Authors: Tegan Wren
“So this is how people in the Ozarks do it?
Sans
utensils?” John looked over my shoulder into the bowl, an eyebrow raised to emphasize his skepticism.
“Sure! Why not?”
John kneaded the muscles of my upper back mimicking my hands and fingers working the ingredients into a stiff dough.
“It seems I’m not the only one in this relationship who’s good with their hands,” he said as he ran his palms up and down my arms, squeezing intermittently to work those muscles too.
“I hate to have you stop what you’re doing, but do you want to add the chocolate chips?”
He picked up the bag, put one between his lips, and kissed me. The chip melted under the friction of lips, teeth, and tongues.
Délicieux
!
“That chocolate kiss is certainly an improvement over the one we shared the night we met,” I purred.
“Much better.” He leaned into me, pushing my lower back against the wooden work table. He never seemed to care about the palace staff walking in on us, but it terrified me. What would John’s father think if he found out? John’s hands dove below my waist, gripping my ass.
Loud footsteps froze us. “Take it to a bedroom, Your Hiney-ness.”
Henri snorted as he walked over to the bowl sitting on the table behind me. He dug his index finger into the mixture. John shoved him away.
“Don’t stick your fingers in my lady’s dough.” John glared at Henri, then burst out laughing.
Henri picked up a handful of flour and threw it in my hair.
I gasped in surprise. “Will they lock me in a tower if I kill you?” I laughed in spite of my irritation.
“All of you out so I can finish.” Hilda the Deutsch baker interrupted the horseplay. ‘Hilda’ means buzzkill in German.
“See? If you boys behaved, I’d get to finish something for once in this kitchen.” I huffed dramatically as we left Hilda to shape the dough into balls and put them in the oven.
“Now what?” I turned on the two handsome brothers in the hallway outside the kitchen.
“Up for another movie?” John asked.
“Always.” I squinted my eyes at Henri, daring him to comment.
“Confirmed. You two are the most boring couple in palace history. Baking, movies. You’re like an old married couple.”
I gasped and huffed, preparing to protest his accusation that we were boring. Before I had the chance, Henri turned and headed down the hallway. “I’m going for a walk.” He gave a single wave, grabbed his coat from a hook, and walked out a heavy door leading outside.
John took my hand and guided me in the opposite direction toward the staircase. “It seemed like that bothered you. Did it?” He asked the question without looking at me.
“What? Henri accusing us of being boring?”
“No. Of acting married.”
As though waiting for this cue, sweat sprang out from the pores around my temples and armpits simultaneously. How is it possible to have such coordinated sweat?
“Nothing Henri says bothers me. Anyway, it sounded like a compliment to me.”
“That’s how I took it. I just wanted to make sure you felt the same way.” John squeezed my hand, a now-familiar gesture he used to punctuate a conversation. “So, what are we going to watch? We’ve got ‘The Painted Veil’ from your list and ‘A Scanner Darkly’ from mine.”
“Either one’s fine with me. But do you mind if I wash the flour out of my hair first?”
“Sure. But only if you let me help.” His suggestion dripped with possibilities.
I nodded and John led me to the bathroom I used when I spent the night at the palace. He closed the door and turned the lock with a sharp click.
He grabbed my arms, just below the shoulders, and nipped at my neck. “I don’t want to get your shirt wet. Mind taking it off?”
I looked into his simmering eyes and nodded my consent. In a single swoosh, he pulled the long-sleeve T-shirt over my head, forcing my arms into the air. Before I lowered them, his hands squeezed my ribcage below my bra and he brought his kisses south, closer to my cleavage. I wore a new black bra, the successor to the one I’d worn when I got soaked outside the preschool. He stopped and retrieved a towel, spreading it on the wide, raised area surrounding the lip of the jetted tub.
“Lie down.” I did as he instructed. He guided my head over the tub, cradling it in his palm. With his other hand, he opened the faucet.
“Do you like it hot or cold?”
“Hot, please.”
He pulled the attached nozzle and rained the warm water over my hair. Next, he squeezed the pearly pink shampoo onto my hair and got to work.
“You’re so beautiful.”
His declaration stood on its own; it didn’t come in the heat of intense kissing or groping. He was really examining my face, so his words held more weight.
“Beautiful? Maybe. But only from this angle.”
“From every angle.” He set the nozzle down. “Look at me. I love you. That’s all that matters. Stop being so hard on yourself.”
It was the first time he’d said those three simple words. The inflection of his voice, the concern in his eyes consumed me. Not only did he love me, but he worried I wasn’t getting it. My ears rang with the ancient love song every devoted couple knows by heart; its wordless melody told me yes, I knew he loved me, and I loved him, too.
Without regard for my sopping hair, I sat up, took his face in my hands, and kissed him. I pulled back and looked him in the eyes. “I love you, too.”
He smiled and lightly brushed some suds off my cheek. “Let’s get you washed up.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting his fingers massage my scalp and lace their way through my hair. Devotion infused his movements; never had anyone doted over me like this. After the rinse, he squeezed my hair, pulling the excess water into the tub.
“Sit up.” He grabbed a towel from a nearby shelf.
After patting my hair dry, I nuzzled into his chest. “Thank you.”
“Well? How did I do?”
I stood and walked to the mirror. “Not bad. I may have to let you try a few more times… practice makes perfect and all that.”
“Just say the word.” His tenderness overwhelmed me.
Three weeks before Winter’s Feast, the annual post-Christmas gala at Belvoir, there was an unusual flurry of activity in the driveway at the side of Belvoir. It caught my eye when the driver pulled up in front of my usual door. John met me, and led me inside.
My feet expertly navigated the halls and stairs; this was the 17
th
time I’d been to Belvoir since we started dating. (But who was counting?) I was such a frequent visitor I thought about leaving a toothbrush and other essentials in the bathroom connected to my bedroom. Afraid John’s father would find out and freak, I rejected the idea and kept packing and unpacking my rolling duffle for each visit. Whatever.
I planned to make savory stuffed dates during this visit, having given John my ingredients list when I was at Belvoir a couple of days earlier. The palace staff got any ingredient I requested. Most impressive was their ability to supply me with sweet, luscious strawberries, even though they were out of season, for my grandmother’s strawberry bread. Since they went to so much trouble for the main ingredient, I improvised the buttermilk with milk and lemon juice. The loaf still turned out right: dense and cake-like.
Instead of leading me to the kitchen, John took me to The Flat.
“Straight to your bedroom, huh? You haven’t changed your mind about your virginity, have you?” I said with innocent fluttering eyes as he shut the door.
“Don’t you wish!”
The weather was cold and the paparazzi was hot. Their speculation about John’s love life ran rampant like the season’s flu, spreading rumors across glossy printed pages and social media. Since they were so desperate to find out about the prince’s “latest fling” and why almost no one saw him in public these days, we stayed at the palace most of the time. My name surfaced a couple of times as a possible contender for John’s affections. But we gave them so little to go on, it came off as pure speculation.
I slipped off my shoes and John grabbed my arms, pulling me tight against his body. Falling onto his bed, he promptly rolled on top of me. Through my jeans, I felt him coming to attention, a sensual greeting.
Hi, honey, I’m home!
“What’s this all about?”
“Hatty… Spend the rest of your life with me.” He was a bit out of breath.
Did I hear that right?
I gently pushed on his chest. “Seriously. What’s going on?”
He sat up, but I remained on my back. Ever so lightly, his fingers traced the peaks and valleys of my face. “Hatty, will you marry me?”
I sat up quickly, too quickly, because little silver stars exploded in my field of vision. “I’d better lie back down.”
I eased back into a reclining position on the comforter. He lay down beside me, our faces an inch apart.
“I love you, and I want you to be my wife.” John wants me. Forever. My very core lit up at the prospect of spending the rest of my life with him, and I had to stop myself from screaming, “Yes!” Because it wasn’t quite that simple.
He held up a platinum ring, reached over, and took my right hand, the traditional place for wedding rings in Toulene. “Hatty, would you do me the honor of being my lifelong partner?”
He slid onto my finger the most beautiful ring I’d ever seen. It had a large center stone sitting among a circle of small diamonds.
Holy bling-bling, Batman.
His proposal didn’t come as a complete surprise―at the conclusion of our last date, the royal family’s private attorney accompanied me home to go over some new paperwork. Lars Franke explained how my life would change if John and I got married. In order to have a title, Duchess was the most likely, I’d have to give up my U.S. citizenship. The title was necessary to fulfill legal requirements for marrying a member of Toulene’s royal family, a law implemented after that messy Fergus-Emmaline business. Lars also told me if we got engaged before March, I’d have to forgo my final semester and delay graduation. He said in Toulene, royal engagements traditionally last no more than six months, so I’d be too busy planning the wedding and preparing to move to focus on my studies. There was also the little matter of my internship. I’d need time to work with my advisor and develop a plan that fulfilled the university’s requirements and didn’t involve coverage of the royal family or the National Assembly.
I frowned at the thought of having to halt my education.
“Oh God. What’s wrong?” John’s eyes were open wide and his lips wilted in concern.
“I’m going to be completely honest with you. I want to marry you. I want it more than anything. But your lawyer said if we get engaged, I can’t graduate in May. Is that true? Why can’t I do both?” I said it with my eyes closed, willing the tears to stay away.
He held my hand and rubbed it gently. “I understand. I’m asking so much of you. I knew the thought of delaying graduation would upset you. But I received some exciting news today from London. A family friend sits on the editorial board of The Guardian. He wants to be your mentor and help you become a writer for the paper’s editorial page. I’m guessing the university will count that as your internship, even if you work remotely.”
His face shone with satisfaction because he’d solved my problem. Except he hadn’t. It smacked of favoritism. No one in their right mind at The Guardian would agree to work with a young journalist without a degree unless she were poised to wed a prince.
“Don’t you think I can find an internship on my own? Before we met, I was well on my way to completing a degree without royal intervention.”
“Yes, I realize you can find your own opportunities. But I thought you’d love the idea of working for such a prestigious paper. And they want you to write about poverty, education, and children’s issues. I thought you’d be thrilled.”
“I’m surprised. That’s all.”
“I’m sure you realize there’s no way you can be married to me and work as a reporter of any kind. Reporters are the enemy of this family.”
Boom. There it was. I suspected he felt this way, but he’d been careful not to say it explicitly. Now that we were in this thing deep, the truth emerged.
“So am
I
the enemy then? I was a reporter.”
“Of course not. I’m talking about the men and women who nearly kill themselves and others trying to get a photo of me with a family friend or cousin so they can spew lies about who I love.” His voice was loud. “And when we’re married and have a palace full of beautiful children, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some fool with a camera hurt or exploit them in any way.”
I’d never seen him this angry or heard him raise his voice so loudly. I sat up and took his hand, rubbed his back.
“Yes. John, I love you. When I think about what would make me happy for the rest of my life, all the pictures in my head include you.” It was true. Going back to my pre-John life wasn’t an option.
He kissed my palm, and squeezed my hand. “This spring will be busy. After the wedding, whenever that is, we’ll move to Langbroek Palace to give ourselves space and distance from my family. Once we’re settled, I promise to do everything in my power to make it possible for you to finish your degree. And in the meantime, you can begin working with Hans Friedman.”