Inconceivable! (22 page)

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Authors: Tegan Wren

BOOK: Inconceivable!
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“Hans Friedman?” He was one of Europe’s most revered journalists, though I hadn’t seen his byline recently. I didn’t realize he sat on The Guardian’s editorial board. “Fine. If it were anyone else, I’d say no.” I smiled in spite of myself, exhilarated to have the opportunity to work with one of the biggest stars in my field.

“Just embrace the fact your position is always going to open doors for you. You’re a royal now, baby.” His playful smile weakened my lingering resolve to argue.

“Fine. Now, I have an important question: why me? Why do you, the Prince of Toulene, want to marry a gal from the Ozarks?” My heart thumped faster; I was eager to hear his answer.

He turned to face me, and caressed my cheek. “All my life, I’ve been surrounded by pretty things―exquisite paintings, gorgeous heiresses, opulent palaces. While I appreciated the aesthetics, none of them appealed to me. When I met you, I understood why. They’re all fake. But you… You’re exactly who you are. And you know, I can’t do that. I always have to play the part, be perfect, and be ‘Prince John.’ You aren’t trying to be something different. You’re just you. Hatty, you’re my kind of beautiful.” He leaned in and gently brushed his lips against mine.

I drew in a deep breath. “For the record, I love the real you. That ‘Prince John’ guy is great too because he knows how to be gracious to all the asshats he meets―and that’s a real gift. You’ve shown me it’s possible to be good and kind, even under extreme pressure. But I love you most when you’re not being Prince Charming. I like it when you curse, hit your brother, and laugh until you snort. It reminds me even though you’re a prince, you’re still just a guy. It’s really fun to see that side of you.”

Our lips met again, and his hands wove themselves into my hair. He gently tugged, exposing my neck. His tongue licked an invisible line along my jaw and neck as he mapped his way toward my chest. His familiar pattern of kissing me stoked a fire between my legs.

But then he stopped. “I have an idea for how to share our big news. Let’s announce our engagement at Winter’s Feast.”

“Oh, good call. I like that.”

“And I want your parents to be here. They can fly from Springfield to Chicago and then try out the direct flight to Roeselare.”

“I think I’m going to explode with happiness! It’s been more than six months since I saw my parents. I can’t wait for you to meet them! Do you want to hang on to the ring until Winter’s Feast?”

“No, you keep it. Just don’t wear it until then.”

“How would you feel about letting me invite some of my friends? If we’re going to announce our engagement, I’d like Tilda, Plato, Sam, and Sara to be there.”

“Absolutely! I’ll make sure they’re on the list. Invitations go out tomorrow.”

“So, what am I supposed to wear?”

“Don’t tell me the future Mrs. Meinrad is afraid she’ll look ‘dudely’ at Winter’s Feast. Is that the right word?”

I lightly punched his arm. “Yeah, that’s it.” I never should’ve told him about my high school fashion horrors.

“Well, you could wear the nightgown from your first weekend at the palace.” His fingers skimmed the neckline of my shirt.

“A bit scandalous, don’t you think?”

“You’re right. We try to avoid scandal at all costs, so no nightgown on the blue carpet.”

“What’s a blue carpet?”

“It’s our version of Hollywood’s red carpet. The guests for Winter’s Feast walk a blue carpet from the street to the palace door. We let photographers set up on the west lawn and cover the arrivals. The idea is to give them some access so they don’t climb over the fence to get pictures. But I think you should stay here the night before so they don’t see you make a grand entrance.”

“Yeah, I like that idea. We don’t want to tip our hand.” That, and I hated the idea of being on the lens-end of a journalist. “What will your family say about our engagement?”

“Dad, Henri, and Aunt Elinore knew I was going to propose to you today and they’re completely supportive. I also briefed Granny. She trusts my judgment, and I know she’ll adore you. By the way, did you know she gets to choose our wedding date?”

My new in-laws are total control freaks!
When I told Tilda that Lars had come to my apartment to go over the details of a possible engagement, she mentioned the queen would have the authority to set the wedding date as well as the location. It was a little nugget Tilda had gleaned from a law school class on the monarchy. Of all the concessions I had to make, these seemed relatively minor.

“That’s fine. What else do they get to decide? Whether or not my wedding dress has straps?”

“That’s entirely your choice, though I know a tailor in Paris who’d love to help you with both your wedding dress and your dress for Winter’s Feast.”

A French designer wants to dress me? Maybe there’s hope for me on the fashion front after all.

“And is the plan still for me to meet your grandmother for the first time at Winter’s Feast?” Nervous energy bounced around my stomach at the thought of meeting Toulene’s queen.

“She’ll arrive a few days before, and I expect that’s when you’ll meet her. We have to follow her schedule and her lead.”

The queen kept a lower profile than 007. Only a few people knew she holed up at an estate in Phuket, Thailand October through February. Her physicians recommended the warmer climate because apparently, she was prone to respiratory problems that got worse when winter arrived in Toulene. This explained why John was so unwilling to discuss his grandmother’s schedule and change of plans when I interviewed him the first time. She’d never intended to visit that preschool herself. Promoting her appearance was part of the ruse to make people believe she was still in Toulene. Learning this bit of information assured me I was fully behind the curtain seeing the inner workings of the monarchy. Or so I thought.

“Stand up,” John said. “I want you to see something.”

He stood behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. We looked at ourselves in the big mirror hanging on his bedroom wall.

John’s hands slid around my midsection. “Our children will be kings and queens. On top of that, they’ll be devastatingly gorgeous. I mean, look at us.”

Intense desire surged through my body. Carrying John’s child was the most intimate expression of love I could imagine.
Swoon.

s my friends and I ambled along Rue Delambre, I kept tabs on the building numbers so we wouldn’t miss the designer’s atelier. It was Thursday night, and I resented the fact we had to leave Paris tomorrow evening because well, it was Paris and I loved it. During our walk, Sara, Tilda, Plato, and Sam debated what they were going to wear to Winter’s Feast.

While I was in the City of Light choosing my dress for the upcoming party, John and Henri were in Paphos, Cypress visiting a tailor whose family had made special occasion clothes for generations of Meinrads. As much as I worshipped Paris, I wanted to go with them to Paphos because the projected high temperature during their trip was 75 degrees. John said no. He was paranoid and didn’t want us photographed together until after we announced our engagement. The press was still snooping, getting more suspicious that John’s public appearances had taken a nose dive. But so far, his plan was working: I hadn’t seen one camera flash since the paparazzi gave up on me shortly after I got whisked away with John in the limo.
In your face, reporters!
I appreciated the small victories since I knew news of our engagement would unleash a media maelstrom, a vortex swirling around me and John. I dreaded it, but accepted it as part of the package. Growing up in the Ozarks, I’d learned that spring brings out nature’s beauty, but the warmth that awakens the flowers also breeds tornadoes; you have to accept the bad with the good.

“How are things going in Cypress with the boys?” Sara always wanted to know every detail when it came to John.

Even though we were still supposed to follow the ban on electronic communication, John called me every night from Paphos to give me the highlights of his day.

“They’re having fun. They got measured yesterday for their black, boring tuxes.”

“Boring or not, his tux won’t draw attention away from his beautiful girlfriend,” Sam offered.

“I love you, Sam,” I said, throwing my arm over his shoulder.

“Are you trying to steal my boyfriend?” Plato cut in, shoving my arm off Sam.

“Them’s fighting words.” I knocked Plato’s hat off his head.

“We need crowd control for the Americans over here.” Tilda called out with her hands cupped around her mouth.

“Hatty. Do you think John’s cousins will be at Winter’s Feast? What’s the name of the one from Germany? Prince von Sexy-stein?”

“I’m sure Count Hohenstaufen will be there.” Sara had begged me to divulge all the details of my weekend at Sanssouci, and seemed particularly interested in hearing about Gerhard.

“I’ll be his HO-henstaufen anytime.” Sara stopped on the sidewalk to put her hands over her head and wiggle her hips.

“Honestly, Sara!” I laughed at her unbridled enthusiasm. “You have to stop watching American rap videos because one day, I’m afraid you’ll up and run away to L.A.”

I grabbed her hand and pulled her along as we both cackled.

“This is
la place
!” Plato said, opening the red door for us.

We filed inside. A black and white checkered floor gave the entryway a vintage feel, and an enormous spiral staircase provided drama.

“Hatty?
Enchanté
!” The voice came from a man who looked to be in his seventies. He handily descended the stairs.

“Monsieur Bonhomme?” John had shown me photos of the world renowned designer with his mother. The man approaching me had sparkly, kind eyes, suggesting his surname’s meaning rang true. I figured if he could help me find a beautiful gown, he’d be a damn good man.

Monsieur Bonhomme embraced me and softly planted a kiss on each cheek. He knew I was bringing an entourage, so I introduced my friends.

“My dears. Please. Call me Mathias. Now, I would be delighted to make a dress for you, Hatty, but I want to show you a few finished gowns, in case you like one of them.” He pronounced the words with a thick French accent. John told me to speak to Mathias Bonhomme in English, not French, because he wanted to practice with an American.

We followed Mathias up the staircase to the first landing, where he opened a door off to the right. Inside, floor to ceiling windows allowed the fading sunshine to saturate the peeling wallpaper. Though the room looked a bit dilapidated, the racks of dresses shone like brand new stars in Mathias’ universe. He led us to a rack with three gowns.

“These should fit, or I can take them in, if they are too big. Shall we begin with these?”

My friends watched in hushed awe as I examined each gown. The first was an orange-red strapless dress with rhinestone accents on the bodice. A matching stole hung next to it. It had a full skirt that flowed out from the bottom of the bodice, hiding all manner of below-the-waist flaws; I loved it immediately. There was also a silk pewter dress that seemed a bit too old for me, and a light lavender gown with spaghetti straps. As I’d expected, the orange-red dress looked the best on me. My little gang agreed. I was ready to call it a day when Mathias spoke up.

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