Ah. Mathilde was referring to her long-dead sister, Queen Serena. It was a dramatic correlation.
It was also perfect. Just the kick in the butt that Mallory needed.
“I like your style. I’m going to adopt it from now on.” She squeezed Mathilde’s hands with both of hers. Because the Villanis were simply not as into hugging as the Wishners. “Thank you for that perspective.”
A soft knock preceded a maid with a beautifully laid out tray of scones, figs, kumquats, three kinds of spreads, and a china teapot patterned with gold peacocks.
Ouch.
Once they’d each made a plate, the duchess doubled down. “I hear you have no trouble talking to the staff.”
“It’s easy. They’re all so nice.”
“So it is just your peers who are difficult?”
“You mean the nobility? They aren’t my…oh. I see what you did there.” She wrinkled her nose up at the duchess, which made the older woman cackle with laughter.
“I’m not trying to trick you, dear. I simply want you to look ahead. Look at the bigger picture. Look at the possibilities. Six months ago, could you have envisioned yourself becoming a baroness and living in a palace?”
“No. Not only could I not have imagined it, but I wouldn’t have wanted it when it was offered.” Although had she known about this heavenly pumpkin butter and scone combo, she might not have hesitated to hop on the plane. It tasted like autumn.
“Yes, I’ve heard the story about how both you and Kelsey had to be dragged out of New York City. See? Your stubbornness fits right in with the Villanis.” Mathilde patted her knee. “Six months from now? What do you imagine? Where do you see yourself?”
Funny how she’d just been thinking on this same topic. “I…I’m not sure. And that’s not me ducking your question. Lots of things are still up in the air.”
“Whatever you do imagine, it could be wholly different. No dream is too big. The road to happiness may seem circuitous, but the destination is worth it.”
Mallory wanted to make a joke about how Mathilde sounded like the paper surprise inside a fortune cookie. It wasn’t safe to assume that a meal of mu shu pork closed out with fortune cookies in Moncriano, though. A hazy memory from trivia made her think that tradition started in the U.S.
She tried very hard to downplay her American-ness here in the palace. It seemed rude to remind her…family-in-law? Surrogate family? Stepfamily once removed?
Sheesh, there wasn’t any word that summed up the complicated but entirely unofficial ties between her and the House of Villani. Regardless, they’d been welcoming. And they were the literal representation of their country in the flesh. So Mallory held back from referencing uniquely American things like…oh, red Solo cups, garbage disposals, and TV pharmaceutical ads.
The duchess’s words were motivating. Uplifting. And completely out of Mallory’s frame of reference. “You’re advocating that I be flexible. Roll with the flow. That’s…not really me. I’m a planner. A long-term goal setter. Right now? I’m not doing so great on even my short-term goals.”
“Oh, dear. What’s wrong?”
Her first inclination was to say in a singsong voice, nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll eat some worms. “I’m working on the orphan fundraiser. I have lists of potential sponsors, but nobody will return my calls.”
“Your calls? Who do you say is calling?”
“I don’t give my name. Just that I’m calling on behalf of the orphan charity.”
“I thought you used to do this for a living?”
The offhandedly snide question made Mallory bristle. “I did. I’ve run countless successful fundraising events. But my knowledge base isn’t translating.”
“Because you aren’t using your most powerful tool. Your name, Baroness. That alone should do it, but we can go up a level. This is Kelsey’s patronage, yes? Use her title when you call.”
She’d read the protocol binders four times. She’d sat through lecture after lecture by Sir Evan on what was kosher or not when it came to…associating oneself with the royal family. Her biggest takeaway? The House of Villani was a commodity not to be used or even referenced unless you shared their oh-so-blue blood.
“You want me to say I’m calling on behalf of the princess? That feels like I’d be trading on her title.”
“That’s what it’s good for. Opening doors and squeezing pockets.” Mathilde leaned forward to refill their teacups. “These trappings are lovely. You can tell with a look that I’ve enjoyed more than my fair share of calls down to the chef for scones on rainy days. And they do it because of my title. So, in turn, I use that title, that privilege, to effect change. To better others who don’t have the same quality of life as I do. Using the title for good is what makes having it worthwhile.”
Oh my goodness. She’d been going about this all wrong.
First and foremost, by not remembering that she did, indeed, kick ass at fundraising. Leveraging people to give their time, talent, and treasure to help the less fortunate. While Mallory barely remembered most of what had been beaten into her brain in physics class, what she did remember was about levers. How a lever affected the force used to move objects.
Kelsey’s title was the lever. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
Why was she still two steps behind and scared to make a misstep in this country? Her sister was freaking third in line to the throne. She herself had been shot, and still came back here to help out.
Christian had hit the nail on the head—she was still doing exactly the fundraising career she’d always wanted, had always believed was worthwhile and made a difference. It just came with different layers of distraction and folderol in Moncriano.
Back home, Mallory made lists and did whatever was necessary to tick off the points on them. She could coax anyone into talking to her. The secret was to be a good listener. Persistence and patience helped, too, and she had those in spades.
She’d scored a dream job in Manhattan, beaten out hundreds of other applicants, because her confidence and knowledge shone through.
Where had that woman gone? How had she disappeared in the middle of the Atlantic?
For months, Mallory had let people—titles—palaces—antiques—and yes, tiaras intimidate her.
Well, no more.
She’d make people listen to her. Using charming persistence, of course. Not threats of kneecapping or anything, which for all she knew was what they expected from an American. She’d show the whole country that this American led with her brains and her heart.
She’d stop hiding and feeling sorry for herself.
And she’d start by dragging that sexy boyfriend of hers, yes, outside palace walls for another date. In public.
The third time had to be the charm, right?
Chapter Sixteen
Christian braced his hand on the windowsill, looked out at the blue sliver of ocean in the distance and wondered, When will this be fun?
Sure, he knew being king—or even prince—wasn’t the same as a day yachting in the Riviera. He did, however, believe that the title was a noble privilege. That being the head of a kingdom gave so much satisfaction. That truly connecting with the people was all the reward he needed. That’s what his father had counseled.
Right now, Christian was convinced his papa had pulled a bait and switch on him. He’d been acting as king for months, and every week just got harder and sucked more.
Ha—that sounded like a porno. Good thing Elias wasn’t in the room, or he’d look at him and crack up.
No, today Sir Kai was his only ally. And there was only so much deflecting and tap-dancing that Kai could effect on his behalf.
“Your Highness, the seven hundredth year of the unification and birthday of Moncriano is almost upon us.”
Christian wanted to say “duh.” Kelsey and Mallory had taught him that
invaluable Americanism. One single word that conveyed you’re an utter idiot if you think I don’t know that already. Actually, you’ve annoyed me, so I’m going to stick with calling you an idiot, regardless.
One word! Talk about efficient. But he was on duty, as it were. Making nice. Appeasing his advisors. Trying to, anyway. So he bit back the “duh” and the sigh at being denied the perfect opportunity to use it.
Turning to face the two dozen men and women arrayed around the Coat of Arms Room, he said, “I’m aware, Sir Louis. It isn’t a speedboat that came crashing around the Cliffs of Rocca and caught me off guard. I’ve been well aware this was coming for most of my thirty years.”
“Yes, well, but nothing’s been announced.”
Sir Louis talked in italics. Used his hands to delineate both exclamation marks as well as every other punctuation mark that he spat out.
His pocket square was a hideous shade of yellow that clashed with his green checked tie. In other words, he was the main contender in the “who’s going to give the prince a headache first” competition.
Christian spread out his fingers, counting off. “Last I checked, there were no less than seven—possibly more, since I haven’t checked this week—different committees charged with planning and executing an entire year’s worth of the appropriate hoopla and commemoration.”
“Yes, but nothing’s been announced from the palace.”
“In case it wasn’t clear, we delegated. To said committees. Now, like most of the rest of Moncriano, all we have to do is show up and party like it’s 1320.”
Christian almost, almost added a hip thrust and a screech in homage to Prince’s “1999.” But he figured most in the room wouldn’t get the reference. And they’d all been enough of a collective pain in his ass so as not to deserve his sweet dance moves.
“Your Highness, with all due respect…” Lady Margareta got up from her ladder-back chair that had to have clocked at least a couple of hundred years of supporting the nobility. No, she didn’t just get up, she crossed half the room to plead her case right in front of him. Just…why? It was a room, not a stadium. He could see and hear everyone fine. Or was it just that his annoyance-meter was stuck on overdrive? “We cannot properly mark seven hundred years without a coronation. Or a wedding. Preferably both.”
Sir Filip also left his seat to plead his case. Which was impressive, because he used a cane carved from an oak tree on his estate—as he’d tell anyone who remarked on it—due to a crushed hip that never healed right after his horse fell on him. “And, if I may, Your Highness, it is imperative that we perhaps not wait for the year of celebration to kick off. All this uncertainty swirling around King Julian must be put to rest before the vote on joining the European Union.”
He’d chosen this room specifically for this meeting. The walls were covered in blue-and-white tiles depicting daily life in Moncriano during the Renaissance. And the vaulted wooden ceiling was surrounded by the coats of arms of the forty-eight main noble families in gilded woodwork. Christian’s idea had been to subtly remind them of unity.
Turned out that they were all unified—against him. Or rather, against his father remaining king and himself remaining single.
Hand splayed across his chest, Sir Kai stepped into the fray. “While we appreciate all of you taking the time to share your thoughts, you’re retreading familiar ground. The prince does not have time to listen to you all talk in circles. If you have something new to share, then he’d entertain it.”
Well, hell.
Sir Kai had homed in on exactly what bothered Christian the most about this meeting. He’d been hearing the same thing—from the same people—for weeks.
What he needed was a fresh take. His papa had always said, “When in doubt, take it to the people.”
He looked up at the coffered ceiling. Those coats of arms only represented the noble families of the realm. Yes, their money and influence helped keep the wheels of commerce turning for the country.
But the rest of his people—the ones in the trenches every day, working for the influx of tourists and statesmen who helped turn them into an economic powerhouse capable of attracting the interest of the EC—those subjects could have a very different take on things.
And their voices were equally important. Maybe even more so, since their numbers were greater.
“In lieu of any fresh revelations coming to light”—Christian paused, for form’s sake, but of course nobody spoke up—“I’m going to do some research into this myself.” He nodded at the assembled advisors, all sporting the same gaping mouths and wide eyes. Except for Sir Kai. His eyes almost twinkled at Christian’s abrupt announcement.
He made it almost across the length of the receiving room in the blissful peace of shocked silence. Two steps from the door, a clamor broke out behind him. Christian didn’t care. They’d had their chance.
But then the door opened just as he reached for it.
Mallory burst through it like sunshine breaking through the fog over the ocean. Her burnished hair tumbled in loose waves over a tight cream sweater. It was tucked into a corduroy miniskirt the light brown of a red oak tree. Matching boots came up over her knee, which just made him hunger to touch the few inches of exposed skin between them and her hem.
At the sight of the dozens of pissed-off men and women in dark suits streaming toward her, she started to reel back, hanging on to the twisted iron of the handle. But then Mallory caught herself. Squared her shoulders. Dropped the obligatory curtsy to Christian—with a wink! Then she sashayed in on those high heels with a self-composed presence as if this was something not only expected, but enjoyable.
“My lords and ladies. It looks like I’ve interrupted a spirited discussion. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I was informed that this meeting was set to end ten minutes ago. I’m quite sure your stomachs are growling just like mine.”
Christ. They’d run late again. Over nothing. Christian was going online tonight to buy one of those obnoxious old-fashioned alarm clocks with two bells. He’d bring it to every meeting until they learned that his time could not be squandered.
Was the fault partially his? Sure.
But it seemed damned rude to check his watch every ten minutes. There was no subtle peeking at it.
Another nugget his papa had imparted years ago? Assume that someone is watching you at all times. That there is always a pair of eyes on you. Christian didn’t want to end up being flayed on Twitter for an assumed slight to whoever was talking just because he wanted to be timely.
The din behind him quieted. They were all probably waiting to take their lead from Christian. Would he let this American, this woman messing with all their plans for a royal wedding, the heartless slayer of peacocks, interrupt the serious business of state?
Hell, yes.
Christian gave her the traditional greeting of a kiss on each cheek. Inhaled her spicy orange-and-cinnamon scent that made him want to burrow into her neck…and then keep going.
“Lady Mallory, it’s always a pleasure to see you. And you’re quite right that we shouldn’t keep anyone from getting home to their family dinners. Unless you came in to discuss something with the group?” He waggled his eyebrows at her, knowing full well nobody else could see his face.
“I came to get you, Your Highness.” Mallory didn’t lower her voice at all. In fact, she made it loud enough so that everyone could hear.
It was a bold statement, not a request. A statement like that made her status as his official girlfriend very clear to all present. It was a polite way of throwing down to them. Of saying yeah, I’m in the inner circle, suck on that.
It was the best thing Christian had heard all day.
“That’s music to my ears. What may I do for you?”
She waved an arm to indicate the high-ceilinged room, big enough to hold over one hundred comfortably for a reception. “I’m feeling hemm
ed in. I think we need to get outside the palace walls. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
Christian wondered how many would understand her colloquialism, which just made him smile harder. “I couldn’t agree more.” He took her hand and walked out the door.
Of course it wasn’t that easy.
A stomping of heels on the Spanish tile floor alerted Christian that they were being followed by a comet tail of advisors. He gave it ten steps. Listened with half an ear to the chorus of “oh, but Your Highness,” “we’re not finished,” “you can’t ignore,” and “you must act.”
He squeezed Mallory’s hand. Winked back at her. Then he stopped abruptly, spun on his heel, and took a ridiculous amount of pleasure in watching them all stack up like dominoes as they surged to a stop to prevent running into him.
Christian threw his arm straight up in the air—God, he wished he’d been wearing his navy sword so he could’ve waved that—and pointed in the direction of the palace entrance. When he spoke, he let all of his disdain and frustration rip into a deep-throated yell.
“Are you actually afraid of what I’ll hear out there?”
Then he took Mallory’s hand again and proceeded down the hallway.
Nobody followed. Or made a speck of sound.
Yeah, he felt a little kingly in that moment. Badass, too.
He glanced at Mallory, who was grinning at him from ear to ear. “Can you come with me right now? Or do you need to pull a Genny, find out the exact details of where we’re going, and then do a twenty-minute closet dive to prepare?”
She raised their entwined fingers. Took a look down at them. “I’m all set.”
“I’m thrilled to hear it.” Her long legs had no trouble keeping pace with him as they hurried down the endless corridors. “Right before you came in, I’d figured out that I need to talk to my people. Listen to them, actually.”
“Weren’t you just doing that?”
“Let’s say I want to hear from a different cross section. People who care more about living good, happy, productive lives than the perception of royalty.”
Tempting the Prince (Sexy Misadventures of Royals) Page 21
