You're So Vain: A Royal Haters to Lovers Romance (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Book 4)

by Whitney Dineen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sheila

  “Which dress are you wearing to the ball tonight, sugar?” Sheila asks her daughter after walking into her room without knocking.

  “I’m not going,” Lutéce replies hotly.

  “Of course, you’re going. Tonight is Claire and Geoffrey’s official engagement announcement.”

  “No one is going to care whether or not I’m there.”

  “Claire will care,” Sheila says as she walks to the wardrobe and opens the ornate doors. Pulling out a long, whispery, pink gown, she says, “This is beautiful! You have to wear this.”

  “Mother, I don’t want to go. I have a headache.” Lutéce makes a show of rubbing her temples.

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Sheila says. “We came all this way to support your sister, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Now, you’d better get moving, you only have an hour.” With that, she storms out of the room, leaving her daughter to get ready.

  Hurrying down the hall, Sheila runs into Charlotte. “Lutéce is threatening not to come down for the ball.”

  The queen claps her hands together. “How wonderful!”

  “How is that wonderful?”

  “I just got a call from Alistair. He claims he’s not up to coming tonight, either.”

  “How is that good news?” Sheila asks.

  “If they’re both refusing to show up, something must have happened between them today to make them mad.” She adds, “I know for certain that Alistair was in town today, and you said Lutéce was as well. They must have run into each other.”

  Shaking her head, Sheila says, “What if they really don’t like each other?”

  “Nonsense,” the queen replies. “My maternal instinct says that there’s something there. We just need to keep throwing them into each other’s path. Trust me.”

  “Oh, I trust you. I’m just afraid my daughter is beyond help. The girl is thirty-six years old, and the closest she’s ever come to an altar is standing up for her girlfriends.”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, Sheila. I told you I have a plan and tonight we officially launch phase one.”

  Lutéce

  I am not going to raise my children on fairy tales where the heroine needs saving. And I will not have my daughter dreaming of growing up to marry a prince—not when there are princes like Alistair out there.

  The man is an egomaniac. Who brags about someone wanting their autograph? Who cares?

  Fine, I care. I can’t get the image of him dancing with that little girl out of my head. An orphan? My right ovary does a triple back flip. I mentally try to tell myself that it’s just the hormone injections making me hyper-responsive to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Charismatic.

  Make that Prince Tall, Dark, and Charismatic. And there goes my left ovary.

  I turn on my curling iron to add some loose waves to my hair before putting on my dress. I know I said I wasn’t going tonight, but I’m secretly looking forward to seeing Alistair again, if for no other reason than to ignore him. That man needs to be brought down a peg or two, and I want to be the one to do that.

  The next knock on my door is from Alistair’s sister, Aubrey. She looks stunning in her Grecian-style burgundy dress. It makes me wish I’d been more daring in my color choice and style, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.

  “You look gorgeous!” Bree announces before pushing her way into my room.

  “Thank you. You look quite beautiful yourself.”

  “I wanted to warn you that tonight is going to be a bit wild.”

  “How so?” I am not in the mood for anything wild.

  “Most people we know haven’t seen Geoffrey in several years, and now he’s coming home with an American fiancée. That’s going to create quite a fuss. Then there’s the fact that your aunt is Tooty Jackson. Finally, these affairs are always packed with women, young and old, always making a big to-do over Andrew and Alistair.”

  “It sounds like a nightmare,” I tell her honestly before asking, “Don’t the men always make a big deal over you and Sophie?”

  “Men by their nature feel like they have the upper hand, so while my sister and I rarely have a free dance, our partners still seem to act like they’re God’s gift to womankind.”

  Taking one last look in the mirror, I give my suddenly-pallid cheeks a quick pinch, and say, “We might as well get it over with then.”

  Walking through the palace halls at night feels like floating through a dream. I’m not sure my feet are even touching the ground as we head toward our destination. A small crowd of family members are gathered by a set of double doors up ahead. “Why is everyone standing around?” I ask.

  “We’re in line to be presented,” Bree tells me.

  “I thought that was a Hollywood thing.”

  “I wish. The ritual gets old, but it’s been performed since the dawn of time, so of course, we still do it.”

  As we approach, Andrew bows his head and greets us. “Lutéce, Bree, you both look lovely tonight.”

  He looks pretty darn good himself. I love the sight of men in formal wear. “Thank you,” I tell him. “You look quite dashing yourself.” I feel like I’ve landed in a Jane Austen movie. I wonder if I’m expected to curtsy or something.

  “Who are you walking in with?” Bree asks her brother.

  He nods his head toward a man standing by the door with a clipboard. “According to Jenkins, I’m escorting you, sister.”

  Bree says, “Jenkins will stand by the door and announce us in pairs. The order is according to royal status, so they’ll probably start with you. They always finish with the king and queen.”

  Great, I’m the least-important person here. That never gets old. “Who am I walking in with?”

  Neither Andrew nor Bree knows. “Let’s go check,” Bree says. Jenkins is so stiff I’m willing to bet his underwear is starched. “Jenkins, this is Lutéce Choate,” she says before asking, “Can you tell us who she’s being escorted by?”

  He consults his chart. “I have her going in with her parents.”

  Seriously? Am I five? “I’d prefer to walk in by myself,” I tell him.

  “Madam,” Jenkins’s tone oozes condescension, “I don’t make the list. I just carry out my orders.” He turns away dismissively.

  “Maybe you can walk in with Alistair,” Bree suggests. “Although, he’s second in line, so I’m not sure that would be allowed, either.”

  “I’d rather lick the floor after the dogs come in,” I grumble under my breath.

  Bree shoots me a startled side-eye which makes me think I said that too loudly. Then, speak of the devil, Alistair joins us. “Bree,” he says, his chiseled face full of warmth. When he looks at me, his expression goes dead. “Miss Choate.” The small military bow he adds makes it seem like this is our first meeting. Also, that he can’t stand the sight of me.

  Darn, I probably should have curtsied to Prince Andrew.

  “Prince Alistair,” I reply, putting the emphasis on the title he’s so proud of.

  “Alistair, Lutéce is scheduled to walk in with her parents. Is there any chance you could escort her?” Bree suggests.

  “I’m sure Miss Choate would rather make her entrance sliding down a greased banister than at my side.” He inclines his head once again and walks away. Ouch. While his statement is one hundred percent accurate, no one likes to be dismissed so summarily.

  “Did I miss something?” Bree asks. “Last night at supper I could have sworn Alistair was taken with you.”

  “Your brother is taken with himself. I don’t think there’s room for anyone else.” I shouldn’t be saying mean things about him to her, but I can’t seem to help myself.

  “You’ve got him all wrong. Alistair is the fun one out of the bunch of us. He’s always surrounded by a bevy of friends and admirers.”

  “I’m sure.” Sarcasm positively oozes out of me. He’s probably surrounded by sycophant social climbers. No wonder he’s so annoyed that
I don’t bow down and worship at his feet.

  Jenkins starts to mill about getting us lined up. As previously stated, the least important are first.

  I stand first in front of the double doors with my parents behind me. My mom says, “Isn’t this fun? Tooty and I got announced the last time we were here when she performed for the court. I wish we did this at home.”

  “Could you imagine?” I ask in horror.

  “You look beautiful tonight, hon. That pink really sets off the red highlights in your hair. You’re going to be quite a hit.”

  Before I can tell her how uninterested I am in such an outcome, Jenkins and another liveried palace worker open the doors. I’m practically pushed through and barely have time to take in the scene below. I didn’t realize I’d have to walk down such a long staircase with hundreds of pairs of eyes staring at me. I should have worn flats. I briefly wonder if anyone would notice if I kicked my shoes off.

  “Miss Lutéce Choate and her parents, Phillipe and Sheila Choate,” Jenkins practically yells.

  I’m supposed to walk down first with my parents behind me. An inner litany starts in my head. “Do not do a nosedive, Lu. Take it one step at a time. Do not fall. Do not slip …” As I put a foot on the first step, I try not to think about how lightheaded I feel.

  I hear my mom encourage, “Let’s go, Lu. You’ve got this.”

  I do not have this. I want to run screaming in the opposite direction of this whole ordeal. I’m full on deer-in-the-headlights immobile when I feel a presence at my side. It’s my dad. “I’ve got you, honey. Just follow my lead.” I’m so grateful for him right now I could cry. Imagining how that would add to the first impression I will make causes me to almost laugh. Dear God, I’m becoming hysterical.

  I’m so focused on not falling over that I don’t hear the rest of the party being introduced behind me. By the time my dad leads me to an empty space at the edge of the ballroom, the king and queen are the only ones left.

  “Their Royal Highnesses King Alfred and Queen Charlotte,” Jenkins booms even louder than he did for the rest of us. Either that or the room is much quieter in deference to their sovereigns. Regardless, I’m so relieved to be out of the spotlight I could cheer.

  That is, until I hear a man behind me say, “I’d tell you how beautiful you look tonight, if I weren’t so sure it would go to your head.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Queen Charlotte

  “So, what’s your plan?” Sheila asks the queen after being introduced to the royal’s inner circle—a process that takes a good hour.

  “I’m going to throw them together as often as possible.”

  “No offense, but that doesn’t sound like much of a plan,” Sheila replies.

  “That’s just the first part.” The queen winks before saying, “But it starts now.” She signals her butler, Jenkins, who approaches the band leader. The current waltz ends prematurely.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Jenkins announces, “the next dance is for the royal family and their guests of honor only. If you will please leave the dance floor.” The crowd forms a circle around their hosts.

  King Alfred approaches Sheila with a bow as Phillipe and the queen pair off. Tooty is escorted by Andrew; and Geoffrey and Claire are matched. As Sophie and Aubrey don’t have official escorts, they stand to the side.

  By the time the violins start the first strains of Chopin’s “Minute Waltz,” the only ones who haven’t shown up are Alistair and Lutéce.

  Alistair

  “I don’t suppose you would do me the honor of dancing with me?” I practically purr in Lutéce’s ear. More than anything I want to stick to my plan to ignore her, but she pulls me in like we’re connected by an invisible string.

  “I’d rather not,” she says, her tone every bit as harsh as expected.

  Slipping my arm under hers, I practically drag her alongside me. “Unfortunately for you, this dance is a royal mandate, and I have to partner with someone from our party.”

  “Alistair …” Lutéce hisses. “I’m not going to dance with you.”

  I feel the eyes of everyone on us as we pass. “You’d rather make a scene?” I tighten my grip slightly, so she can’t easily pull away.

  As we approach a break in the crowd, I hear her panicky declaration, “I don’t know how to waltz.”

  Turning her so she’s in my arms, I lean down and whisper, “Just follow my lead.”

  “No.”

  “You really do want to make a scene, don’t you?” I ask.

  “No, but I will if you try to force me to dance with you. I’m not very good at it, and I don’t appreciate your being so high-handed.”

  I lean closer to her and inhale a hint of jasmine lingering around her neck. “Close your eyes and let yourself go.” Feeling her body tense in my arms, I command, “Release your fears, Lutéce. I have you.” And just like that, she practically melts for me.

  How can this feisty, hot-headed woman feel so right in my arms? When I’m with her, I want to kiss her and/or spank her. Right now, I want to devour her. As she opens her eyes, it feels like she’s looking into my soul. “It’s a count of three,” I tell her. “Just keep looking at me, and I’ll carry you through.”

  Once our feet start moving— one, two, three, one, two, three—we float in an effortless confluence. I have never felt this drawn to a woman before, and as much as I want to stay away from her, I don’t think I can.

  “You’re very beautiful,” I tell her before I can stop myself.

  “Aren’t you afraid your compliment will go to my head?” she asks playfully.

  “Terribly. But I find I’m hard-pressed to keep my opinion to myself.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?” She smiles almost wickedly. Are we flirting here? Because I think we’re flirting.

  “Maybe it’s your exotic Americanness.”

  She laughs out loud in response. “I’ve never heard of Americans described as exotic before.”

  “Oh, but you are. You all seem to be so outgoing and sure of yourselves. Most of Europe is in awe of your ability to command the attention of a room just by walking into it.”

  “Now I know you’re teasing. Americans may appear brash, Alistair, but we’re simply enthusiastic.”

  “Perhaps you’re correct. You have certainly taken to the waltz with great enthusiasm.” I pull her closer into my embrace.

  “I’m scared spitless, and the only reason I haven’t fallen over is because you’re holding me up.”

  With those words, I pull her toward me until our bodies are practically touching. Relishing the feel of her in my arms, I try to ignore the tap on my shoulder. Unfortunately, protocol dictates that we change partners at least once during the royal waltz.

  Andrew steps between Lutéce and me while I reluctantly turn toward her aunt Tooty. “You and Lu sure do look good together,” the country music star tells me.

  “Your niece is very lovely.”

  “It’s surprising she doesn’t have a boyfriend, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. As pretty as she is, she has a sharp tongue. I’m not sure most men could handle that.” No sense in beating around the bush.

  “It’s a defense mechanism,” she says. “Lu has dated some real losers and she’s afraid to let anyone else in.”

  “What was wrong with them?” I fight to keep control of the dance as Tooty seems to want to lead. She’s seriously strong-arming me around the dance floor.

  “They’ve been a bunch of cheaters. The last one took off with another man.”

  “Oh, dear.” What else can I say? Being cheated on with another woman would be bad enough, but another man? That must be a real ego buster.

  “Dating in Los Angeles is hard enough when you’re not part of a famous family. That town is full of users who are always looking for a leg up in the business. It can make a girl bitter. I think that’s what’s happened to Lu.”

  Well, that information certainly gives me something to think about. Could Lu
téce be nicer than I’ve been led to believe? If so, how do I get her to show her true colors?

  After the waltz ends, the lady in question does her best to steer clear of my attention. If I come within ten meters of her, she bolts to the other side of the ballroom.

  I decide not to take offense and consider a new strategy. Maybe chasing after Lutéce isn’t the way to go. According to her aunt, she’s leery of men who pursue her. Perhaps the way to attract her interest is to ignore her, regaling others with my attention and charm.

  I feel her eyes on me repeatedly throughout the rest of the night, but I don’t so much as offer her a smile. It isn’t until the last dance is announced that I seek her out again.

  Lutéce is standing with her back toward me while she’s talking to my sisters. She practically jumps out of her skin when I lean in and whisper into her ear, “I hope you’ve saved the last dance for me.”

  “I … well … no … that is to say …” I love that I can make her so flustered. Before she can further trip over her words, I take her hand and lead her back onto the dance floor where the band has begun to play “Save the Last Dance for Me,” a song made popular in the United States in the middle of the last century.

  “I didn’t say I would dance with you,” she says once I spin her around and pull her into my arms.

  “You didn’t say that you wouldn’t, either,” I retort.

  “Are you really so vain that you think every woman on the planet wants you?” God, I want to kiss her right now and give that mouth of hers something to do other than hurl insults at me.

  “I just wanted to dance with the most beautiful lady in the room,” I tell her simply. Then I stop moving to the music, but I don’t release her. “If the most beautiful lady in the room doesn’t want to dance with me, all she has to do is say so.”

  “I’m not the most beautiful woman here.” She’s staring right at my throat.

  “That, my dear Lutéce, is a matter of opinion. And in my opinion, you’re positively gorgeous. Not only that, but you’re the only one I want to dance with.”