His Majesty's Measure

by Pamela DuMond

  “Private Parker,” I said. “You look awfully familiar. Have we met before?”

  “I don’t know, Ms.”

  “You mean, ‘I don’t know, Missus.’”

  “Yes, Ms. Whatever you say.”

  “Missus.” Perhaps he was audibly impaired, or simply stone cold tired from the monotonous hours of guard duty. “You don’t need to rest on formalities, soldier. And whatever you do, please don’t call me Duchess, even though I’ll be granted the designation Duchess of Friedricksburg. Those titles sound so stuffy. Just call me Vivian.”

  He pulled a thin, folded up newspaper from his coat pocket, glanced at it, and then at me. “Yes, Ms. Vivian.”

  But something didn’t feel right and I was hit with the same kind of clingy, icky sensation that happened when I accidentally walked into a spider web. I pointed to his newspaper. “Can I see that?” He reluctantly handed it over. I recoiled when I saw the picture of me on the front cover under the fold. The headline blared:

  “Vivian DeRose: American Commoner… Duchess-No-Longer??”

  It felt like a knife sliced into my heart and I shuddered. “Do you mind if I keep this?” I dug through my purse for spare change to reimburse him, my hand trembling. I couldn’t locate any coins but I latched onto a crisp Euro from the sleeve of my wallet.

  “That’s fine, Ms.,” he said. “You don’t need to pay me. I already read it.”

  “But it’s not fine.” My hand shook as I passed him the bill. “Honestly—it’s not fine at all.”

  “I thought this whole nightmare was over.”

  I’d tossed the newspaper on the coffee table so hard the priceless, antique crystal Santa centerpiece rattled. It spooked me for a second, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was an evil omen that Santa had decided he was throwing in the towel and not coming to town this year.

  “Good luck with that one,” Esmeralda said, leaning back on the red velvet pudding couch. She scrolled through her phone. “I bet the Archbishop himself planted that story.”

  “It’s the beginning of December and the holidays are breathing down our necks,” I said. “Don’t these journalist vultures ever take a break?”

  Beatrice walked into the living room, juggling glasses and a frosty bottle of Champagne. “I hear they’re running low on turkeys this year,” she said. “The vultures might be next in line. They’re big birds, and with the proper mix of seasonings they can be quite tasty. I’ve been researching festive dinners in Crete. We’re spending the holidays there this year. I popped open a bottle of bubbly. Who’d like a glass?”

  “Me,” Esmeralda said.

  “Me, Joan said. “But I’d stick with the lamb. Mediterranean cultures have multitudes of super yummy lamb recipes. Google recipes for chops with mint leaves on top.”

  “Cook the journalist vultures,” I said. “Turn the oven to ‘Broil’ and roast them. Hand me a fork and I’ll pick the meat from their carcasses until nothing is left but their stringy tendons and parched bones.”

  “Well, technically, love, that would make you a vulture as well,” Esmeralda said. “Albeit one that has access to an oven. Why don’t we just wish them hell and damnation, sue the ones that get too far out of line, and use our hard-earned money to go shopping instead? I’ve got my eye on a bag by up and coming designer, Gareth Trent.”

  “Ooh, Gareth Trent!” Joan grabbed her phone and did a Google search. “His jeweled beige suede Hobo bag with the zipper and the fringe is to die for. I must admit I lust after that.” She held her phone out in front of her. “Is this the one?”

  “No,” Esmeralda said. “I need the black Moroccan leather tote, not the beige Hobo.”

  “Good luck,” Joan said. “I heard there was a six month waiting list for that one.”

  “Not for me. I know people,” Esmeralda said. “I am people. Besides, I’ll visit Gareth in Italy if I have to. From St. Luce, it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump.”

  “Take me with you. I love Italy, especially in December. Christmas holidays, pageants, parades, shopping.” Joan held out her Champagne glass. “Bea, top me off, please. One more, and no, I’m not driving.”

  “Should I call the paper and ask them to print a retraction?” I asked.

  “No,” Esmeralda, Joan, and Beatrice said in unison.

  “Then what do I do? They’re being assholes.”

  “They’re always assholes,” Esmeralda said.

  “What do you want to do?” Joan asked.

  The door banged open, a chilly wind blasting into the cavernous room. Max squeezed through the opening, wrestling a large, bulky, green tree behind him. “To the left,” he said. “No. A little to the right. Hold on. Lift it up, Leo. Not that high up. Wait, wait—” A branch collided with a lamp on the foyer table, and it crashed to the floor.

  Leo as in Prince Leopold, the heir to the Bellèno throne. Leo - the strikingly good looking man I was ‘fake’ engaged to for a brief period of time over a year ago when I was hired to impersonate Lady Catherine Fontaine. Leo—Max’s old brother by ten months who had, only a few weeks back, confessed that he still had feelings for me.

  “Crap!” I jumped up, and ran toward it. “What are you doing?”

  “Decorating, darling,” Max said. “Christmas is sneaking up on us. The festivities start so early these days. We promised my grandmother a home-cooked meal, a decorated tree, and real eggnog. Did we destroy anything remarkable?”

  “You tell me,” I said, gingerly lifting the large shards from the floor and placing them on the side table. “It was the antique Meyda Tiffany glass lamp that your third cousins sent us as a wedding present. But you are in luck my friend, because I am a whiz with super glue.”

  “Damn!” Leo said, his thick brown hair brushing the collar of his blue fleece jacket. “I’m sorry! What do you want me to do with the fat end of this tree?”

  “Hold it still for a moment and don’t move, wanker.” Max wiped the sweat from his brow. “It’s not a genuine Tiffany, Vivian. It’s an expert knock-off. Impossible to tell the difference unless light fixtures are your thing. Besides, Nana never liked that side of the family. She said they were cheapskates and charlatans.”

  “Oh. But I liked this lamp. It was so pretty.”

  “I know, darling. I’m sorry. We’ll get another.”

  “No worries. If it makes you feel any better, my entire family couldn’t have banded together to buy us this present. It still would have been too pricy.” That was because my entire family consisted of my Uncle Florio and me. He still lived at The Vail Assisted Living Facility on the Southside of Chicago where I continued to pay his rent. Luckily for us, I’d recently scored a new part-time job after we rescued Max from the horrible Royal Wedding Consultant kidnappers. The Friedricksburg Chamber of Commerce VP of Marketing had caught a glimpse of me on TV, thought I was brave and feisty, and believed that Fredonia desperately needed heroes during these troubled times. Especially curvy, girl heroines who could toss their abundant hair, smile convincingly at a camera, and still look fierce as they guzzled a bottle of Friedricksburg sparkling mineral water in between nibbling on a Friedricksburg Chateux dark chocolate bar.

  In this odd turn of events, I became the new spokeswoman for this small hamlet that was the birthplace of Maximillian’s father, King Fredrick Rochartè. There were even hushed whispers in the frenetic corridors of advertising offices in the capital city of St. Luce that I was in the running to become the new poster child for tourism in Bellèno. My new job might have felt daunting, but I was grateful I didn’t have to impersonate anyone other than a happy, parched version of myself. “Perhaps, Max, your cousins have just fallen on tough times.”

  “Perhaps Max just needs to pick up the other end of the tree,” Leo said. “Only an asshole leaves his brother standing half in and half out of the door during a cold snap.”

  “I’ll help.” I raced from the living room to the foyer. “Tell me what to do.”

  “No need. We’ve got it. Right, dude?”
Max asked. “On the count of three. One. Two…” They pulled and pushed, see-sawing the ten-foot Christmas tree through the door and into our home. Leo burst out laughing. “You had to get the biggest one in the lot.” He pushed the door shut.

  “Only the biggest and the best for my new bride.” Max pulled me flush against him and tickled me. I giggled.

  “What’s so funny, Vivian?”

  “You.”

  “Take me seriously, wife.” He pulled me closer, if that were even possible.

  “I’ll take you seriously when you kiss me seriously.” I gazed up into his hazel eyes, and smoothed back the lock of ginger hair on his forehead.

  “I am so going to kiss you seriously.”

  “Stop talking about it and do it.”

  And he did. His lips were cool from winter’s frosty air and yet they warmed me in seconds. My Max was hot. So very, very hot. And yet my mind kept spinning, warning me something wasn’t right.

  “What’s up?” Max asked. “You’re worried about something.”

  “The ridiculous thing with Archbishop Causesdesperdues. And the press with their hyperbolic headlines. Did you see them?”

  He nodded.

  “Proclaiming that we’re not married. I hate those people.”

  “It’s gossip-mongering, Vivian.”

  “Are you legally married? Not legally married?” Leo asked. “Is this still up in the air?”

  “I’m pretty sure we are legally married.” The last thing I needed was Leo to be asking about my marital status. As much as I liked Max’s brother, the crown prince of Bellèno, I’d learned the truth about him back in Monaco. Leo had feelings for me.

  “We’re married,” Max said. “It’s just a way for tabloids to peddle lies and sell advertising.”

  “What was up with that fake copy of our marriage certificate with “Null” and “Void” stamped all over it?” I asked. “Why haven’t we received definitive confirmation?”

  “I’m confirming it, my princess.” He smiled, cupped a muscular hand on my ass and kissed me again. “I’m confirming it definitively.”

  Another panty melting moment courtesy of my gorgeous husband. “Can we get rid of these people?” I whispered after I came up for air.

  “Your friends?”

  “Your brother?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “That sucks.”

  He smiled. “We have plenty of time for that later.”

  “Enough already with the PDAs,” Leo said. “We combed Christmas tree lots for hours. We were torn between a long needle pine and a short needle fir. Ladies. I see you are gathered in the living room around a toasty fire, enjoying your bubbly. What do you think about our selection?”

  “It’s spectacular,” Bea said.

  “Majestic but homey,” Joan said.

  I reluctantly stepped away from Max and gazed at the freshly cut long needle pine tree and inhaled. I was half tempted to bury my face in the midst of its aromatic, supple needles, and let the scent brush against my skin and mark my blouse. Who needed perfume when you could smell like Christmas? “I can’t believe you got it in our front door. It will look perfect next to the fireplace. I just wish I had all my mom’s ornaments from Chicago.”

  “The tree will look awesome adjacent to Royal Nana’s housewarming present,” Joan said.

  “Right.” I stared at her gift—an oil painting of Her Royal Highness Marie Susannah Clothilde Timmel when she was young and regal.

  “Leo helped. I rang up my no good, lazy sibling, and put him to work,” Max said. “Best part about moving next door to family. Free labor.”

  “Let’s not forget who found you this place,” Leo said. “I knew my neighbors wanted to sell. A little bird slipped you the info, and you were able to make a presumptive offer on the place. A quick escrow. Very little hassle. You owe me when my new billiard table’s delivered.”

  “Only if you’re planning to install it on the first floor,” Max said.

  Crown Prince Leopold of Bellèno was muscular and chiseled. The brothers’ eyes were similar in shape and intensity of gaze: Max’s hazel, Leopold’s brown. Both mesmerizing.

  I liked Leo. He was a good guy. Sexy, handsome, total eye candy. He was a hot mess of ripped muscles, possessing the willful abandon of a puppy. He’d slept with half of the eligible ladies of Europe, and a fair share of commoners, but he hadn’t slept with me. We might have kissed a few times a year back during the course of my job when I was his fake fiancé. Yet I still left him high and dry at the altar because I was completely, unequivocally in love with his younger brother, Max.

  Now, Leo, the heir to the throne, gave me a peck on the cheek. A dangerous peck.

  “How’s married life, Vivian? Dull, I assume. You’re married to my staid younger brother. If you ever change your mind and remember me fondly, you know where I live. Approximately one hundred twenty five meters to the right.”

  “Vivian’s off limits,” Max said. “You had your shot. Good tidings, ladies. My brother, the very eligible playboy prince is in the house. Are any of you single? I’m not sure you were expecting his company. He’s quite the ladies man you know. I hope you’re all clothed.”

  There was a hesitant knocking on the door. “Expecting more guests?” Max asked.

  “No.” I peered through the peephole and stared at the guard and a short, white-haired man with a clerical collar poking out from the top of his winter overcoat. “Can I help you Private Parker?”

  “A Father Leo Florentine here to see you and Prince Maximillian, Ms. Vivian.”

  “I apologize for the intrusion, but it’s a bit of an emergency,” the man said.

  “Yes, of course.” I opened the door. “Hello, Father. How can I help you? Do you need a donation for the Holy Cross Orphanage? Max! Did we forget to write a holiday check for the children?”

  “It’s not about the orphanage. You are Vivian Marie DeRose?” he asked, his gray eyes peering down at me.

  “Yes and no. That would be my official name in my former life before I married the handsomest younger prince of Bellèno.” I pointed to Max. “Technically, now I’m Mrs. Vivian Rochartè.”

  “We’ve been trying to reach you by phone, but some rude lady keeps hanging up on us.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling only a touch guilty for hanging up on the Archdiocese in fear of getting bad news. “Rest assured I’ll have a word with her!”

  Max rolled his eyes at me. “I’d like a word with her too. Do come in, Father.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” He scraped his feet on the mat.

  “Call me Max. Can we get you anything?”

  “No thank you. I’m afraid I have bad tidings.”

  “Bad tidings?” Esmeralda got up and eased to the door.

  “Hopefully they’re not too bad,” Joan said.

  “How bad could it be?” I asked, a sickly feeling boring into my stomach.

  “Perhaps we should speak privately,” the priest said.

  “We trust everyone here,” Max said.

  “Very well. It seems that the priest who performed your marriage, Father Roberto, wasn’t technically licensed to marry you.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Max.

  “Yes, yes. I’ve already heard that,” I said. “Apparently, there’s some confusion about his standing in the Holy Church. Did Father Roberto screw up on communion? Hand out the wafers before the wine? Is he behind on his re-licensure hours?”

  “I wish it were that easy.” He sighed, removed his hat, and pressed it over his heart. “Archbishop Causesdesperdues asked me to investigate the issue. At first I thought it was a simple clerical error. But then I dove down a rabbit hole and discovered a much darker secret.”

  “Darker?” Max asked.

  “That sounds ominous,” Joan said, and placed a reassuring hand on my arm.

  “It is,” Father Florentine said, and crossed himself. “You’ll see in that letter of explanation that Father Roberto didn’t just screw u
p your paperwork. It would have been so simple if he didn’t dot an i or cross a t. Unfortunately, this isn’t a simple case of re-sign the documents, send them back in, and get everything stamped for approval. It turns out the man who married you wasn’t the real Father Roberto. I regret to inform you that you and Prince Maximillian were married by a man posing as Father Roberto. You were married by a priest impersonator.”

  My knees went weak and I clutched the door frame. “What does this mean?”

  “This means that you are not legally married. You, Ms. DeRose and Prince Maximillian were never royally wed.”

  DESCRIPTION

  A few years ago, I was an impoverished cocktail waitress, an American commoner, struggling to pay the bills and keep my uncle in assisted living. Now I’m marrying gorgeous Maximillian Rochartè, the Prince of Bellèno.

  * * *

  Or at least I’m trying to.

  * * *

  The Archbishop claims our wedding was performed by an unlicensed priest, and insists that in the eyes of the church we’re not legally wed. We could ignore his fear mongering but what if he’s right? Could our future children be kicked out of the royal family?

  * * *

  Max must serve his National Guard duty. It falls on me, my ladies in waiting, and Leo, the Crown Prince of Bellèno -- who recently admitted he has feelings for me -- to travel to Italy, and track down the wannabe priest. We need to resolve this mess so Max and I can get re-married before the paparazzi finds out and blows the scandal wide open.

  * * *

  What more could go wrong?

  ——

  His American Princess © 2018 is the re-imagined, steamier, more explicit version of Royally Wed: The Poser © 2017 Additional content has been added to the original story.

  One-click HIS AMERICAN PRINCESS now!