His Majesty's Measure

by Pamela DuMond

  “Mary,” I said. “I might be too nice at times.”

  “These dogs will always have a home at our sanctuary,” he said. “You’re more than welcome to stop back here, Vivian. I’ll remember your friendly face.”

  “Thank you.”

  “By the way, we taught Mary to be a little tougher. She got in a few scrapes along the way. But she’s doing pretty good now, don’t you think?”

  I watched her scrap with the big dogs. Luke tugged on her ear and she play growled at him, then barked, and raced toward the barn.

  “She’s doing great,” I said. “Thank you, Father Roberto.”

  Chapter 23

  VIVIAN

  We were parked down the block from Friedericksburgh’s Old Town neighborhood, not all that far from the Cathedral where I almost was wed a few days prior.

  “Ladies,” a B.B.I. agent said from the front of the Mercedes. “We urge you to reconsider. The Bellèno Bureau of Investigation can handle this.”

  “Not today,” I said. “I’m going to marry Prince Maximillian. I’m going to walk down that aisle and he’s going to put a ring on it. Which means I’m going to be a princess of this country sooner than later.

  “And princesses get shit done,” Esmeralda said.

  “Which means,” I said. “I can’t wait. I have to rescue him.”

  He bowed his head. “Yes, Ms. DeRose. Captain Sam is accompanying you as your standard ‘bodyguard.’ We’ll be at your side in seconds.”

  My ladies, Royal Nana, and I snooped around the pretty, pastel-colored parlor at Royal Weddings Consultants headquarters in Friedricksburgh. The store was conveniently located next to the Edelweiss Bakery and Coffee Shop on Main Street. Luckily for us, I spotted only one employee in the front of their chandelier-lit shop that looked as scrumptious as an éclair: Famke Keegan, the tightly wound woman assigned to my royal wedding whom I affectionately called ‘the husband thief.’

  “Are you short-handed today?” I asked Famke. If she knew that Daira was detained last night, she didn’t show it. Not a hair out of place. Not a hint of sweat on her immaculately made-up face.

  “They’re running errands,” she said.

  Captain Sam helped Royal Nana and Herr Fingerlachen take a seat on a needlepoint settee. A Bellèno Intelligence agent, stood guard at the front door.

  “God, I hate embroidered furniture,” Royal Nana said, squirming. “The raised threads are coarse and scratchy on my delicate skin.”

  “Perhaps you’d prefer to rest on our red velvet chair, Your Highness,” Famke said. She gestured to a large, wing-backed in a corner of the room next to a whitewashed bookshelf filled with pretty bridal tchotchkes: white gloves, framed photos of happy brides, wedding invitations, and bridal magazine covers.

  “I’ll be fine,” Royal Nana said. “I purchased the Friedricksburgh beeswax lotion in a tub the last time it was on sale at my favorite shop.”

  “I hope you don’t mind if I snack,” Bea said, munching on a glazed donut that she held on top of a paper napkin. “I promise not to spread crumbs.”

  “No worries,” Famke said. “We practically live at the Edelweiss. They have the best French Pressed coffee. So nice to see you ladies so soon after that embarrassing bridal debacle.”

  “You mean Prince Maximillian leaving me high and dry at the altar?” I picked up a few brochures from the coffee table. “Plan Your Dream Wedding with Royal Weddings Consultants.” one brochure read. “Friedricksburgh—the go-to Wedding Capital of the French Alps.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m surprised you’re up and about, Ms. DeRose. Last I heard you were recovering at the hospital down the mountain in St. Luce.”

  “They were so nice to me.” I gazed at the walls that featured “Welcome to Friedricksburgh!” posters sandwiched between “Friedricksburgh, Bellèno – your gateway to the Alps!” and an enormous, door-sized “Royally Wedding Consultants Does it Royally!” They were pushing the commerce. And it dawned on me what this was all about.

  Money.

  Tourism dollars.

  Euros, to be precise.

  Much to my chagrin, I had cost Royal Weddings Consultants and probably a host of other small businesses precious tourism dollars when I’d bolted from my first royal wedding to Leopold.

  Famke and Royal Weddings Consultants had decided to get that money back in publicity. But PR wasn’t cheap. Glossy printed travel brochures and pop-up ads on Internet sites cost a pretty penny. Why not get some relatively ‘free’ publicity by creating a royal scandal and letting the press have a field day?

  “I especially enjoyed St. Luce’s Memorial Hospital’s IV drip therapy,” I said. “I don’t know what they put in those bags, but it felt like it had a pinch of sugar and a touch of the bubbly. Boy did that cheer me up. I’m feeling much better now, thank you. The post-traumatic shock is receding. Nothing that years of expensive talk therapy can’t put a dent in.”

  The door cracked open and the BBI agent disguised as our chauffeur popped his head in. “I’m running to the Edelweiss, ladies. Need anything?” The largest poster on the wall fluttered in and out with the breeze. Interesting. It looked like it covered a hidden access of sorts. I glanced over at Esmeralda and Joan who had also noticed it.

  “We’re fine, Sam. Joan, why don’t you go help him with the coffee?”

  “Got it,” Joan said. She left the parlor and whispered in his ear.

  “I know this is a delicate subject,” Famke said. “But has there been any word of Prince Maximillian?”

  “Sadly, no. He’s probably vacationing in St. Barts without me. We were supposed to honeymoon there.”

  “His loss. That’s the good thing about getting married these days,” she said. “Except for Bellèno’s antiquated laws regarding royal wedding contracts, a hopeless romantic can tie the knot as many times as they want. I guess that’s good for us. We run a bustling business.”

  “Speaking of business,” Esmeralda said, “we didn’t just stop by to say hi. We’re actually here to inquire about employing your company.”

  “Really? Are you finally tying the knot Lady Castile Hapsburg?”

  “Not me. Sadly, I’m always a bridesmaid, never a bride. Actually, Her Royal Highness has found true love again after all these years.”

  “I have?” Royal Nana asked.

  “Yes,” Esmeralda said. “After fifty plus years of friendship, love blossomed between you and Herr Fingerlachen. It was a friends to lovers kind of relationship.”

  “It was?”

  “Did I miss something?” Fingerlachen blinked.

  “You’re an adorable couple,” I said, walking behind the settee and massaging her arthritic shoulders. “There’s no time to waste. Famke can pull out those planning books and you can start picking out the details for your nuptials right now.”

  “Splendid!” Famke said, and knelt behind the counter. “I’m thinking elegant, simple, old-fashioned.”

  “I don’t want to marry Herr Fingerlachen,” Royal Nana whispered.

  “I know. But you do want to see your grandson again,” I whispered. “Just go along with this for a few, okay?”

  “My betrothed and I prefer a Vegas theme,” Royal Nana said, moving toward the counter. “Something with elephants. I’ve always wanted to get married in a decorative sari.”

  I pinched Captain Sam’s hand and discretely pointed at the door behind the poster. “I think Max is here,” I said. “In the shop. Possibly behind that door. Held hostage in the basement?”

  “Only one way to find out, Vivian.” He spoke low into his walkie-talkie. “Roger that. Swat team, approach.”

  Two minutes later, during the sampling of wedding invitations, five Swat agents clad in combat gear burst in through the front door. Famke screamed and an agent trained his gun on her. Captain Sam gestured to the hidden door, and a female officer tore the paper off and ran down the stairs, a second man on her heels.

  “Oh my God!” Bea dropped her donut, and crumbs flew ev
erywhere.

  “Is he there?” I asked and raced to the entry. “Is my Max here?”

  The agents dragged him up the stairs and I cried in relief, my heart dropping onto the floor next to Bea’s donut.

  Max was still dressed in his dress military uniform, his hands zip tied behind his back. He blinked in the sunlight. “Vivian!”

  “Oh my God, Maximillian!” I hugged him as sirens rang in the background.

  An agent cut the ties and Max shook his hands.

  “Did they hurt you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m all right. You?”

  “I’m good. As long as I’m with you I’m good.”

  He kissed me long and slow and hot. One hand behind my head, his fingers fisting my hair.

  More police and federal agents swarmed the shop. “Can we talk to you, Prince Maximillian?”

  I pulled away from him nearly breathless. “Go ahead.”

  He waved for them to go away. “They can wait,” he said and returned to kissing me.

  “Does this mean I don’t get to plan my wedding?” Royal Nana asked.

  “I have no idea why Prince Maximillian was in the basement of my shop,” Famke said. “It’s probably just a royal publicity stunt. He was influenced by the American girl.”

  Anger pitted and coiled in my stomach. I pulled away from Max. “Go answer questions. There’s something I need to take care of. Something that can’t wait.”

  “Yes, love,” he said.

  Famke pointed at me. “These crass Americans are always looking for some cheap publicity. Bellènese citizens are old school. We take care of our own.”

  “Take care of this,” I said, and punched her in the mouth.

  Chapter 24

  MAXIMILLIAN

  After a medical checkup and a debriefing with Bellèno federal agents and local police, I was back where I belonged — with Vivian.

  I wrapped my muscular arms around her and squeezed her tight as she lay next to me—scratch that—under me, on the king-size feather top bed. “Do you remember that time we were at the royal wedding for the Swedish Prince and we snuck off during all the boring speeches for a quick tour of the palace?” I asked.

  “You told the guard who escorted us that you had it covered. That you simply wanted to show me a few antique Swedish royal objet d’art,” she said. “We raced up the stairs to the second floor where you flung open a door and, said, ‘Tada! You’ll never believe what’s in this room. Follow me.’ I did and then we had hot, nasty sex in a linen closet.”

  I grinned. “You looked amazing naked on five hundred thread count sheets with the royal crest covering your—”

  “I distinctly remember what the royal crest covered as it somehow managed to burrow underneath me and scored a mark on my ass. I feared I’d be frisked at the airport and would be forced to apply for Swedish citizenship.”

  “Never!” I said, and kissed her. “I love you, Vivian. Let’s get married.”

  “Let’s.”

  I kissed her again. No one was going to come between Vivian and me again. Not commerce. Not the church. No one.

  I was locking this down this time for good.

  Chapter 25

  VIVIAN

  I learned an important lesson that day I visited the St. Francis Labrador Retriever Sanctuary: we walk this earth, all of us flawed, all rejected by somebody for some reason, and yet we still go out of our way to find connection. We seek love, friendship, camaraderie, passion, and devotion.

  I’d lucked out and found friendship with my Ladies and even members of the Bellèno Royal Family. I might be attracted to Leo on occasion, but I didn’t have to act on that. We could be friends.

  I still longed to marry Max. We’d been through emotional hell in the last couple of days. I didn’t know if he’d abandoned me. He suffered guilt about leaving me high and dry, exposed to the harshness of the gossips, Internet bullies, and criminally mean girls.

  But the reality was he was trying not only to protect me but shelter the lives of everyone in that church. Were the threats about the sharpshooter who would have killed me on my wedding day in the church true? Only time and hard investigative work by Bellèno police and the B.B.I. would tell.

  As far as I was concerned, Famke Kegan and Royal Weddings Consultants could suck it, because I was marrying my Prince Charming today, and I was marrying him here in a small private ceremony at the St. Francis of Assisi chapel.

  “I wish I was more flexible, Vivian,” Father Roberto said when I rang him. “But I’ve accepted a position at another parish, and I only have tomorrow at two pm if that works for you.”

  “You’re moving?” I asked.

  “Things change. Just when you think you’re settling down, life throws you a curve ball.”

  “Two pm?” I looked over my shoulder at Max who sprawled across our bed, delightfully naked.

  “Let’s get it done, Vivian.” He gave me a thumbs up.

  “That works for us. Thanks Father Roberto. We’ve already got the marriage license. I’m planning on everything being informal, and on the hush-hush. No paparazzi. One royal photographer. A couple of bodyguards. A few friends and immediate family.

  “Excellente,” he said. “The Sanctuary is better known for its rousing Octoberfest than fancy nuptials.”

  “Perfect. I’m done with fancy nuptials forever. Weddings can be so complicated. I’m aiming for a drama free event.”

  I waited in the chapel’s anteroom, although technically it was called the ‘Ladies Lounge.’ My friends and I crammed into the three-stall facility, shared two old, tinny mirrors, a few hooks on the wall, and one long wooden bench.

  I applied my lipstick and took stock of my friends. No fancy bridesmaids’ gowns for them this time around. They were clad in whatever was stuffed in their closets from former events. Second-hand clothes for a third attempt at marriage. If this was American football, it would count as first and goal.

  Lady Bea Hafligher, a busy, multi-tasking mother of two school-aged children, wore a pretty lace cocktail frock from Bonpoint. Barrister Joan Brady sported a beaded capelet sheath in midnight blue from Harrods. Esmeralda wore a red vintage, full-length Spanish flamenco dress.

  “You all look fabulous!” I said, holding the phone out as Lola and Mateo Face-timed from Chicago during his recess.

  “Muy bonita!” Lola said.

  This time my groom waited for me at the front of the tiny church. His parents were on one side. Royal Nana and Duchess Edith sat on the bride’s side along with Captain Sam, and Bea’s husband and kids. I kept my promise and marched up the very short aisle to Pachelbel’s Canon, holding tight to Mr. Cartwright’s arm. I glanced at Royal Nana, and whispered, “Happy?”

  “Yes.” She’d stuck out her palm to her pal Edith, who grumbled and slid a stack of Euros into it.

  I reached the front of the sacristy and took Max’s outstretched hand. It felt warm and welcoming. It felt like home. Leo stood next to him but wouldn’t meet my eyes. Part of me felt bad— like I’d hurt him again. But except for my crazy ass dreams, I had not led him on. I was a passing fancy in his brain. An upload with enticing images that flickered in and out in pixels.

  Max smiled. “I love you Vivian.”

  “I love you back, Maximillian.”

  I said those words once again when Father McGillicuddy asked me the appropriate question. And I meant them for a lifetime.

  We’d detoured to Paris for a few days before we landed at the Aden Bach five-star Caribbean resort. It was late afternoon. The light was low and the heat of the island day had mellowed out. A few tanned kids ran in and out of the water, squealing in joy. Our bags were already unpacked, their contents hung in the closets or tucked away in the fresh linen-lined drawers. A bottle of chilled Dom Perignon chilled in a silver ice bucket next to the couch with a festive “Congratulations Newlyweds!” note sticking out from behind a big white satin bow.

  I kicked off my shoes, raced outside into the warm sand, held my hands up
to the sky and twirled. “Yes! I am here in paradise with my gorgeous husband who I am madly in love with. I am blessed.”

  “I’m the one who’s blessed,” Max said. “I’m cracking the Champagne.”

  “I can’t believe we’re finally married.” I walked back inside, took a glass from his outstretched hand, and sipped. I glanced around our decked-out suite. The living room featured warm bamboo wood floors, ceiling fans, and French doors that opened onto our private patio. The gentle surf of the turquoise waters splashed onto white sand shores.

  “It’s been a long day traveling, wife. Let’s relax.”

  “Yes!” I said and plopped down on the king-sized bed, and lay back, my head on a cushy white pillow. “It’s perfect here. It smells like suntan oil, fresh fruit, and dreams come true.”

  He lay down next to me. “You’re my dream come true.” He kissed me. Comfortable at first. Tongue exploring my mouth. Lips nibbling mine. He threw one leg over mine then shifted until he was on top of me. He kissed me again and pulled my loose dress over my arms. He pitched it across the room and smiled at me in my underwear. I knew what was coming next.

  Or should I say ‘who’?

  Me first, and him thereafter.

  “Better,” he said, staring at my breasts straining against the confines of my lace bra. “Much more comfortable.” He grazed a hand over my breasts, then slipped his thumb inside and played with one nipple.

  I groaned under his attention. “I’ve married a sex maniac,” I said.

  “Ha! You already knew that before you married me.” He unclipped the front hook of my bra, fondled my breasts. He attended to the one in his hand and kissed the other. Then he licked the nipple.

  The V between my legs throbbed and I grew wet. “What’s fair is fair. Take off your shirt,” I said.

  “Who’s the royal around here?” He arched one eyebrow, then unbuttoned his shirt revealing his muscular chest with a hint of ginger curls.