Harrod at his shoulder, Prince Montague stood his ground.
“I will marry Petunia,” he said between ground teeth. “The Inauguration is only two days away, and then we shall marry.”
“But Your Highness…” Wilhelm began.
“No!” the Prince interrupted. “I am complying with the conditions of the will. It is all legal and above board.”
“N…not quite, Your Highness,” Wilhelm said stuttering. “She’s a commoner.” The last words were soft, almost inaudible, as though he was afraid to say them out loud.
Montague shoved his chair back, scraping it across the floor.
“We’ll see about that,” he shouted, then stormed out of the room.
His head hurt. Even when he came up with a solution, his idiot legal advisor had to go and tell him it wasn’t feasible.
“But Your Highness,” Wilhelm called after him. Montague chose to ignore him. The man was thoroughly annoying.
“Your Highness,” Harrod said gently, when he caught up with him. “Perhaps we could discuss this further?”
As his adviser, he had an obligation to listen to the man.
They retired to the private sitting room, where Harrod called for tea. Montague paced the floor.
Once settled, he sat and waited impatiently for Harrod to speak.
“Your Highness,” he began. Harrod sat back into the sofa and sipped his tea. “The problem is Miss Petunia is not of royal blood.”
“Doesn’t bother me,” the prince snapped.
“It doesn’t comply with the rules of sovereignty, which means you can’t marry her.”
Montague put his hands to his head. “I have a headache, Harrod. And you’re just making it worse.”
“If she was the daughter of a Lord, for example,” he said, looking Montague square in the eye. “That would be a different thing altogether, Your Highness.”
Montague was thoughtful. “Contact Petunia’s father, Jefferson Grayson. I want him at the Inauguration. No excuses.”
“But Your Highness…”
He took a final mouthful of tea, then slammed the cup onto the table, shattering it.
He stared down into the shattered pieces, then gazed up at Harrod.
The other man opened his mouth to speak, but Montague stopped him by putting his hand up. “No more, Harrod,” he said. “It is done.”
“His Royal Highness, Prince Montague Frederick Gustov of Monsilvania.”
Montague winced at the pomp and ceremony he was forced to endure.
He walked slowly toward the throne in the official robe passed down through the generations. The antique crown sat heavily on his head and he wished it to be gone.
The room was lined with dignitaries, as well as commoners who simply wanted to get a rare glimpse of their new king.
It was not something Montague enjoyed. His scars were there for all to see, but he had no choice in the extravagant ceremony if he wanted to become king.
He wondered if some were there only to see how badly their king was maimed in the haunting fire.
Harrod stood next to the throne, along with a number of minders who would ensure the new king would be safe.
True to his word, Harrod had sat Petunia and her father at the very front of the room.
He acknowledged them both with a nod as he passed by.
Jefferson Grayson had no idea why he was there, just that the prince had requested his presence, along with Petunia.
His daughter was as much in the dark as he was. Which was exactly what Montague wanted.
As he turned to sit on the ancient throne, he looked across at his future wife.
How she could even bear to look at him, he had no idea. She was watching his every move, as he was hers.
She looked beautiful. Absolutely stunning, and he wondered how he managed to secure her as his wife.
Of course it was all a front. Their marriage would be fake. They were both giving up a lot for their country.
Trumpets suddenly began, and Montague almost fell off the throne in fright. When he glanced across at her, Petunia was laughing.
Did she see?
She was such a sweet thing – always had been. They’d spent nearly every waking moment together as children.
Even their schooling was done together. He’d insisted Petunia join him or he wouldn’t comply with the instructor.
It did not please his father, the king, but he had reluctantly agreed.
He smiled at the thought.
He’d thrown a lot at his father and he’d never seemed phased. Montague could easily have become the ultimate spoiled brat, but Petunia had kept him grounded.
She didn’t let him get away with anything, pulling him up when he wasn’t behaving nicely.
He’d never regretted their friendship, or the way she’d treated him, which was nothing but with respect.
She’d also treated him as an equal. It had irked him at first, but he eventually came to enjoy it. At least he knew where he stood with her.
“I now present His Royal Highness, King Montague Frederick Gustov of Monsilvania!” The trumpets began again, and everyone was applauding.
Montague realized he’d missed almost the entire ceremony with his mind running away with thoughts of Petunia.
He looked out over the crowd, then took a few steps forward.
Harrod called for Jefferson Grayson to approach the king. Montague noticed the shocked look on his face. Petunia was utterly confused, then confusion turned to trepidation.
The adviser leaned in toward Grayson and asked him to kneel in front of the king, which he did. Confusion still crossed his face.
As he reached for the sword, Petunia’s hands went to her mouth, and her eyes widened.
Montague tapped each shoulder with the sword, muttering “for services to the kingdom” then said “Arise Lord Grayson.”
He glanced up to see his fiancée wipe tears from her beautiful face.
Chapter 5
Montague hated that he had to attend the celebration feast in his honor.
But with his beautiful fiancée by his side, it didn’t seem quite so bad.
“People are staring,” he whispered.
She put her hand to his cheek. “No they’re not. It’s your imagination.”
He shivered at her touch. When they were small, he’d regarded her as a little sister, but as they’d grown older, something shifted.
Somewhere in the time between when she left to the time she returned, Petunia had changed from the boisterous tomboy of their childhood, and had blossomed into a beautiful young woman.
He liked having her near, but wouldn’t admit that to her. How could he tell her she’d evolved from being a little sister figure into a creature he desired?
As much as his thoughts ran that way, Montague knew they shouldn’t.
So he’d told a little white lie when he said she was like a sister to him. It was true – she had been. But that was years ago, back before they were teenagers.
She reached down and squeezed his hand, and his heart rate hastened.
How could a mere touch set his heart racing? He turned and gazed into her eyes.
She stared at him. Was she seeing the man, or did the scars fill her thoughts?
He shook the thought away and lifted her hand to his lips, then kissed it gently.
He continued to gaze into her eyes, not wanting to lose the connection.
He heard mutterings around him, and glanced around the room. They were being watched.
“Your Highness,” Harrod said softly. “Perhaps an announcement is in order. To quell the speculation.”
Montague waved the thought away. “They can speculate all they want. I don’t really care.”
“But Your Highness…”
Damn it, Harrod knew what needed to be done. “Oh alright then. Make the announcement if you must.”
He cringed as he listened to Harrod announcing the upcoming Royal Wedding.
“Please M’Lady, you
need to stand still.”
The seamstress looked up at Petunia with pins in her mouth.
“I don’t think I’m a Lady, am I?” she asked naively.
Molly smiled. “You are to me. Now please, stand still so I can finish this dress. His Royal Highness the King will be very displeased if it’s not finished on time.”
“Oh.” Petunia didn’t want the woman to get into trouble, but it felt like she’d stood on that chair for hours. She couldn’t help but fidget.
“The ceremony is only two days away, M’Lady. There’s a lot to be done to prepare your wedding gown.”
Petunia stared down at her, heart racing. Two days? She couldn’t believe she would soon marry her childhood sweetheart.
That he was the king meant nothing to her. He was simply her Monty.
Although in reality there was nothing simple about marrying Monty.
All that pomp and ceremony. She hated to even think about it, and she knew Monty felt the same.
Perhaps they could run off and elope. She laughed out loud.
As if that would ever happen.
“Has there ever been a case of a king eloping, Molly? Do you know?”
Molly straightened, her eyes wide. “Don’t say that M’Lady, not even in jest.”
Petunia’s heart sank. It was a pretty silly idea. “Forget I even mentioned it. I’m just…” She straightened her back and stiffened her shoulders. “I’m sick of all of the preparations. And I guess I’m a little nervous too.”
“Ooooh, I’d love to be marrying King Montague. Such a handsome devil, even after the fire.” She froze. “I apologize, M’Lady. I didn’t meant to speak out of turn.”
“Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell a soul.” She was thoughtful. “Do you know about the fire? What happened? He hasn’t really spoken about it.”
She heard the seamstress gasp. “Oh no, M’Lady. If His Royal Highness the King won’t say, it’s not my place.”
And then she went silent. Petunia wondered, more than ever, what had really happened to her precious Monty.
Chapter 6
The new King pounded on Petunia’s bedroom door.
He rattled the door handle but was unable to gain entrance. Someone must be on the other side holding him back.
“I’m sorry Your Highness, but I’ve been ordered by Miss Petunia not to let you in.”
“But I want to talk to her before the wedding.” He knew it was a lost cause even before he’d ventured to this part of the castle. Harrod told him so, but he wouldn’t listen.
Montague wanted to be absolutely sure Petunia didn’t want to pull out.
It was a huge step to marry him, and they both knew it. Not that he really expected her to change her mind. Petunia was loyal to him, and always had been.
“Fine. Tell her…” He paused, so close to saying tell her I love her. What would she say to that? “Tell her…I miss her.” No one could fault him with that, surely?
Her sweet voice rang out across the room. “I miss you too, Monty.”
He heard the combined laughter of her maids and the seamstress and groaned. Now everyone would know he let her call him Monty.
That was a special kind of embarrassment.
“Ooops, I mean Your Highness.” More laughter. He’d never live it down.
Feeling defeated, he returned to his own room, in another wing.
It simply wouldn’t be proper to have her stay in the Royal wing, Harrod had told him, and Montague knew he was right. He had no intention of ruining Petunia’s reputation.
Resplendent in his royal robes, he stood before the full-length mirror and studied himself.
His aides had fussed around him all morning, but no amount of fussing would take away the scars that had ruined his appearance.
Given his time over, he would do the same thing again. His only wish, all his scars be hidden.
He stared at his face. The mutilations ran from just below his ear, past his jawbone, and down his neck. The scarring below his shoulder was minimal, but it was there.
Thankfully, Petunia would never see the full extent of his injuries.
“It is time, Your Highness.” Harrod’s voice came loud and clear through the door as he knocked gently.
“Come,” Montague demanded.
“Your Highness,” Harrod said as he bowed slightly. “Is there a problem?”
Montague sighed. “Does this robe look right? Something seems askew.”
Harrod fiddled with the robe his father had worn for his wedding, and his father before him. He knew he should be grateful – others would love to be in his place.
“The robe looks perfect.” He backed away.
“What about the crown? Is it straight?”
“You’re no doubt nervous, Your Highness,” Harrod said. “You look wonderful. Miss Petunia is a very lucky woman.”
They walked in silence as Harrod escorted him to the large chapel, where the wedding would take place.
The guests had already arrived and were seated. They stood as trumpets bellowed and Montague arrived. He took his place at the front, near the preacher.
By the time his fiancée arrived, his nerves were torn to pieces.
Why was he so nervous when this whole thing was a sham? It was never to be a real marriage, and they both knew it. So what had him on a razor’s edge?
His head shot up when the trumpeting began once more.
Petunia stepped into the room, on her father’s arm. She was too far away for him to see her clearly, but she was beautiful. She was always beautiful to him. Even as a gangly ten year old, she was the most beautiful person he knew – inside and out.
A vision of her falling off her horse all those years ago suddenly filled his mind. She lay on the ground covered in dirt, and he stood above her laughing.
Her indignance was breathtaking. It was in her teenage years, and he wanted to pick her up and hold her in his arms right then and there.
But she was a mere child, a teenager, and he was legally an adult. It wouldn’t have been right.
Instead he dragged her off the ground and dumped her back in the saddle. She took off like a spoiled brat, and fell off again.
“Monty? Are you alright?” Petunia’s voice invaded his thoughts.
“You look stunning,” he said, his eyes raking her up and down. He reached for her hand and kissed it gently.
Her wedding gown was more than he could ever imagine. Molly had done an amazing job, and he would be sure to tell her.
The dress was made of lace and beads and diamonds, and was totally fit for the queen she was about to become.
Her veil was skillfully placed in the center of her head, and matched the dress perfectly.
The material was pulled down over her face muting her features, but her beauty still shone through.
“Ahem.” The preacher cleared his voice, eager to begin the ceremony.
Montague held both her hands eliciting a zing up his arms, then they turned toward the front.
He heard the preacher talking, but nothing really sank in. He was too busy thinking about the years spent with Petunia when they were children.
Her dream of working in the stables suddenly came to his mind, and he groaned.
He turned to her. “It’s not too late to back out,” he whispered.
She frowned. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“The stables. The horses. Your dream.” He winced. Would she take him up on it?
“I can still do that, silly. Please proceed, Preacher.”
“Do you take….”
All the words seem to run into each other, but finally it was his turn. “I do.”
“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride, Your Highness.”
Montague turned toward his new bride and lifted the veil that had been concealing her lovely face. He slowly moved toward her, ready for their first kiss.
But that wasn’t part of the agreement. What if she flinched when he kissed her? For a mo
ment he’d forgotten how grotesque he looked, but the full force of it hit him and he backed away.
“Monty?” She whispered his name, but he didn’t answer.
Without warning, her hands came up to his face, cupping his cheeks. She moved in to him and her lips covered his.
The rest of the world disappeared. His new queen was kissing him like he wasn’t a monster. Like he wasn’t deformed, and like he was a real man.
He snaked his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, then returned the kiss.
Her lips were soft and gentle, and she tasted sweet. It made him wonder what she’d been eating.
Crazy. His thoughts were everywhere except where they should be – on his beautiful bride.
“Ahem.” It was the preacher again. “That’s probably enough,” he whispered, and Petunia laughed her sweet tinkling laugh.
It made his heart swell.
There was applause coming from the invited guests, and he reluctantly stepped back.
Harrod stepped toward them, and indicated they should leave. He noticed a number of minders were dotted along the aisle, and Montague was pleased to know his new queen would not be harmed by any fools that might have got passed the guards unnoticed.
They were herded into the Royal Suite, where they could rest and get refreshed before the wedding banquet.
“That went well,” Petunia said quietly, sitting by the window.
He wandered next to her. His nerves always seem to calm down when he was able to look out over the flower garden.
His mother had loved to potter in the garden, much to his father’s disgust – they had workers for that - and had often taken him there as a small child. Perhaps that was why it always calmed him?
She reached over and took his hand. A thrill ran down his spine. He shook it away.
This was supposed to be a purely platonic relationship. A fake marriage. He had no right having feelings for his new wife.
“Let’s hope the banquet goes equally as well,” he said, somehow managing to keep his voice even and seemingly unaffected.
“There’s no reason it shouldn’t.”
She looked confused, and he understood why. For Montague, the trick was to keep his mind on anything except his scars.
Promise Forever: Fairy Tales with a Modern Twist Page 13
