Long Live Queen Perry: Contemporary Reverse Harem (Kingdom of Veronia Book 3)

by Serena Akeroyd

  Her nod was the catalyst.

  With the click of their heels, the footmen opened the doors wide and Perry stood, trying not to panic. The congregation turned to watch her leave the antechamber.

  She knew she wasn’t Queen yet, not officially, but all that “God save the Queen” shit? Perry could really do with some of that right about now.

  The throne was as uncomfortable as he remembered.

  As a small boy, he’d stolen the seat, often play-fighting over who could sit upon it with his brother, George, and cousin, Xavier. His mother had watched over their fighting with a harried smile but Tanta Lisetta had always been amused by their antics.

  The two women couldn’t have been more different, and in their too-short lives, had never been able to see eye-to-eye. It just seemed incredible that neither of them were around anymore. In fact, it was more than incredible: it was wrong. So wrong.

  Lisetta had died in her forties—Edward’s age, or thereabouts. Marianne had been barely sixty-five. And his father? And Xavier’s? Both too young to have passed on.

  Being royal and being rich was no promise to a long and healthy future. It only meant a life fraught with tension and fear, political unrest, and societal anxiety. Yet he had just dragged the woman he loved into this world. A woman who was walking toward him, her face a stony mask, a complete contrast to her usually mobile features.

  Still… she was beautiful.

  Astonishingly so.

  He knew, that while this was a day that would remain with him for the rest of his life, he would never forget the sight of her as she walked toward him. She’d done the same a handful of weeks ago, each step taking her towards her future as his bride and Princess. But now, everything had changed.

  They were leaders, no longer the leaders-in-waiting.

  The abbey itself was a perfect juxtaposition of the current state of their emotions. Not just personally, but as a nation. On one hand, they mourned Marianne’s death and Philippe’s abdication. This was represented in the swags of black fabric swathing the hundreds of dark oak pews.

  On the other hand, they were celebrating the new King, a new reign, a new future for Veronia. Atop the black fabric, there were bunches of bright white lilies for rebirth and splendor, grace and sorrow.

  DeSauvier banners hung from the domed ceiling, draping several dozen feet above them, creating shadows on the stone floors. There were hundreds of them, and they alternated between royal blue with the family crest, and purple with a lion stitched in gold upon it. The gold lion represented Philippe; the royal blue with both the lion and the unicorn was for Edward.

  Veronian nationals wore black, whereas visiting dignitaries wore whatever they liked. The abbey was a sea of black broken up by bright sparks of colors.

  The coronation was always a difficult time.

  The passing of an old sovereign raised sorrow—or sometimes joy—from the people. Both emotions had the potential to cause trouble.

  The backlash for the UnReals had been immense. His mother’s murder had triggered outright abhorrence from the general public, as such a deed should always stir.

  His people weren’t acting bizarrely by mourning the murder of the Regent. But as always with terrorists, there was that bizarre sense they were all on a different plane of reality—unable to accept that the worst truly had happened.

  Yet how could they feel anything else? How could the Royal family and the nation’s government have expected any other kind of reaction than the hatred spilling the UnReals’ way from Veronian nationals?

  Their attack had proven the UnReals had access to every aspect of life here. That was a chilling threat no one save the family seemed to be reacting to. Why? He’d yet to find out. But find out he damn well would.

  The carved gold motifs on the throne dug into his spine, making this effort in torture even worse. The saying, heavy is the head who wears the crown, didn’t take into account how damn uncomfortable the throne was, too.

  The whimsical thought was enough to make his eyes sparkle with tears.

  He’d lost his mother less than a month ago and yet here he was, having had barely any chance to mourn her passing. No opportunity at all to overcome the tragedy and horror of her death.

  A single sniper’s bullet had changed his life forever. Perry’s too. And if he was being really maudlin, an entire country’s.

  As Perry walked towards him, his feelings were far too complicated to dissect. There was sadness at having brought her, far too swiftly, into this position. There was sorrow, for the last woman he’d seen wearing the ermine cloak had been his mother, at his father’s coronation, when he was a boy. There was a touch of amusement at the mask on her face, a mask he knew hid her fear… not fear of the moment, or fear of the crowd. But the fear of tripping over her skirts.

  Sometimes, she was too damn predictable, and too damn cute with it.

  Then, most perplexing of all when taking into account the muddle of his feelings, there was lust.

  Perry wore a bustier. Royal blue, tightly fitting, making her lush tits swell over the sweetheart neckline. The bustier was embroidered heavily with gold and silver thread. Fleur-de-lis danced over her chest, around her waist. The gold and silver, as well as the rich blue, made her skin look creamier; her chestnut hair was so dark that it looked black, especially in contrast to the rich hues of her dress, the skirts of which were long. Gathered tightly at her hips, they fled out in gauzy waves. With each step, they swirled about her feet in a timeless dance that enchanted him.

  From her shoulders, a cape matching his own draped to the floor. The burgundy velvet, the white fur, were a study in contrasts that suited her coloring greatly.

  She wore no jewelry. Not even earrings. Just as he had walked down the aisle bare from artifice, she did too, save for the embroidery and the crystals sewn onto her bodice. Though he highly doubted he looked as gorgeous as she did.

  The three clerics, the highest in the land, moved from their positions, and as if in a choreographed dance, came to stand in front of Edward. The wall of Reverends was irritating, if expected. Edward did not appreciate being denied the sight of his woman. Because, no matter her title, beneath it all, she was his. As he was hers.

  The thought was grounding.

  With his entire world up in the air, he realized how badly he needed his wife to keep him on solid earth. His brother, George, had showed unexpected wisdom in bringing this woman to Veronia, in bringing her into their lives. Because, the truth of it was, without George and Xavier, as well as Perry, Edward was not sure if he’d be able to do any of this.

  Daunted by the task ahead, he focused on Perry instead.

  The terror on her face had lessened now that she’d reached the altar. Now that she was out of danger of falling.

  He wasn’t sure why she was so terrified of tripping over all the time, just knew that she was. Those moments of insecurity tended to be handled by George, so only God knew what suggestion he’d come up with to resolve her fear. Knowing him, Edward had to wonder what kind of shoe Perry wore under the sweeping skirts of her dress—more than likely flipflops. Or, God forbid, Crocs.

  If it hadn’t been the start of winter, and if the floor beneath them wasn’t frigid, he reckoned she’d have gone barefoot.

  The thought had him studying her face once more. There, he sensed relief, but he searched her expression for pain or discomfort as she walked… When he saw none, he highly doubted she’d gone without shoes. Although he wouldn’t have put it past her. Or George, for that matter.

  “Perry DeSauvier,” the Reverend boomed out in officious tones once Perry had approached. She came to a halt before the wall of clerics standing in front of Edward. “You come to us a child of two nations. A child of two worlds. You hold in your hands the ability to shape this country. Do you deserve this privilege?”

  She gulped. But, as rehearsed, whispered, “No.”

  “Do you promise this great nation that you will earn the right to shape its destiny?”r />
  “Yes.” This time, there was no nervous gulping beforehand. Her earnestness was evident, not only to Edward, but the cameras trained on her face.

  “Do you vow to stand by your husband’s side, to help him lead when times are troubled?”

  “Yes.”

  “With your body, and with God’s will, shall you bear the next DeSauvier to rule over this proud land?”

  “I will.”

  “And do you realize that you stand here before me today, with the Veronians at your back and front, with the promise of their heritage to cherish and protect for future generations, and all because of God’s will?”

  Edward’s lips twitched at the mutinous expression that appeared suddenly on his wife’s face.

  An atheist, he knew she’d find that part of the oath the hardest to vow.

  Veronia had no official state religion, but it was a theist nation. They were a people of believers, and whichever God it may be, that God was respected.

  But, though she looked particularly mulish, he could perhaps have mistaken it for zealousness; she gently murmured, without a whisper of dissent in her voice, “I do realize this.”

  The high cleric nodded and swept out his arms. “Then show your people the willingness to be their Regent.”

  The other two Reverends moved out, and as planned, Perry reached for their fingers and used their support to lower herself to the ground. On her knees, she peered up at the high cleric who anointed her forehead with the cross in water that had been blessed. Two pages appeared from the side of the nave, carrying padded cushions. They came to a halt at either side of the cleric, and he reached for the crown that denoted Perry’s station.

  With little ado, he placed the diadem on her head. The rubies sparkled and shone in the dull light that gleamed from the stained-glass windows. The gold deepened the darkness of her hair, and with the dimming sunlight gleaming on her face, Edward knew she’d never looked more beautiful to him than she did at that moment.

  He’d thought her precious on their wedding day. But today, she made these vows not just for him, but for his people. And this was her sacrifice on his behalf because Perry didn’t want this. She’d never wanted this.

  The cleric reached for the second symbol of Perry’s station.

  This was a lighter, smaller chain that matched the one about Edward’s shoulders. With care, the cleric placed it over her head and moved it so it rode the upper part of her arms. The thick links were heavy, and in contrast to the delicacy of Perry’s form and dress, they were statements.

  Though Edward wanted to do it himself, he had to stand by and let the clerics help Perry back onto her feet. They retained their hold on her fingers as they guided her to the throne beside Edward’s. She took a seat, settling nervously at his side—but those nerves were only his and the clerics to see… the tremble of her fingers, the goosebumps on her arms. Her poker face had definitely come on in the past few months, he realized, and was saddened by the necessity for that.

  He’d changed her life, and wasn’t altogether sure that it was entirely for the better. Wealth and privilege weren’t everything. Especially to a creature like Perry who preferred science, who cherished knowledge over everything else.

  When she was seated, the Reverends disappeared, merging into the crowd of staff at the side of the nave, leaving only the high cleric alone at the altar.

  Then, with the last of the pageantry, the man who had crowned Edward’s father before him, declared, “Long live King Edward II, and long live Queen Perry.”

  And like that, his and Perry’s fates were sealed.

  Forever.

  Chapter Two

  “What are you doing here?”

  Standing in the music room of the house that should have been hers and Edward’s after their marriage, Perry jolted and spun on her heel to look at her husband. As well as her lovers.

  Her cheeks turned bright pink as she murmured, “Thinking.” Had life not suddenly gone off the rails, Grosvenor House was where she’d be living now. Instead…

  “Thinking?” Xavier strode toward her, and she allowed herself to settle into his arms with a sigh when he wrapped them about her. God, did he have to smell so freakin’ good? Like sex and laundry detergent and sandalwood? Talk about a cocktail for your nose! “What about?” he asked, interrupting her internal grousing about his sexy-as-hell scent.

  Choking a little on the words, Perry admitted, “About how much I wanted to live here.”

  She closed her eyes, feeling them prickle with tears at what would never be. Just coming to Grosvenor House had required that she have more security guys than a soccer team. She knew she’d been a pain in her protective detail’s ass too by demanding this visit. But George had warned her that her guards would always try to hem her in, and she had to do what she wanted. Otherwise she’d go stir-crazy.

  Stir-crazy wasn’t just hyperbole now. It was a real thing. A definite possibility.

  There was no exaggerating this shit. Day-to-day life had become more complicated because just leaving the palace was turning into something more complicated than a Japanese gameshow… and this was only day one on the new job.

  The sound of footsteps on the antique parquet floor indicated either George or Edward were approaching. She felt a hand on her back and shuddered a little at the touch. “I’m sorry if I frightened you by disappearing,” she whispered. “I just needed a place... I just had to find somewhere I could breathe.”

  George sighed. “You don’t have to apologize. This situation is overwhelming for us all. And, though it’s not happened how we imagined, we always knew the day would come where Edward would rule in father’s stead. You haven’t had the years we’ve had to prepare for it.”

  She nodded, knowing he was right, but her desire to live in Grosvenor House made things harder on her. The manor house wouldn’t have been her first choice for her first marital home, but it was a damn sight better than Masonbrook Castle, with its endless corridors, drafty rooms, ceilings that were sky-high, and more staff than a Hershey’s factory.

  Grosvenor House, by comparison, was so intimate with its fourteen bedrooms, that knowing she couldn’t live here just saddened her deeply.

  She rubbed her nose against Xavier’s shirt, and pulling in a deep gulp of air that was loaded with more of that epic scent of his, she moved out of his arms and away from them all.

  This was the first room they’d shown her at the manor: a sitting room that had more musical instruments in it than actual furniture.

  And this shit was insane. Only the best Stradivariuses for the DeSauviers, of course.

  Not just one, but several.

  She rubbed her temple as she eyed one of the polished pretties that was tilted on a stand atop the baby grand piano, and tried not to feel like Alice after she went through the looking glass. These museum quality pieces were now hers to play… well, if she could play more than Chopsticks, that is. Fuck.

  “Do you want some pizza?”

  She blinked, taken aback at the pedestrian question. Turning away from the piano, she squinted at her husband. “What kind?”

  Xavier snickered. “So suspicious.”

  “Perry takes pizza very seriously,” George remarked as he plunked himself down on the sofa that, mere weeks before her marriage, she’d napped on, before being deliciously plundered by Edward and Xavier upstairs in the master suite. Those were good times, deserving of more “o’s” than the two that “good” already contained. More like goooood times.

  “Who doesn’t take pizza seriously?” she retorted waspishly, when the men carried on snickering at her.

  “I’m not that big a fan of it myself,” Xavier murmured, then held up his hands in surrender when she gaped at him.

  “You’ve never had the right stuff, then.”

  His lips twitched. “I’ve eaten it all around the world.”

  “You need to have it in New York. Best. Pizza. Ever.”

  “You do know we’re across the border from
Italy. I’m sure they’d argue they have the best pizza. Ever.” Edward moved over to her, his lips curved in a smile. He reached for her hand and gently tugged her toward one of the armchairs. As he took a seat, he tumbled her down onto his lap. “Come on, sit with me a while.”

  She snuggled into him, hating herself for feeling so insecure when he, they, were the ones who needed help, support, encouragement—and anything else a new King required his new Queen to be. She was doing them a disservice by being such a wimp, yet she just felt so… blah.

  Yeah, that was it. Blah.

  Feeling a bit like a little girl—the exact opposite of how she should be feeling in this sex God’s lap—she pressed her face to his throat and murmured, “Pepperoni. Every time.”

  He chuckled and it comforted her to feel his chest vibrate with amusement—he’d been so somber since that last day in Dubai when they’d been declared King and Queen. Not that she could blame him, but it did her heart good to know he could still laugh. “Pepperoni for you then. Mushroom for me.”

  “I’ll have that too,” Xavier commented.

  “I’ll tell the kitchens,” George instructed, and she heard the sofa squeak as he got to his feet.

  “It’s mean to make them cook pizza at this time of the night,” she reasoned—quietly, though. She really did want the pizza.

  “That was a token complaint if ever I’ve heard one,” George retorted with a snort as he made his way out of the room.

  She pulled away to watch him go, and studied the set of his shoulders as he moved.

  There was a tension riding him, riding them all.

  Fuck. They really did not need to be babying her.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered when he’d gone. Somehow, it was easier to say without George in the room.

  He was her best friend, one of the loves of her life, and yet, he knew a different side of her. The playful side, the one who’d whoop his ass at Mortal Kombat, and could out-eat his body weight in donuts.

  She hadn’t been feeling herself for a long time.