The Princess and the Prix

by Nell Stark

  “Your Serene Highness, my Lord Rufford,” Peter greeted them as he extended a hand to the elder of the two beautiful women in the back seat, “allow me to present Mr. Clive Bassler, his wife Ariana, and their daughter Isabel.”

  Alix was woefully out of touch when it came to pop culture—a fact that had been driven home when she had examined the finalized guest list last night, only to find she didn’t recognize half the names on it. In a panic, she had called Thalia, who patiently explained the celebrity status of the various models, actors, and reality television stars whom Alix had never heard of. The Bassler family were Hollywood royalty. Clive was an American actor who had met Ariana on the set of some action film that had long since been forgotten, and they had gone on to have a fairytale Hollywood romance. Twenty years later, Isabel was coming into her own as an up-and-coming model for a fashion house. Alix couldn’t remember which, but doubtless it was one of the most distinguished. She was ethereally beautiful, with flawless pale skin and long, golden hair falling past her shoulders.

  “Welcome,” Alix said. “I’m glad you could join us and grateful for your support.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it, Your Highness,” Ariana said as they clasped hands.

  “Please, let’s dispense with the formalities. Feel free to call me Alix.”

  Lord Rufford moved to her side and greeted Bassler like an old friend. Content to let him shepherd them into the tent, she remained outside to await the next guests.

  “Thank you for your help, Peter,” she called as he climbed back into the car.

  “Anything for such a good cause,” he said with a smile. “I just got word that my family is at the landing pad. I’m off to fetch them.” And with a rev of the engine, he was gone.

  As the minutes stretched into hours, Alix’s feet began to ache in the new pair of heels her mother had insisted on purchasing for the occasion. Neither of her parents had been free to attend this event, but both had been generous in their donations for the raffle. Florestan and his bride were happily married and off enjoying their honeymoon. These shoes might be physically uncomfortable, but the ridiculous magenta taffeta gowns Monique had chosen for her bridesmaids had caused Alix psychological trauma. At the wedding, Camille and Soraphine, who had been blessed by genetic lottery with classically beautiful features and hourglass figures, had looked like fairy-tale princesses. Alix, on the other hand, had spent the day feeling like one of Cinderella’s evil stepsisters.

  Thankfully, Thalia’s red car appeared on the track at that moment. While Peter had ceded his place to one of the Petrol Macedonia test drivers after the arrival of his wife and son, Thalia cheerfully carried on. On this particular trip, she had toned down her showboating antics, making Alix wonder who was in the car. No sooner had it come to a halt when Thalia leapt out, sporting an infectious grin.

  “Guess who I’ve found?”

  Kerry, who now shared the title of Duchess of Kent with her wife, emerged from the backseat and waved to Alix with one hand while extending the other to Sasha. On the other side of the car, Arthur was attending to Ashleigh.

  Alix’s fatigue receded at the sight of them, and her doubts about the success of the gala promptly disappeared. There was something special about this up-and-coming generation of the House of Carlisle—a subtle energy about both couples that transformed the space around them for the better.

  “The party can start now,” Thalia quipped, as though she had read her mind.

  “Alix!” Sasha called as she hurried over to exchange the obligatory cheek-kisses. “Kerry and I must take a drive around the track with Thalia. She’s promised to do one of those”—she circled one finger in the air, pantomiming a donut—“while we’re in the car! Where do we sign up?”

  Her childlike eagerness was charming. “On the right, just past the champagne,” Alix said, pointing inside the tent. When she turned around, she found herself face-to-face with Kerry, who seemed bemused by her wife’s enthusiasm. Dressed smartly in a dark green blazer and gray slacks, she looked both fashionable and comfortable. Alix couldn’t help but envy her.

  “Congratulations on your launch of Rising Sun,” Kerry said politely.

  “Thank you. I’m glad all of you could be here today.”

  Kerry’s smile shifted into a more serious expression that spoke business. “I know today will be frenetic, but perhaps we can find a time to chat? I have a friend from the Rhodes who’s now teaching at the London School of Economics, and he expressed interest in teaming up with you to create internships for his students.”

  “That’s an exciting prospect,” Alix said, her mind already racing ahead to canvas the possibilities. She had been so focused on raising the necessary capital to launch Rising Sun that she hadn’t yet considered the possibility of forming relationships with academic institutions. “I’d certainly like to discuss it in more detail.”

  “I’ll find you later,” Kerry said. “For now, I’d better figure out what exactly Sasha has signed us up for.”

  “The ride of your lives!” Thalia called after her.

  Kerry stopped and looked over her shoulder. Her cordial professionalism had abruptly given way to a cocky half-grin. “I’m not going to say what I’m thinking,” she replied, “but I bet you can guess.”

  Thalia hooted in delight. “Ah, newlyweds.”

  Before Alix could connect the dots in an effort to follow their subtext, Ashleigh stepped forward, shaking her head. “Ignore those cretins.” She embraced Alix warmly. “We’ve been looking forward to this since receiving your invitation.”

  “Though we’ll be keeping our feet on solid ground,” Arthur chimed in, accompanying his words with a gentle caress of Ashleigh’s slightly protruding stomach.

  “Perfectly understandable. And we have sparkling cider in addition to the champagne.”

  “That’s very considerate.” Ashleigh took her prince’s arm. “We’ll catch up with you later.”

  Once they were all inside the tent, Alix turned back to Thalia. “You’ve been driving back and forth all morning. Why don’t you let one of the test drivers spell you and take a break before your exhibition?”

  “Very well, Your Serene Highness.” Thalia doffed an imaginary cap.

  She rolled her eyes at the posturing. “Oh, stop.” The role of humble chauffeur fit her about as well as the painfully fashionable shoes that chafed Alix’s toes.

  Thalia drew level with her and pressed the car keys into her palm. “For my replacement.”

  When their fingers brushed, a shiver ran through Alix before she could suppress it. Thalia’s head jerked up and she took a step backward, reminding Alix of a startled horse. Had she felt it too—the tiny charge of energy that had passed between them when their skin touched?

  With an awkward wave, Thalia turned and strode into the tent. Alix watched as she approached the knot of people that had formed around the British royals. She had just the right vantage point from which to observe Sasha’s welcoming smile, and the elegant arm she threw around Thalia’s waist to pull her into their midst. The prick of jealousy was like a bee sting, sharp and unexpected.

  Sasha and Thalia had been schoolmates, but had there ever been more to their relationship? Alix had clear memories of the teenage Sasha, who had learned early on to wield her beauty as a weapon in the service of her own rebellion. And she could imagine a younger version of Thalia—skinnier and less jaded, but just as much a daredevil. They were a likely pair for finding trouble, but what about adolescent romance?

  When she tried to picture it, her mind balked—but was that because Sasha and Thalia didn’t have that kind of chemistry, or because she didn’t have enough imagination? Or worse: was her inability the result of lingering prejudice?

  The crowd shifted to reveal Sasha standing close to Kerry. As Alix looked on, Sasha reached for Kerry’s free hand, and they shared a quick, private smile. Alix plumbed her own mind for any evidence of homophobia, but the sight of them together, so clearly in love, was simply b
eautiful. What, then, was the cause of her discomfort?

  The only remaining option was the jealousy she didn’t want to acknowledge. But Alix had never been in the habit of sticking her head in the sand. She had long ago accepted her position on the margins of her own family—partly a function of her personality, but also as a result of her own choices. Now, she needed to confront the fact that her jealousy was far more complicated than that of an unattached woman who sees a successful relationship and wishes for her own love story. Her feelings were much more focused.

  On Thalia.

  She watched as Thalia laughed at something Arthur had said. The quick flash of her smile, the dark glint of her hair in the lamplight, the lithe strength of her arms as she gestured while she spoke. She was beautiful. But it was not the kind of beauty Alix wished she possessed, like Camille’s or Soraphine’s. It was a beauty she appreciated in a way that ran deeper than pure aesthetics. It was a beauty she wanted to know. The warmth of Thalia’s embrace, the texture of Thalia’s skin, how Thalia’s lips would feel as they moved against hers…

  The intimacy of her desire was frightening in its unfamiliarity. Her own skin suddenly felt too tight, and panic rose when she couldn’t manage a deep breath. Adrenaline, whispered the corner of her mind still capable of rational diagnosis. She had experienced attraction before, but always at a distance. Never like this—never accompanied by a visceral craving for touch. Her own private joke with herself was that Florestan had inherited her share of libido in addition to his own.

  Apparently not. That part of her had only been asleep. Now it had woken and was inconveniently focused on Thalia d’Angelis—who, aside from being a woman, was about as incompatible with her temperament and priorities as another person could be. Yes, Thalia had been on her best behavior for the past few weeks, but Alix didn’t for one moment believe that her urges had disappeared. She was either repressing them or sublimating them into her work on the racetrack. Regardless, they were still there, churning below the surface. What had Thalia said in Italy? I like to drive fast cars and fuck fast women and drink too much and watch the sun rise before I sleep. That’s who I am. Could those traits possibly be part of what Alix desired? Was she a misguided moth, wanting to approach the flame of Thalia’s intensity?

  A low drumroll had begun in the back of her head, and she wanted nothing more than to escape into some quiet place to confront the magnitude of this epiphany. But on today of all days, that was simply not an option. She would have to muscle through the turmoil—to shove aside these nascent feelings and the anxiety they inspired. To remain calm, collected, and professional even as her own mind erupted, bubbling and roiling, contours shifting to become an unfamiliar landscape.

  Isabel joined the group that had gathered around Sasha, and Alix watched as she was introduced to Thalia. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to catch any evidence of flirtation. Would Isabel entice Thalia to relax the iron grip on her self-control? This was the first week of a month-long break in the Formula One schedule, before it resumed with the Monaco Grand Prix. Would Thalia decide she had enough breathing room to let down her guard?

  As the seconds ticked into minutes, Isabel deftly maneuvered herself to stand next to Thalia. She spoke; Thalia smiled and gave an answer. As their conversation continued, Isabel rested one hand on her shoulder. Jealousy returned, hotter and sharper, piercing Alix’s chest. By acknowledging its root, she had given it power.

  Her breaths hitched, making her dizzy. But with the weakness came a surge of anger. She would stop this. Logic would prevail over fear. And when this day was over, she would spend some much needed time alone where she could critically examine these new emotions and learn how to manage them without feeling as though they were tearing her apart.

  *

  Thalia sat at the far corner of the bar at the Brands Hatch clubhouse, forcing herself to nurse two fingers of very fine scotch. This spot was partially obscured by a pole, which was why she had chosen it. If she was tired of interacting with people, she could only imagine how exhausted Alix must be.

  The post-dinner party was finally winding down. Minus a few hiccups involving the vegetarian menu and an intoxicated DJ, the day had been a smash success. At her closing remarks, Alix had announced that Rising Sun had raised almost three million euro. For all her introversion, she was a polished public speaker and a consummate hostess.

  Thalia craned her head, checking that Alix was still where she had been a few moments ago: deep in conversation with Arthur’s uncle Edward, the Duke of York. That boded well, as Edward was a financier who ran his own hedge fund. Confident in her ability to remain unobserved, Thalia watched the many tells of Alix’s body language. Fatigue was evident in the way she shifted her weight back and forth, but her shoulders were unbowed, and her hands moved crisply through the air in clear excitement.

  Her hands. They had been the source of their first clash: when, at Sasha’s wedding, she had taken Alix’s hand and remarked on her calluses. She tried to recall her mindset in that moment. Had that first connection sparked the interest that had long since become attraction? Alix had challenged her from the very beginning, forcing her to reject any preconceived notions of what it was to be a philanthropic princess. I spent much of the past three months planting crops and digging wells. She had spoken in defense of her own choices and in defiance of Thalia’s stereotyping, not to boast.

  Alix’s useful and competent hands, trained to plant and dig and heal. How would they move in a moment of passion? Would she be eager to explore, or shy of contact? A few days ago, in a moment of weakness brought on by insomnia, Thalia had consulted the Internet for evidence of Alix’s past romantic liaisons. She had uncovered several rumors, of course—no contemporary princess, no matter how she might try to fly beneath the radar, was beyond the reach of human curiosity—but nothing that could be confirmed. Most of the relevant articles were in one particular French gossip magazine, and Thalia had been thankful for the translator built into her Web browser.

  But the pieces were fluff, all mights and maybes and perhapses without a shred of real evidence. Having been the subject of more than a few such rumormongering articles, she could recognize the lurid glow from a mile off. The fact of the matter was that she had no reliable information about Alix’s past love life.

  Of course, she could always ask. Thalia took another sip of scotch to prevent herself from laughing. Her decade of practice spent flirting with other women notwithstanding, she could think of no possible way to bring up the subject of romance to Alix. For the past month, most of their conversations had revolved around the planning of this event. Occasionally, Alix would ask about her training, and of course they spoke of each Grand Prix as it happened. Thalia made an effort to periodically check in about Florestan’s shotgun wedding, and in rare moments of candor, Alix would drop hints about the strained relationships she had with her siblings. Thalia had to confront the facts: she and Alix had a comfortable friendship, but not a particularly close one.

  Thalia had expected that without fuel, her interest in Alix would die off. Instead, the opposite was happening. The more time she spent with Alix, the more intrigued she became. Alix might prefer to operate behind the scenes, far from the spotlight, but that only made her more fascinating. Unlike her siblings and peers—unlike Thalia herself—she wasn’t in search of glory. Sometimes it almost felt as though Alix was doing the opposite: hoping to atone in some way for the accident of her privileged birth.

  Deep waters, there. Deep waters that Thalia wanted to plumb.

  Movement from across the room jarred her out of her thoughts. Alix and the duke were shaking hands, their conversation clearly at an end. Thalia slipped out of her chair and rested one hand on the pole as she entered Alix’s unimpeded line of sight. When Alix shifted her stance, angling herself toward Thalia, she knew she had been noticed. A warmth distinct from the heat of the scotch settled in her stomach. That was worrisome—or at least, it should have been. Somehow, she couldn’t muster enou
gh concern about these feelings to take the steps necessary to quash them.

  As Alix approached, Thalia pulled out the chair next to hers. “Your feet must be tired,” she said.

  Alix glanced down at her shoes. “These things are torture devices masquerading as footwear.” A sudden thought wiped the hint of a smile from her face. “Has my control slipped? Am I wincing?”

  “Your control is perfect,” Thalia said, even as the devil on her shoulder prodded her to imagine how Alix might look in a state of sensual abandon. “It was a lucky guess. You’ve been standing all day.”

  Alix ordered a coffee from the bartender, shot Thalia a sidelong glance, and surreptitiously eased her feet free of the vise-like straps that held them. “Just for a little while.”

  “I’ll never tell.” Thalia clamped her lips together before she forgot herself and offered a foot rub.

  “There’s a part of me that can’t believe this is over,” Alix said into the lull. “The details have consumed my every waking moment, and I’ve forgotten how to live without this hanging over my head.”

  Thalia raised her eyebrows. “I hate to break it to you, but last-minute preparations for the Monaco Grand Prix will rush in to fill the void. It’s a madhouse.” And then she caught herself. “What am I saying—you know this. You’ve lived with it all your life.”

  “But until now, I never paid attention. I never cared.”

  “And now you do?”

  Alix shot her a look that screamed “Obviously,” but that didn’t stop the warm feeling from intensifying in Thalia’s chest. No. She couldn’t fool herself. Alix cared about this year’s Monaco Grand Prix because she was helping to organize it, not because she was coming to care for her in some way. Getting caught up by this crush would be a mistake. At this point in the season—in her career, in her life—Thalia couldn’t afford sentimentality.