by Ellie Hall
Penny stopped in front of a full-length mirror, still wearing the outfit from the day before. She spotted a pretty floral day dress at the back of a rack. She held it in front of her. Whoever it belonged to must’ve been the same size as her because it looked like a perfect fit. She’d probably look more presentable wearing that than the rumbled outfit, complete with a jam stain from her scone.
But if she was going to play dress up, why be modest? She thought of her fantasies from when she was a girl, going to balls, dressing in gowns, meeting the prince. For all she knew, he could be there right now. A little thrill ran through her replacing the anxiety of the last twenty-four hours. Throwing caution, and reason, to the windy streets of the city, she changed into one of the grandest dresses in the room: the bodice was made of golden flowers that sparkled in the morning light. They cascaded down to the full skirt dotted with more golden flowers. It was perfect for a princess.
As she twirled in the mirror, the door opened.
“Penelope?” a woman’s voice asked. “What are you doing in here? We’ve been looking all over for you.”
Penny froze.
The woman tsked. “Just like when you were a little girl. Playing dress up but when you were supposed to actually dress up, you’d refuse. I remember you’d wear the most outrageous…” The older woman, with gray hair, twinkling blue eyes, and an unmistakable regal bearing opened her arms. “My, have I missed you. Such a young woman now. Well, young compared to me. It’s been far too long.”
Penny opened and closed her mouth. As she realized the queen’s arms were wrapped around her in a warm hug, she returned the gesture.
“You look so much like your mother, but your hair is much longer. From what I remember, you always did do things your way. Just like my sister.”
“My mom—?” Penny cut herself off. Was she allowed to talk to the queen?
“I know, it doesn’t always get easier to talk about the loved ones we’ve lost. I imagine more so being back here with all the reminders. Not everyone understands your decision to remain away for so long, but I respect it, dear.” She picked up the floral dress off the table where Penny had set it down. “Now, put this back on. You have a grand return to make.”
Practically shaking with nerves—how could she explain to the queen she was mistaken and Penny was not the Penelope she remembered without embarrassing her? She couldn’t. She simply followed orders.
The queen seemed to float ahead of Penny as she led her through the hall, up a set of stairs, and onto the main floor of the palace. Polished wood met creamy paint. Gilded frames held exquisite portraits. There was gold and marble. Everything was polished and shiny and opulent.
Penny let out a breath of awe.
“It’s good to be back, isn’t it?” the queen said.
She led Penny along a wide hallway and they passed a man in uniform carrying a tea tray. He paused, bowed to the queen, and the plate of cookies reminded her of where she was supposed to be. She caught up to the queen, feeling the need to explain. “Ma’am—”
“Penelope, don’t ma’am me. I’m your Aunt Bea. Don’t you remember you used to call me Auntie Bee Bee?” the queen laughed.
They turned into a room with pillars on either side. Several sparkling chandeliers hung above. At the very end was a raised platform and upon it a throne. There were also several seats beside it and people arranged in a semi-circle. As they approached, Penny realized it must be the throne room, the special place for coronations, ceremonies, and accepting visitors like royalty and ambassadors. She did not belong there. Sweat beaded along Penny’s brow as her boots squeaked on the parquet floor.
She took a deep breath when she got close enough to spot him. She’d recognize his chiseled jawline, the wink in his eyes, and his kissable lips in her sleep. Maybe she was dreaming. She pinched herself then cringed at the sharp little pain.
Emma was not going to believe this. Maybe dreams did come true. It was a strange twist to her series of unfortunate turns in her trip.
As she got closer, the room turned fuzzy, unfocused. Her breath, shallow. She was hungry. Lightheaded. That would explain it. Surely, she was imagining things. Seeing things. The prince?! She feared she might actually swoon. Then the room went black.
Chapter 2
Oliver
A woman with long, straight brown hair had walked in with the queen. She looked around as though stunned, shocked, possibly in awe. Oliver wasn’t sure. She’d looked up at him for a brief moment. Their eyes connected. She was familiar but not. He had the strange feeling that he’d been waiting for her but didn’t think he’d seen her before. Just before she reached the throne, his heart stuttered at the same time as she collapsed.
From the assortment of other nobles and members of the gentry gathered came a few gasps. Before Oliver could reach her, a medic swooped in and took her aside to keep from causing a fuss—that was life in the palace, brush everything under the rug, keep it hidden, follow formality.
Oliver sighed. As far as he was concerned, it was no surprise one of the royals-in-waiting aka the women who were endeavoring to marry him, to make an unforgettable entrance like that: fainting at his feet. In the coming days, they were all likely to do something outrageous to get his attention. The whole tradition was outrageous. He’d put it off as long as possible, hoping to find the one, but if he hadn’t selected a companion by his twenty-ninth birthday, the queen would assign him one during the following year. The time had come.
Nobles applied as candidates or family members nominated them. Out of that pool, the queen selected several. They’d go through a courtship process in the following days, and then they’d select the best candidate to reign with him.
As if any of it was his choice. The queen was marrying him off because an heir was needed in his home country and marriage was the only way to the throne in Concordia. A lot of people thought he was the Prince of England because he’d lived there most of his life. Probably the women present in the room included. The queen wasn’t his mother like many assumed, given he was the prince. When his own mother passed, she’d assigned Queen Beatriz his custodian. She loved him like a son but also had to fulfill her role as guardian and noblewoman.
The prospective candidates saw the title HRH, the life that being married to a prince would afford them, and the opportunities for fame. He didn’t want to be forced into marriage, especially not with a royal. There were so many rules. So much artifice. Expectations, obligations, pressure.
Queen Beatriz cleared her throat. Oliver got to his feet and they went through the motions of declaring the three, actually four, counting the straggler who finally returned to the group after passing out—she looked rather rumpled like she’d stayed up far too late the night before—, the official royals-in-waiting.
Oliver envisioned the queen weeded out other candidates as if she were at one of her kennel club shows, checking for pedigree and grooming habits. He suppressed a chuckle. He wasn’t comparing the women to canines, but the whole situation was a bunch of hogwash as far as he was concerned. What about seeing a girl for the first time, having his heart skip a beat, and falling slowly, wonderfully, and naturally in love?
If his sister Ava were there, she’d scold him, tell him it was his royal duty, and then they’d have a good laugh at how ridiculous all the pomp was. She understood his feelings but went along with it yet somehow got away with living her life beyond the palace walls. He’d gladly hand Ava the crown, but that was not how it worked in Concordia, one of the oldest, smallest, wealthiest, and most little-known countries in the world and his home.
He valued being a prince but he wanted to have a choice in who he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with. That didn’t seem unreasonable. His attention reluctantly returned to the events in the throne room.
A scepter was passed, something was read from a scroll, and he nodded to each of the women as a herald presented them.
Colette, the daughter of the Grand Duke of Heifershamshire. S
he batted her eyelashes.
Genevieve Dickerson of Flushington, who might actually have been a very, very distant cousin. He made a note to avoid her at all costs. Their noses were remarkably similar and he looked down hers at the other women. He made a double mental note to insist it not be her.
Odelia came next, curtsied and held her hand out to Oliver for a kiss. The queen had briefed him on the rules and he was not to make public contact with any of them lest the others get the wrong idea or perceive favoritism. She was from France and had a long and complicated title that took about a minute for the herald to finish saying.
Last, but not least, Penelope, the queen’s sister’s daughter stepped forward. As a child, she had the reputation for being the master mischief maker, the girl who’d disappeared for longer than a decade, and who seemed least interested in being there. Or more accurately, like she hardly knew where she was. She bowed and curtsied but had the good sense not to extend her hand for a kiss. In fact, it was like she didn’t know where to put her hands. They gravitated from her sides to her hips, to in front of her chest, and then she clasped, wrung, and fidgeted with them in front of her waist.
He smirked. There was something undeniably adorable about her.
Genevieve snickered.
Oliver stopped himself from glaring at her rude response. Penelope likely had jetlag, was confused, or like him was forced to be in attendance.
The herald announced they’d move to a drawing room for refreshments. Penelope sighed with what sounded like relief. Genevieve stifled laughter.
The prince lingered behind, letting them all go ahead of him. It would appear as though he was being chivalrous, but he held on to the last moments of his freedom and his bachelorhood before the four women competed for his hand like on one that American TV show.
The queen poked her head through the doorway, “Oliver, the ladies await.”
He sighed with resignation and met Queen Beatriz at the door.
“You know, there are a lot of young men who’d love to be in your position. These are four of the most eligible women in the world. You get to have your pick and have fun in the process. Your agenda will be filled for the next days as you get to know the royals-in-waiting.” She scuttled off to speak with a delegate from a coastal territory.
But it wasn’t his choice, plus Oliver had a strict no-royal-rule. He’d made the mistake of dating them when he was younger and it never turned out well. Not only that, but they were snooty, snobby, and entitled. He wanted a girl who longed to see the world out from behind the palace gates, who liked to listen to loud music, and sometimes ate with her hands. He wanted to see genuine laughter, hear strong opinions, and listen to her hopes and dreams and goals.
A footman passed with beverages and Oliver helped himself to a hearty sip of ice-cold water. His gaze floated around the room before landing on Penelope. She nervously twirled a piece of her long hair. Her eyes would be bright if she didn’t look so tired. She was trim and the floral dress hugged her in all the right places. A little surge he’d rarely felt shot through him and just as quickly disappeared. He took another sip of water from the glass.
She looked bored or out of place, he wasn’t sure. He knew she’d been educated in America. Orphaned at thirteen, she declared she was going to school in the States and that was final. He’d been to the home of the free and the brave several times himself and would’ve liked a bit of her moxie but he had Ava, his sister, and wouldn’t have left her to live the oddly lonely royal life on her own.
He knew for sure he didn’t want the future mapped out for him and he wondered what Penelope’s life was like overseas. Catching her gaze, she quickly looked away as though shy and then turned to study a painting of an archduke and his English setter.
Oliver discretely made his way across the room after greeting several people and making small talk. He didn’t like the feeling of eyes on him, likely the others curious to find out who he’d approach first. This was an opportunity for first impressions and he was sure what he did next mattered to the royals-in-waiting and those who stood to benefit from the partnering—politics, land rights, and international relations were all tied into his marriage. What he wanted was love but not with a royal.
Yet, he was drawn to Penelope and wanted to know more about her life and maybe what his life could have been like if he’d made the same decision all those years ago.
He edged over to her and said, “That’s Tully.”
She pointed at the Archduke.
“No, the dog. When I was a boy, the queen wouldn’t let me have a puppy so I learned the name of every dog in every painting in the palace. It drove her bonkers.”
“How about that one?” she asked, indicating a painting behind Genevieve.
“Oh, that’s Cricket—your great, great, great uncle Bernard insisted on having his trusty companion at every cricket game to ensure the win of his favorite team.”
“Did it work?”
“Goodness no. They were the worst in the league.”
She snickered. “Poor Cricket.”
“Poor us. These things are the worst. They bore me too so I don’t blame you for finding more interest in the artwork."
She stuffed the rest of a canape in her mouth and brushed off her hands. She held up her finger in the universal symbol for one-minute so she could chew. "Oh, I'm not bored.” She swallowed a second time as though searching for or stumbling over her words. Her cheeks tinged the color of a rose. “I'm enchanted and you can call me Penny.” She smiled like she might faint again.
An irresistible grin lifted his lips. “Yes, me too. You must be tired.” He glanced around then realized she likely hadn’t been in the palace, or any palace for that matter, in many, many years. Seeing it through her eyes, he tilted his head and squinted, taking in the lavishness. “I guess I can see what you mean. But I could go for something real, not everyone patting each other on the shoulder with one hand and stabbing someone else in the back with the other. It's all nepotism and deception. You know?”
She practically choked on her water. “Oh, my. I didn’t realize.”
He may have come off sounding dark or ungrateful and that was not what he’d intended. “I just mean this whole courtship and arranged marriage thing is not my style.”
“It’s, um, unique.” She glanced around the room as though searching for someone, something. He couldn’t be sure. Maybe she was another shallow noblewoman. He followed her gaze to a tall man in a navy uniform and then shifted as though to make his departure.
She cleared her throat. “Yeah, you know, I could really care less about all this too. I had to be dragged back, kicking and screaming.” She gestured at her appearance. “It was exhausting. My luggage was lost. On the airplane, I had to sit next to…”
“You mean they didn’t send for you in the private jet?”
She shrugged. “I’ve lived among the commoners, you know. I can’t just reduce myself to that.” She waved her hand as if such things were beneath her.
His lips quirked and he glanced at her boots. “I see. What was it like growing up away from all the fuss? All I know about you is you despise this kind of nonsense and would rather live on the open prairie with horses, goats, and a gaggle of geese.”
Her eyebrows crimped together.
“Don't you remember your cousin Hubert's birthday party? You dipped your finger into the cake icing to try a bite before it was time and got scolded by the nanny.”
“Oh, I can never resist cake or cookies or—”
A footman passed with a platter filled with pastries. She took a chocolate one and opened her mouth for an oversized bite. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to eat one of these,” she said around a mouthful.
“We do have the best baker in the world on staff.”
“I know.” She licked a bit of chocolate from her lip.
“Tell me, what have you been doing in the States? From what I remember, at the party, you were most intrigued by the ponies
and you told me you wanted to have seven horses—one for every day. You've grown up a lot but you were always so free-spirited.” He found himself intrigued, eager to hear what she had to say.
“Ponies? Prairies?” she asked. “You have a good memory.”
Just then, Genevieve sidled over. “Yes, Penelope, do tell us about your adventures in the west. What happened to your accent?”
Penny drew back. “It faded.”
Genevieve was relentless. “You should know the whole swooning bit at the foot of the prince is rather passé.”
Oliver could hardly stand the shrillness in her voice or the way she looked down her nose at everyone.
Penelope’s cheeks turned crimson and Oliver remembered that to them this was a competition and he was the prize.
Chapter 3
Penny
Passing out wasn’t a ploy because Penelope had no idea what she was stepping into, basically wearing someone else’s shoes, or dress as it were. Something came over her when she saw her teen crush in the flesh. And admittedly, she was tired, overwhelmed, maybe a little in shock. She did not swoon. She wouldn’t swoon. Not over Oliver, prince or not. Baking over boys. She had to stick to her goal. What was happening was just a little diversion.
But he was more handsome in real life than in the pictures she’d drooled over through the years. And he was talking to her and was charming. His voice, swoony. And his smile, flirty. His eyes, dreamy. She involuntarily let out a little coo.
However, she wasn’t sure if she should be angry or panicking at Genevieve’s words, accusation, threat. She couldn’t tell what it was but if someone found out about her true identity she was done for. She’d lose her apprenticeship in the very least—the only thing she had left after giving up her apartment, her job, and after arriving in London the night before, her rental.
