“Right,” I said, and chewed on my lip. “Tell me more.”
“Our wedding day was gorgeous. It was July and summertime in the Alps. Butterflies flew through the air. Hummingbirds hovered next to the flowers sipping their nectar.”
I stared over at my Max. He was strikingly handsome in his charcoal gray suit. A lock of ginger hair fell across his handsome forehead, a hint of twinkle lines etched around his stunning hazel eyes. My heart beat a little faster and words seemed to catch in my throat. “You knew your life would never be the same.”
“I knew that my prince would soon be sipping my nectar, if you know what I mean,” she said. “Back in those days we didn’t give away the milk for free. We made them buy the cow. It was called ‘Honeymoon’ for a reason, you know.”
“Aha,” I said, and crossed my fingers behind my back hoping she wouldn’t share more details about nectar sipping. “Right. Sounds lovely.”
“It was, Vivian. And one thing made it perfect. One tiny detail pulled everything together. Do you want to know what that was?”
“Yes,” I said.
“The wedding processional. I walked down the aisle to Pachelbel’s Canon. I held my father’s arm tightly as his eyes misted up. My mother cried tears of joy from her seat in the front row. My dear, sweet husband-to-be, God-rest-his-soul, pressed a linen handkerchief to his handsome, moist eyes, and the angels in the heavens above us wept. It was a day like no other. I’ve never gotten over it and I never will.”
Tears welled and I tried to blink them back, but they were ornery. They spilled onto my cheeks and I dabbed them with my fingers. “I bet you were a beautiful bride, Royal Nana. Your special day sounds magical and utterly perfect.”
“It was amazing. You’re my future granddaughter, Vivian, a modern woman, and I suspect you want to get married to music that sounds more edgy.” Her arthritic hand trembled as she squeezed my forearm. “But Pachelbel’s Canon is a classic. If you could do this small kindness for me, grant an aging woman her most cherished wish.”
“What is your wish, Royal Nana?”
“Let me watch you walk down that same aisle in the Royal Friedricksburgh Cathedral on your way to marry my handsome grandson as Pachelbel’s Canon plays in the background. Let my heart fill with joy as I’m transported back in time, remembering my special magical, day and I’ll never ask for another favor, ever again.”
“Yes,” I said, my heart filling with love and tenderness. I hugged her delicately, so as not to break her osteoporotic bones. “Yes, I promise I will walk down the aisle to Pachelbel’s Canon.”
“You’re a sweet girl.” She tapped her cheek with her gnarled hand. “Thank you. Kiss goes right here.”
I leaned down, inhaled the scent of AquaNet hairspray and Chanel Number Five, and kissed her powdered, perfumed skin. Good God, I adored Max’s family.
“We must get back to the party, Vivian. They’re probably missing us.” Royal Nana pushed herself up from the chair and reached in vain for her walker, festively decorated with colorful ribbons in Bellèno’s national colors.
“Let me help.” I moved the device closer to her and waited until her grip was firm on its sidebars.
“You made an old lady very happy,” she said and rolled a few feet away. “That obnoxious, know-it-all Duchess Edith of Friedricksburgh can bite my royal ass. She said you’d put your vulgar American foot down and insist on Coldplay. I bet her five hundred Euros I could talk you into Pachelbel.” She paused and waved at me. “Thanks for giving an old dame coin to spend at the casinos.”
“You’re welcome.” I waved back and walked across the ballroom to Max’s side feeling somewhat perplexed.
“You just got played, didn’t you? How bad was it?” he asked.
“Angels wept,” I said, and he laughed.
Now I glanced around at the flowers in the antechamber, and I could practically feel the excitement that hung in the air. So why was I breaking out in hot flashes? Why did I feel like I needed to hit the gym, or sprint around a track for a few miles?
“Vivian,” Lola said. “You look like you’re going to burst out crying?”
“You’re a hot mess,” Esmeralda said. “This wedding’s a done deal. This isn’t like the last time you almost got married.”
“Then why does it feel like it?” I cracked my neck. “You all look fabulous. This time when I walk down the white linen runner I’ll know in the depth and breadth of my heart that I’m walking toward the right man. I am marrying the love of my life, the right handsome prince, Maximillian, instead of Leopold, the wrong prince.”
“He might have been the ‘wrong prince’ for you, but he’s still the heir to the royal Bellèno throne,” Bea said.
“Which makes him the right prince for somebody,” Joan said.
“Make that a lot of somebodies,” Mr. Cartwright said.
“What time is it?” I asked.
Lady Bea Cavitt Hafligher glanced at her gold, diamond-encrusted watch. “Five ten.”
“That can’t be right, Bea,” I said. “You’re meant to be all the way down the field at five ten—”
“Correction, Vivian.” Mr. Cartwright knelt as he performed yet another polish on his black dress shoes. “Technically Lady Bea should be taking her position at the front of the cathedral. She is not meant to be, as you charmingly call it, ‘all the way down the field.’”
“You say po-tay-to, Cartwright. I say po-tah-to. What I’m supposed to be doing right now is walking down the aisle. Not watching you spit polish your shoes.”
He glared at me, his eyebrows furrowing like salt and pepper colored caterpillars mating above his glasses. “I used a horsehair scrub to extricate the dried dust, covered my shoes with black polish, and allowed a generous amount of time for it to dry,” he said. “I brushed them to remove the top layer and produce this lustrous shine. I wouldn’t be caught dead ‘spit polishing’ my shoes,” he huffed. “Especially not for a royal event of this magnitude.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “So—what’s the hold up with the wedding?”
“A flower van stalled in front of the cathedral,” Lady Joan Brady said. She held her phone in one hand and fussed with her short, coiffed red hair with her other. “Royal Nana is maneuvering around it with her walker. Cable News Bellèno has already dubbed it the, ‘Better Wed than Dead’ Royal Nana Walkabout.” It’s been going on for about fifteen minutes now and has been compared to the OJ Simpson white Bronco slow speed chase.”
“I can’t walk down that aisle until everything’s in place with Royal Nana.” I raced a few steps and flung open the door. “I need to help her.”
“Halt,” a woman in a peacock blue cocktail suit said.
But I could not ‘halt.’ I ran into the woman’s hand, and we toppled over, grabbing onto one another, spinning through the air in an unholy circle as we both tried not to fall.
Chapter 4
VIVIAN
Mr. Cartwright latched onto my arm and stopped me from taking a header. “Vivian! What do you think you’re doing?”
“Are you okay?” I said to the woman sprawled on the floor, her cocktail suit hiked high up her thighs.
“None the worse for the wear,” she said.
“I’m so sorry, Miss,” I said, as Joan proffered her hand and hoisted the woman off the floor. “Someone has to help Royal Nana.”
“Not you. The paparazzi and social media hounds will have a field day if you go out there now,” she said. “I’m Famke Kegan, your wedding coordinator. Call me Famke.”
“Nice to meet you Famke,” I said. “What happened to Tabitha, our other coordinator?”
“An unfortunate case of food poisoning. I own Royal Weddings Consultants. We already have people on the Royal Nana situation. Besides, you can’t go outside just yet. They’re taking bets.”
“On what?”
“On whether you actually get married today,” Mr. Cartwright said. “Or whether you’ll bolt like you did the last time.”
&
nbsp; “That’s horrible.”
“Get used to it,” he said. “In about forty-five minutes you’ll officially be a royal.”
“People will sift through your garbage, call in a fortune teller to predict your future from your discarded tea leaves,” Famke said. “Even aim their cameras at you from the most compromising of positions.”
“I’m worried about Max’s grandmother. What if she falls and breaks her hip?” I asked. “Can’t someone just find a wheelchair and trundle her in?”
“She’s too proud to enter the cathedral in a chair,” Joan said. “She told her assistant to, and I quote, ‘Bugger off!’ Her grandson was getting married today and she wasn’t about to be rolled in like something foul a dog discovered in a cow pasture.”
“I shouldn’t have shown her that picture of Roman mucking around in the fields when Max and I visited the Stoneybrooke Goat Farm in Switzerland. We had to hose him off.”
Joan clucked under her breath. “Didn’t that incident make the front page of Goat Herds Monthly?”
“Nice meeting you. Must return to the frontlines,” Famke said, brushing off her suit. “Don’t forget: Handel’s Water Music is the bridesmaids cue.”
“I heard stories about Royal Nana,” Esmeralda said. She escorted Famke out the door, and shut it firmly. “Rumor has it she was quite the wild child back in her day.”
“That’s not what she told me. Besides, I wasn’t talking about Royal Nana. I was talking about my dog. I let Roman off the leash, he got excited, and chased a goat. Max tackled him, but he landed in a pile of wet dirt, and who knows what else? I started laughing, and so help me God I tried to stop but I couldn’t. He lobbed a fistful of mud at me. I pitched one back at him. It was a mess.” I shrugged. “One thing led to another…”
“And a paparazzi snapped a picture of you and Prince Maximillian in your mud-soaked undies, half naked and making out under a decorative antique milk wagon,” Mr. Cartwright said and threw his hands in the air. “Why not just make a sex tape and put it up on YouTube? What is with you young people? In my day, the royal deed was reserved for the privacy of one’s bedchamber.”
“Royal deeds have never been reserved for bedchambers, Cartwright,” Esmeralda said. “Just the other day I checked into a suite at the Four Seasons in St. Moritz with a certain Baron whose name I shall not disclose, but last name rhymes with Sprits Teeters.”
“Get out of town,” Bea said. “You bagged the hot, blonde, Baron Fitzpeters? I thought Joan had her eye on him.”
“Not for me,” Joan said. “He’s too thin.”
“He’s not thin where it matters.” Esmeralda smirked. “We ‘deeded’ all over the Penthouse. I do believe I now own the floral tapestry living room couch.”
“Why was a flower van even stalled in front of the church?” I asked.
“Cathedral,” Mr. Cartwright said.
“Whatever. Shouldn’t all the flowers have already been delivered, positioned, and fussed over?”
“Stop fretting.” Mr. Cartwright fiddled with the buttons of his tuxedo jacket. “The wedding coordinators will handle the Royal Nana situation. Besides, we’ve discussed pre-bridal jitters on several occasions. They’re a common occurrence.”
He was right. This was the second wedding that I’d planned, and I feared I’d turned into a perfectionistic bride-to-be. Karma was nibbling on my off-white silken-clad ass because I’d always made fun of women who turned into Bridezillas the moment after someone slipped an engagement ring on their finger. “For the love of all things holy,” I yelled at the TV while binge watching marriage reality shows, “it’s just one day!”
But for the record, I wasn’t the one who’d insisted on five wedding showers for either of my weddings, and it felt tremendously unfair when the Cotton Candy-Hair Reporter on Cable Bellèno News nicknamed me “The American Marriage Monster.”
“Vivian, stop your incessant worrying,” Esmeralda said. “You’ve already chewed off two layers of lipstick.”
“She simply wants to make sure everything is perfect,” Joan said. “I understand. I’m a barrister. I negotiate contracts every day.”
“Why are you worried, Vivian?” Lola asked. “The groom is muy guapo and you are so bonita.”
“Why is that palace guard staring at us?” I asked.
“He does look squirrely.” Bea frowned.
“Maybe he’s a tabloid reporter who’s trying to get an inside scoop,” Joan said.
“Hey, buddy.” Esmeralda threw the door open. “You in the clip-on bowtie. I need to see your credentials.”
“Esmeralda!” I said. “Use your inside voice.”
The guard swiveled and scurried away, his squat, uniform-clad legs squeaking with each step.
“You’d better run, weasel!” Esmeralda said.
“Stop worrying, Vivian,” Bea said. “Your wedding will be lovely.”
“Statistics show that ninety-nine percent of a bride’s wedding worries never materialize,” Joan said.
“This is cause for celebration.” Bea slipped a silver flask from the bustle of her bridesmaid dress. “We don’t get to cheer on one of our own all that often. We’re always stuck buying fancy presents for the girls getting married who we don’t care that much about because we know they don’t care that much about us, either.”
“Here, here!” Joan said as Bea took a shot from the flask.
“And then,” Bea said and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, “those bitches complain behind our backs, but we always find out about it through the royal grapevine that we should have bought them a pricier item on their registry. So—here’s to our Vivian, whom we care about, who would never say bitchy things about us behind our backs.”
“I’ll say them straight to your face.”
“That’s one of the reasons I like you. Here’s to Vivian’s wedding day.” She slugged back a shot and handed it to Joan. “May it be everything you ever dreamed and more.”
“Cheers!” Joan knocked back a shot and handed it to Lola.
“Salud!” She took a sip, grimaced, and passed it to Mr. Cartwright who took a quick sip.
“Nicely done, ladies. Prince Harry’s Private Reserve?”
Bea nodded. “I don’t skimp for weddings.”
“You don’t skimp for anything.” Esmeralda took the flask from Cartwright and downed a shot, then dabbed a little behind her ears and on her cleavage. “One of the reasons I like you.”
“You’re wasting good liquor,” Mr. Cartwright said.
“I prefer to think of it as an investment. The scent of Prince Harry’s Private Reserve is practically an aphrodisiac for a titled man at a wedding reception,” she said, and passed the flask to me. “I’m tragically single, you know.”
“Not so tragic,” Bea said. “You told me you never wanted to get married.”
Esmeralda put her finger to her lips. “Shh!”
“No thanks on the shot.” I shook my head. “The Champagne finally wore off. I’m only getting married—for real—once. I’m not walking down the aisle tipsy, let alone with scotch on my breath.”
“But you have to,” Bea said. “It’s tradition.”
“Not where I’m from.” I grabbed a bottle of a Bellèno vegetable smoothie, raised it high in the air, and toasted my Ladies-in-Waiting and Mr. Cartwright. “Cheers!” I took a healthy slug.
“Dios mio!” Lola exclaimed.
“Merde!” Joan said.
“Crap!” Esmeralda leapt toward me and knocked the bottle out of my hands. It flew across the room, splattered on Mr. Cartwright’s immaculate tuxedo trousers and landed open-mouthed on his shoe. Thick, green liquid poured out.
He stared down at it and sighed.
“Why’d you do that?” I asked.
Lola crossed herself. “Don’t you know?”
Bea’s face turned ashen. “It’s terrible luck to toast with water.”
“It was a vegetable smoothie.”
“Terrible luck to toast with anything non-alcoholic.
” Joan said.
“That’s just an old wives’ tale,” I said and waved my hand dismissively. “Who needs luck? I am finally getting married. My worries are over. Does anyone have any chocolate? I’m a little lightheaded. Probably my low blood sugar. I’m ready. Besides, what could possibly go wrong?”
The organist launched into Handel’s Water Music. I jumped and inhaled sharply.
“It’s time!” Bea said.
“Go.” I waved at them. “I’ll see you at the altar. I’ll be the chick wearing the vintage white silk wedding gown and saying silly, old-fashioned things like, ‘I do.’”
Chapter 5
MAXIMILLIAN
I stood at the front of the cathedral in my Royal National Guard dress uniform and looked out at the sea of royal wedding guests. My family and friends populated the first five pews. I bit back a smile as I watched them fidgeting in their seats, anxious for the festivities to commence. The rest of the substantially-sized sanctuary was filled with scads of people I didn’t give a shit about but needed to be invited due to politics or etiquette.
I wished Vivian and I had just eloped. Instead of being stuffed into a cathedral with hundreds of people I didn’t care about, I could be wearing jeans and a leather jacket and we could have been motoring up a mountain road on my chopper in crisp fall weather with red, yellow, and orange leaves flying past us. The best feeling in the world would be her breasts pushed up against my back, her arms wrapped tightly around me, and fresh air hitting our faces like freedom herself calling our names.
I reminded myself that agreeing to this stuffy ceremony ultimately meant that I was getting it done. In forty-five minutes I’d have this marriage locked down, signed on the dotted line. Official. In forty-five minutes Vivian would be mine and I’d take a knife to anyone’s throat who’d declare otherwise.
I glanced over at my brother, Leopold, the heir to the Bellèno throne. I still didn’t know why he’d been so eager to marry Lady Catherine Fontaine at the beginning of The Crown Affair. I’d searched online for breadcrumbs, juicy gossip, details that could lead me to his reasons for climbing on board in such a big way.
His Majesty's Measure Page 3
