The Royal Pain (17 page)

“C
an't I be your consort?” Shel begged. “Do I have to be a prince?”

“It's not so bad,” David said. He had returned from North Dakota that morning, and the whole family was together for lunch. Dara and Sheldon had taken an instant dislike to each other, and they were both giving each other guarded looks from across the table. “There's an excellent dental plan, for example.”

“Sorry,” Al said. “Believe me, you don't look like a prince. At all. I'd make you the Duke of Shit if I could.”

“Now that's got a nice ring to it,” Alex's sister Kathryn said. Sheldon could see the promise of immense gorgeousness in the brunette teenager, and briefly pitied his future father-in-law. “The Duke of Shit! Think what the family crest would look like.”

Nicky laughed and spit pea soup out of his nose. Dara laughed, too, and drooled peas down her chin, to be swiftly wiped up by her mother.

“Sorry, Shel,” Alex said with real sympathy. “By law, the spouse of the prince or princess is himself (or herself) a prince or princess. And I might as well tell you, you're going to get stuck with a bunch more titles, too.”

“Like Lord of Losers,” Kathryn suggested.

“And by the way, if we're celebrating my official engagement,” Alex demanded, “why are we serving a vegetable I hate?”

“Quitcher bitching,” the king ordered. “They're cheap this time of year. You know what it costs to feed all you bums?”

“I have the figure, sir,” Edmund said, standing very properly at the king's right elbow.

“That's okay,” Shel said hastily. “I don't want to know.”

“I also have the figures on what it cost to ship your things from North Dakota.”

Alex frowned at him. “I told you I'd pay for that.”

“And I told you to forget about it. Bad enough I've got maids and—and footmen and someone's secretly folding my socks. I mean, I'm freaking out just sitting in this room. Although, it helps that you're all kind of jerky. If you were stiff and proper, this would be a lot worse.”

“I think the Duke of Shit just insulted us,” Christina said.

“Language, please, Your Highness.”

“Cram it, Edmund.”

“Speaking of stiff and proper,” Jenny said hastily from Alex's right elbow, “if I may, the invitation to Prince William's wedding came in the morning packet.”

“I told you!” the king said, stopping in mid gnaw on his lamb chop to crow. “I knew she couldn't say no to me. Us, I mean.”

“Unfortunately, sir, you're already scheduled to be in New York that day to address the U.N. It is not a thing to be rearranged.”

“Right, right. Well, I'll call her.”

“No need,” Edmund said hastily. “I have already extended regrets on the family's behalf.”

“Okay, then. We got any more a' these chops?”

“Dad, for God's sake,” Kathryn said, rolling her eyes. “We're all still on the soup course.”

“It's my fault you're all slow, like cows in a pasture?”

“That's great,” Alex muttered.

“He called us all cows,” Prince Alexander said and, to Shel's startlement, continued in verse:

“Another way of saying

I love you, children.”

“You stop that,” Kathryn ordered. “You haven't done the haiku thing in ages. You're just showing off for Sheldon.”

“You guys are
so
weird,” Shel said, staring into his soup. “I can't believe I gave up nice, sane North Dakota for this.”

“Ah, but you did,” Alex said, squeezing his leg under the table. “Remind me to thank you again later.”

“Gross!” Kathryn, Alexander, and Nicky all screamed in unison.

“Not until you're married,” the king said, “or I break your spine, boy. Possibly in more than one place.”

“You're killin' me,” Shel groaned, in a credible imitation of the king.

“It's awful, I know. But look at this, this is nice,” Christina said, admiring the announcement in the
Juneau News.
“You actually don't look like you're going to hit the photographer.”

“He caught me in a weak moment,” Shel admitted. A post-coital moment, in fact. But what the king didn't know wouldn't hurt him. “If we can't do it until we're married,” he informed his bride-to-be, “then the date just moved up by six months.”

She grinned. He expected a protest, but all she said was, “I'll have Jenny send out an updated press release.”

“No way!” the king hollered. “You know what I'll lose in deposits if you change the date?”

“You can't let them,” Nicky said, “just so they can
do it.
Yech!”

“Shut up and finish your soup,” Alex snapped.

“Your love life is yech.

We must never speak of this

Never in our lives.”

“Alexander, I'm serious. If you don't stop with that, and I mean
right now
…” Kathryn brandished her empty soup bowl threateningly.

“That's amazing,” Shel said. “They just come out of you? That's haiku?”

“You bet your ass it is,” Prince Alexander said. “Give me any topic and I'll give you a great fuckin' haiku.”

The king pointed his fruit fork at the prince. “You just watch your mouth, boy. You're not too big to spank. Or imprison.”

“It's really a nice announcement,” Christina said. She glanced at the princess. “You warned him, right? I mean, his pic's gonna be in all the magazines.”

“I warned him.”

“And the wedding coverage! You warned him he'd be on TV, right?”

“It's all right,” Shel said. “Well, it's not, but it's worth putting up with.”

Alex beamed. “I can't wait.” She looked at her prince. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said, touched. It was the first time she'd said it outside of the privacy of her rooms.

It made ignoring the faux-barfing noises from the younger royals very easy.

“T
he Royal Household of Baranov, including His Majesty King Alexander II, announces the joyous occasion of the engagement of Her Highness, Princess Alexandria Baranov, to Dr. Sheldon Rivers, an American citizen.

“The wedding will take place at the Sitka Palace on Saturday, October 23rd, 2006, at 9:00
A.M
. An expected eight thousand wedding invitations will be extended.

“The wedding will be held on the Sitka palace grounds and the reception will be on the West Lawn, weather permitting.

“All at the Sitka Palace wish life-long happiness to Her Highness the Princess of Alaska, and Dr. Rivers, future Prince of Alaska.

“After her wedding, Her Highness has announced her legal name and title will be Her Highness, Alexandria Baranov Rivers.”

One week later…

S
cott Gottlieb fussed around Dr. Pohl's desk for a minute, waiting for his boss to come in. She tended to sleep late, then work until ten o'clock at night. That suited his schedule fine, as this job, cool as it was, was just a stopping point until he saved up enough to buy his own flower shop. He had the spot picked out: there was a lot just half a mile from the Sitka Palace, and one thing the Baranovs were famous for was convenience. If he could just get his shop set up there…he'd have enough funding in another year, maybe two. And his old man had promised to help him with the down payment on the lot this summer…

As Dr. Pohl's assistant, he got to see the business side of things and, even better, had hopes of spotting a royal. Although, Dr. Pohl usually went to the Sitka if she was supposed to see one of them…other than that time with Princess Christina, the Baranovs didn't come here, and why should they? Still, he had hopes…

His boss came in, hung up her duck-patterned jacket (mergansers), and held out the tray of hot drinks she'd grabbed from the local Starbucks. (She'd threatened to strangle him with the cord to the shades if he ever brought her coffee, and he believed her.) She sat down behind her desk as he took his (white hot chocolate with a shot of espresso) and placed hers (coffee, no cream, two sugars) on the desk blotter.

“Hi, Scott.”

“Morning, Dr. Pohl. The mail's here. And so's your ten o'clock.”

“That's ‘Mrs. Johanssen,' Scott, they have names,” she corrected him gently.

He colored. “Sorry, doc.”

“Try not to do it again, please. I did see her on my way in, so just pop the mail in my bin and I'll get to it—”

“Uh, excuse me, Doctor, but there's something in there I think you should—I mean, it's from the palace.”

“Our palace?” she asked, arching white eyebrows. She glanced over and there it was: a heavy, cream-colored envelope with the royal seal (a roaring lion holding a red shield) embossed on the back.

Dr. Pohl picked it up, turned it over to see who it was from (HRH AB was the only hint she got), slit it open with her duck letter opener (a mallard), eased out the sheet of stationery, paper so heavy it had to have some cloth in it, and started to read.

Scott pretended to straighten her files in the corner, then spun around when the doctor burst into tears.

“What's the matter?” he gasped. “Are you in trouble?” He had visions of King Al's troops bursting in to drag the doctor away for…what? He had no idea.

“No,” Dr. Pohl sobbed. “I'm going to be a bridesmaid.”

“Please, please can I come with?” he begged.

“No,” Dr. Pohl said, still crying.

Six months later…

“I
can't believe this,” Shel said. “I can't fucking believe it.”

“Yep,” his future sister-in-law said cheerfully. “The big day is finally here. I couldn't hardly sleep at all last night! Two royal weddings in two years! Too cool.”

He grunted and looked down at her, then looked away. Since the braces had come off and her acne had cleared up, Kathryn's promise of beauty had been fulfilled, and now she looked disturbingly like a shorter version of Alex. She was wearing what all the bridesmaids wore, a ridiculously full-skirted crimson gown with what had to be three hoop skirts—the skirt came out to
here.
It was like something out of
Gone with the Wind,
a novel he loved mostly because all the rich people ended up poor.

The crimson bodice was studded with small red beads, and Kathryn was wearing a matching bead choker around her neck and ruby dangling earrings.

Her black hair was pinned up, showing the creamy perfection of her shoulders. If she was wearing shoes, Shel couldn't see them. Alex, his love, his bride, his (groan) princess, called them “meringue dresses” after a movie she had seen.

Kathryn's bouquet, a striking cluster of deep red calla lilies held together with a wide crimson ribbon, was carelessly discarded in the corner while she fussed over Sheldon's already immaculate tie.

“You look really terrific,” he told her. “Really, uh, really beautiful.”

“Well, finally,” she said. “I've been waiting. You watch, I'll be the one having all the adventures next. I'm tired of David and Chris and Alex hogging the spotlight.”

“Your dad might have something to say about that…you're only, what? Sixteen?”

“Oh.” She dismissed the king of Alaska with a wave of her hand. “He has something to say about everything.”

“I just can't believe any of this,” he said, looking around his small dressing room. He'd spent most of his days in Minot, tying up loose ends and bringing the new head of the NDISL up to speed while he ducked the servants and guards. He'd shooed away his man servants—paid friends? Butlers? Whatever the hell they were called. He was supposed to have, like, ten, and he didn't need any.

“Can't believe what?” Kathryn asked.

“Huh? Oh, right. I can't believe we agreed to have an outdoor reception in October. In Alaska.”

“Note the dresses,” she said, pointing to her gigantic full skirt. “This thing might as well be made of Goretex; I can't feel a thing. And all the guys have on long pants and long sleeves, and your tuxes are wool.”

“I noticed,” he said, tugging at his sleeve. But it was good wool; he didn't really itch. It was nerves. Awful, horrible, unending nerves. The tuxes were actually pretty nice…dark gray, with a stripe on each leg, but done well enough so that he didn't feel like a waiter.

And Alex had insisted—no flower boutonnieres. Said they were tacky and everyone did them, which nearly caused a fistfight with Christina. Instead, the men were wearing inch-wide wreaths made of thyme. Although he had not been consulted (he'd made clear he had no desire to plan any of it, except for one detail which Alex had readily agreed to, thank God) he liked them. Alex was right: in a wedding where tradition ruled, it was nice to see new things.

“And the sun is out!” Kathryn was still babbling. “It's going to be a gorgeous fall day. Nobody's gonna be cold.”

Then why was cold sweat trickling down his shoulder blades? Obviously, nothing to do with the weather…

“And don't forget,” his future sister-in-law reminded him, “you also promised my dad you wouldn't have sex until after you were married.”

“Mind your own business,” he said automatically, “you little creep.” Since his dick got hard, to paraphrase Eddie Murphy, when the wind blew, Shel needed no such reminding. The king had caught them at a weak moment, making them swear on their honor: no gropey until after the wedding-ey. And Alex, damn her Baranov sense of duty, had made them stick to it. Agh! It was the longest he'd gone without sex in…er…

“So!” Kathryn added, still straightening his tie, which was already perfectly straight, “you must be really really glad today is here finally, huh?”

“Actually, the time really, uh, flew.” And it had. It had rushed up at him, like a wild animal free of its leash. It seemed like it had just been spring a week ago. Now he was about to be the Prince of Alaska. Because the only way to get the only woman in the world he wanted was to get a crown.

A goddamned crown!

“Are you all right?” Kathryn asked. “You look kind of pukey.”

“I feel kind of pukey,” he admitted. “I'm going to walk around outside for a couple of minutes.”

She held his wrist and looked at his watch, a gift from the king. “You've got about twenty before you're supposed to be in South Juneau.”

He shivered. They named the big ballrooms, halls, parlors, whatever, after towns in the country. South Juneau sounded like a conference room, but it was really a gigantic dance hall that could hold thousands. “Don't remind me,” he said, and slouched off.

 

E
veryone left him alone—the palace grounds were safe enough, and he was on the opposite side…all the guests were streaming into the place from the north.

He stood and watched the bees (a phrase he'd picked up from Nicky and, dammit, they were people, he had to stop calling them “castlebees” in his head) setting up for the reception. It looked like there were bowls and bowls of flowers just…everyplace. And since the ceremony was going to be brief (thank you, thank you God), they were already setting food out, protectively covered.

He grinned to see the stacks and stacks of miniature hot dogs—in wee buns an inch long!—and hamburgers, and mini lobster rolls. He could see the cakes being rolled out to their tables: a four-tiered groom's cake (they had made an extra one for the wedding as well as the rehearsal banquet) in dark chocolate, and decorated with thin white ribbons circling each tier.

And
the
cake, the one Christina had insisted on making and decorating: four enormous Swiss vanilla tiers covered in ice-blue frosting—but it was that flat kind of frosting—fondue? Fondant? Anyway, it looked as smooth as an ice pond, and had been decorated with sugared pine cones and chocolate twigs. He wasn't a sweets person, but the cake really was something. He could have gobbled half a tier on his own, if he wasn't scared he'd puke.

He got a little closer, puzzled because he kept seeing the same set of initials on everything: BR. Hanging banner-like from trees, on tables, on doors and windows—Rough? Bring Roses?

It hit him: duh. Baranov/Rivers. That was…nice. He guessed. Okay, it was a little creepy. He was sure someone had told him his and Alex's initials would be splashed all over everything on the big day, but to see it in real life was…weird.

“Hey! Loser!”

“Sheldon! Over here!”

He looked; there were the Grange twins in all their tuxedo'd glory—he couldn't remember Teal ever wearing anything but a T-shirt and jeans. He grinned; truly a momentous occasion.

“Thanks for the real food,” Teal said with his mouth full as Shel approached. “Have you had one of these baby hot dogs? They're awesome!”

In response to a pleading look from one of the caterers, Shel said, “Knock it off, assface. Those're for the reception.”

“Hey, we're guests of honor,” Teal bragged, while his twin helped the caterer cover the hot dogs.

“True, but keep your ham-handed fingers off the food until it's time.”

“I must admit, you're the best looking valet I've ever seen,” Crane teased.

“Shut your cake hole. Both of you.” He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Why didn't I elope?”

“Because Alex never would have agreed. She's all about duty, that girl.”

“Don't remind me.” The three friends fell silent and watched the caterers filling long clear vases with white calla lilies and place them on the tables. Kathryn had been right; the weather was a miracle. Lots of sun, no wind. It could have been August instead of early fall.

He stared down at the closest table, reading the top of the little box which served as a treat and a place holder, the name written in beautiful, spidery black script: Susan Sarandon. Oh, for Christ's sakes. That couldn't be right, could it? How did the Baranovs even know Susan Sarandon?

“What's in the boxes?” Teal asked, poking one.

“Stop that.” Crane smacked his brother's hand, which saved Shel the trouble. “You take the top off, and there's a petit four inside.”

“What the hell is a petit four?”

“It's a miniature cake.”

“Oh. You can have mine, bro. I'll just take an extra baby burger instead. Listen, Shel, while I've got you alone, is it true you're giving dirt as wedding favors?”

Crane sighed, again saving Shel the trouble. “They're tulip bulbs, you ignoramus. The guests take them and plant them in the next week or so—they're a fall bulb, as everyone knows—and next spring a physical symbol of Shel and Alexandria's love will bloom.”

“Yawn,” Teal said.

“I think
my wife's
idea was charming.”

“Okay, okay, don't burst a blood vessel, you big sissy. I still say they look like little clumps of dirt. You can dress them up in all the netting you want: they still look yuck.”

“Oh, anything that's different looks ‘yuck' to you, so be quiet.”

“You know, since you got made first chair and moved to this place—”

“And knocked up your wife,” Shel added helpfully.

“—you're more annoying than usual. And that's saying something!”

Crane ignored his brother's jibes. “Sheldon, are you all right? Do you need anything?” Crane pinched his brother and hissed, “We're his groomsmen, we're supposed to be asking questions like this.”

“Yeah, do you need your back wubbed, wittle bitty groomey? How about a pony ride?”

He laughed, for the first time that day. “I'm fine, you morons. Well, moron, singular. I just came out to get some air. There's too many people fluttering around me inside.”

“Like that Kathryn girl? She could flutter around me all she wants.”

“Shut up, Teal, she's underage. And I guess…” He sighed. “I guess I better get used to it.”

“Underage girls?”

“No, all the people.” He sighed again.

Teal rolled his eyes. “Is this the part where we're supposed to cry for you because you're going to be stupidly wealthy for the rest of your life, Prince Sheldon?”

He didn't answer, instead, he changed the subject: “Did the rest of your sibs get here okay? Your folks?”

“Yup. Fourth row. They're in there right now, waiting to be impressed by the greatness that is us,” Teal bragged.

“And my mother, for some unfathomable reason, wants to feel Jenny's stomach,” Crane added.

“I'd feel Jenny's stomach,” Teal leered.

Crane frowned at his brother. “You best get up there, then, Shel. Or wherever you're supposed to be.”

“Yeah, don't want the king giving you a black eye. Did you see the size of that guy? And he's the one marrying you! I mean, you know. Not marrying you. Doing the ceremony.”

“Alex wanted it that way.” Shel shrugged. “It makes the, uh, coronation part easier.”

“Ahhhhh. So they really just stick a crown on your head at the end and call it good?”

“The king does, yeah.”

“Are you okay? You look kind of weird.”

“My breakfast isn't agreeing with me. Why don't you guys go on in? I'll be right behind you.”

Giving him identical doubtful looks, the twins left. Shel watched the bees—the palace employees—for a moment longer, then started the long death march toward the South end of the palace.

If he could have taken Alex without the title and the money and the employees and the royal protocol, he would have. Since he couldn't have her without all that other bullshit, he'd be the Prince of Alaska. But boy, oh boy, it would take some getting used to. Prince Sheldon! Ha!

It must be love, he thought, more than a little shocked. It must be! Because I would never—I could never have—but I can't live without her, either. Just the thought of it…he shivered again, and again, it had nothing to do with the weather.

“Wait! Oh, wait!”

He knew that voice, and instantly turned. There was the Princess of Alaska running toward him,
racing
toward him, her full white skirt caught up in her hands so she could navigate the turf better—he could see her matching shoes, pointy toes and diamond straps and all—he could see her hair jiggle, only the Baranov pearls keeping it from falling down past her shoulders in the dark cloud he knew well, so well he dreamed about it every night.

“It's okay,” she gasped, finally reaching him. She pressed a hand to her bodice and fought for breath.

“Jeez, Alex, I don't think that dress is for, you know, running laps,” he said mildly, but couldn't help grinning, he was so glad to see her.

“I mean…it's okay…you lasted longer…I don't want you to go…I'll hate it…but I understand…”

“Huh?”

“But I think…if you go…you're a coward…”

“I'm just getting some air, you nimrod! I'm not ducking out of the wedding.” He looked around and observed that they were, for the moment, utterly alone. It was the perfect setting for an escape. “Uh, but I can see why you thought that. No, I was getting freaked out in there and came out here for a bit while I still could.”

“Oh,” she panted. “If I had…the energy…I'd be mortified…for thinking…the worst…”

“It's not like I haven't given you reason. Hey, do you need to sit down?”