to whip out a Beethoven sonata at—” Christian broke off, eyes narrowing. “Christ. That damned musicaholic tea is coming up, isn’t it? The one where Gran always trots you out and puts you through your paces like a show pony.”

  She turned off the green music lamp. “It’s the annual Music Appreciation Cocktail Concert. Not a tea.”

  “Oh, well. Alcohol makes it all better.” Grabbing her shoulders, Christian twirled the stool around until she faced him. “Genny, say no. There’s a lineup of professional musicians performing, isn’t there?”

  “Yes.” There’d been a competition for the honor of performing in front of the royal family and…well…all the music snobs who had fights over which of seven nearly identical recordings was the best. They were so cutthroat in their comments. And yet none of them, so far as she’d been able to judge over the fifteen years in forced attendance, ever played an instrum
ent themselves.

  Genny loathed hypocrisy. Pretending to be experts when they couldn’t bang out a two-handed scale without hitting a clunker? In her book, the cause was laziness or cowardice. Or both. Far easier to make cutting remarks than buckle down and practice.

  Hmm. It was also possible that she was in a foul mood from lack of sleep and annoyance at being interrupted.

  “Then you don’t have to. Just sit back and…appreciate.” Christian tossed her a lazy wink as he turned around a fragile gilt chair to straddle its pink and gold cushion. “Gran can’t tell you what to do any more. You’re a grown woman.”

  “Really?” Genny was just cranky enough to one-up him. After all, it only took a second to come up with an example. And she was just about the only person willing to put the crown prince in his place on a daily basis. Sort of like flossing the too-big bits off his ego. “If it’s that simple, then why didn’t you refuse to escort Lady Elizibetta through the rose garden last week? You’ve always hated her.”

  “Yes. Because she’s made no secret of wanting to climb me to get herself a tiara. I could run over a kitten with a lawnmower and she wouldn’t blink, so long as I proposed.”

  So true. She couldn’t stand the woman, either. Both Genny and Christian had finely honed their bullshit meters over the years. Elizabetta reeked of it. Fake attempts at friendship, fake attempts at listening, and, oh, fake boobs.

  “And yet you wrapped her hand around your arm and made stupid small talk for half an hour with her. Because Gran asked.” The Grand Duchess: intimidating people for seventy-plus years and still going.

  “It wasn’t stupid small talk. It was stellar.” Christian tossed her another teasing wink. “Don’t you remember my little-known minor in small talk and chit-chat?”

  With a rueful smile, Genny spread her hands wide, palms up. “You can’t say no to Gran. And neither can I.”

  “Kelsey’s managed it a time or two. Maybe we should have her give us lessons.”

  If only. “I’m fairly certain that American brashness is due to a chemical sprayed in their air. It can’t be taught.”

  Christian swung his leg over, got up, and closed the keyboard cover. “So you’ll be doing this perform-on-demand thing until…what, Gran dies?”

  “No question. I’d prefer not to make a fool of myself while performing, though, so scoot. Let me practice in peace.” Genny waved at his boots, jodhpurs, and polo shirt. “Aren’t you off to ride, anyway?”

  The corner of his mouth dove downward. “By myself. It isn’t as much fun.”

  That seemed strange. Christian had been riding in the mornings with his best friend by his side for as long as she could remember. “Doesn’t Elias go with you?”

  “For some ungodly reason, Elias prefers to stay in bed and do unspeakable things to our sister rather than go riding at dawn with me.”

  “The man’s an enigma,” she said solemnly, swallowing her own laughter at his pout. “Before you embarrass yourself by begging, I’m not going with you, either. So again, and I say this with love in my heart, get out.”

  Christian walked over to the harp and plucked a few random strings. “I didn’t come in here just to harass you.”

  “No? Because you do it so often, I assumed it was an integral part of your daily schedule.”

  “Damn straight it is. We even gave you a code name. Fifteen minutes blocked every day to harass ‘The Perfectionist.’”

  Was that really how her brother—and his staff—saw her? Uptight? Rigid? Genny certainly strove for perfection but felt like she fell far short much of the time.

  Her cheeks heated. “That isn’t a code name.”

  “You don’t get a vote.” His head snapped up. And the teasing glint had entirely vanished from his violet eyes. “Look, I came to find you to talk about our father. To have a very private conversation about him. And trust me, nobody else is brave enough to come in here while you’re hacking your way through Beethoven.”

  Genny ignored the dig. She knew full well that her playing was well above adequate—although far below perfect. “Private enough you don’t even want our bodyguards to hear? Now I’m worried. Did his doctor reveal something bad?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  They’d been getting that runaround for weeks. Not that it was surprising—who wanted to tell tales behind the back of the king? “So what words did he use?”

  “Papa isn’t doing well.”

  It was too early—and too bright—to engage in a verbal tug of war to get Christian to spit out the facts. Genny shook her head. “What else?”

  Christian scraped his fingers across his scalp. Sighed. “There’s a belief that he’s having dissociative episodes. That his brain is taking mini time-outs.”

  “From what?”

  He circled his hand in the air, like she should already know. “From the trauma.”

  “The trauma of finally having all three of his children under one roof? I’m sorry, Christian, I don’t buy it. Papa should be rejoicing that Kelsey’s back, that she survived the assassination attempt, not sulking.”

  “Dr. Elonth thinks it is a depressive disorder that’s been simmering for years. Since Mama died. Mixed with PTSD, topped off with these dissociative things.”

  Okaaaaay. That was a lot more information. None of it good. But very believable, given how he’d locked himself in his rooms and blown off his considerable responsibilities. Genny and Christian had told themselves he was just having trouble processing everything. Evidently, they’d been vastly understating the problem.

  She hadn’t worked tirelessly her entire life to prevent embarrassment coming onto the House of Villani to give up now. Not that mental health should be an embarrassment. But it could be an excuse for the prime minister to ask her father to step down.

  Being removed forcibly from the throne would be a humiliation she didn’t think he—or their monarchy—would survive.

  Genny no longer needed caffeine. They did need a plan, however.

  She looked out the window. At the white stone façade of the king’s wing. Thought about how long it had been since she’d seen her father cross the garden or walk through the orchard or visit the stables.

  She turned back to face Christian. “How do we fix him?”

  “Damn it, I don’t know. The doctor won’t guarantee anything beyond more time and more tests.”

  Genny jumped off the block with the most obvious one. “Papa would have to agree.”

  “Somebody would have to talk him into it.”

  She waved her hand back and forth between them. “You mean one of us.”

  “Correct. But he isn’t so much talking to either of us, in case you haven’t noticed. Or anyone else, for that matter.” Christian plucked out a horrible-sounding chord on the harp that clearly mirrored his frustration.

  “What about Kelsey?”

  “No way. She’s the cause of this. I mean, her original kidnapping and recent reappearance. I’m sure she’ll want to help, but the doctor said her presence will only exacerbate the situation.”

  The unfairness almost took her breath away. “Kelsey upended her life, came all this way to get to know Papa. Now she can’t even spend time with him?”

  “Not for a while. Unless, of course, he asks for her.”

  “That’s so hard.”

  “She’s got us.” Christian squeezed her hand. “You and I have been the best team of all time, right?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Expanding our team only makes it stronger. Sure, the rookie needs to learn the ropes, but—”

  Genny cut him off. “Stop. I can tell you’re about to go into a whole soccer metaphor, and I won’t understand or care. I do think you’re right. We have to make even more of an effort to spend time with her. Isn’t her sister coming back soon?”

  “Mallory? Why are
you asking me?”

  Why was Christian suddenly shifting from one foot to the other? He and Mallory had gotten off to a better start than she had. Except for the way Mallory got either tongue-tied or profusely babbled in his presence.

  “Because you’re the one having the conversation with me?”

  He rubbed a hand down his stubbled jaw and kicked at a corner of the hand-knotted rug that had flipped up. “Not soon. Maybe in a month? Her parents aren’t exactly eager to send her back to the country where she got shot.”

  “I’ll do extra Kelsey duty for now. Try to keep her distracted from Papa not spending time with her. Then once Mallory does get here, we’ll swap,” she suggested.

  “Why? Why do you want me to spend time with Mallory?”

  Goodness. Christian was wound tighter than a ball of rubber bands this morning. “The whole sister dynamic is odd enough. Mallory’s her best friend. And she’d thought her real sister. I don’t want to intrude on their reunion and her getting comfortable again here. Whatever happens between the three of us has to be more organic.”

  Christian wagged a blunt-tipped finger at her. “That’s girl-talk disguising that it’ll be weird and so you tagged yourself out.”

  He’d caught her. “It doesn’t make the reason any less valid.”

  “Fine. You keep Kelsey from worrying about why Papa won’t see her. I’ll beard the lion in his den if things don’t improve soon. Have ‘The Talk.’”

  “What if he doesn’t let you in?”

  “I’m the crown prince, Genny. For better or worse, I’m also acting as king right now. I guarantee that the staff will find me a key and let me into his suite.”

  She looked at her brother with a more critical eye. Christian looked tired—and not just because it was dawn-o-clock. His eyelids drooped more than usual. Fine lines bracketed his mouth where he pressed his lips taut. And the furrow between his brows seemed to have moved in for good.

  “This isn’t fair for you, either,” she murmured softly, rubbing his arm.

  “Agreed. Let’s make sure nothing else falls apart. We can’t handle any more.”

  That reminded her of Theo. Of his looming report to the prime minister about her. One that might carry quite a negative impact. He needed to be brought around to being pro-monarchy, pro-Villani, in record time.