Of course, I want nothing more than to be there as Aksel’s date. We’ve been sneaking around forever and as thrilling as it is to keep up this secret affair with him, it’s starting to wear on me a bit. It’s just so fucking hard to have my heart belong to his and his heart belong to mine and yet we’re unable to show the world. Unable to act on it.
I don’t even want to make an announcement about it, I don’t want to open my life—and the girl’s lives—up to that kind of scrutiny, but the truth is, when I see him at dinner, I want to be able to sit next to him. When we drink brandy in the living room, I want to be able to sit at his feet, his hand in my hair. When we pass each other in the halls, I want him to put his arm around me.
I want his kisses, his touch, his utterly romantic words all the time, not just in the dark when we see each other. It’s just not fair that he makes my whole world go around and yet I get so little of that world. I want all of him, all the time, and it’s a bloody impossible thing to wish for.
“Okay,” I say to Clara, putting the last pin in place. “All done.”
Clara frowns at her reflection. “I look dumb.”
I grab her shoulders and pull her back into me, kissing the top of her head. “You look as cute as a button.”
“A button? Buttons aren’t cute.”
“It’s an expression.”
“The English have so many strange ones,” she comments thoughtfully.
I laugh and look over at Freja, only to see her fancy hairdo has been completely undone, her hair loose around her shoulders. She grins at me, showing off her new missing tooth.
“What happened to your hair?” I cry out. “That took me forever.”
“It’s pretty now,” she says and keeps grinning, sticking her tongue through the empty space in her tooth.
Freja has really come out of her shell in the last nine months and some ways I wish I could shove her back in that shell since having two precocious and mischievous girls is a lot to handle.
I wave at her to come over. “Come on, let’s try this again.”
An hour later, I have both girls ready and we head out to the festivities in the square just in front of the palace.
It’s packed. People are everywhere, there’s a marching band, the guards are doing their thing, people are waving Danish flags, everyone is drinking coffee and eating sticky buns.
Maja waves me over from the area at the front of the palace. The place for King Aksel is empty, but I’m sure he’ll make a late appearance.
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” I tell her, leading the girls over. “We had some hair mishaps.”
I expected Maja to give me a bit of a tsk tsking since she’s so good at that but instead she’s biting back a smile. “What on earth,” she says, laughing quietly. “What are you wearing?”
“What?” I say and then I notice that she’s wearing a simple pant suit and that no one in the crowd is wearing this costume either.
Oh my god.
“Where did you get that?” she manages to say, pulling at my red sash, her eyes sparkling with humor.
“From a costume store in town. I had Henrik go get it. Was that wrong? Aksel told me to do it.”
“Well, I’m afraid Aksel was having a little fun with you,” she says, and I swear she winks at me. “The bright side is that none of the papers can accuse you of not trying to fit in.”
Ah, fuck.
So I sit down with the girls on either side of me and I know, I know, that there are a million photos being taken of me right now. It doesn’t matter. I raise my chin high.
Then Aksel comes out from the doors, striding toward the microphone in front of us.
He looks so sinfully handsome that it takes my breath away.
His perpetually tanned skin against his navy-blue suit, perfectly tailored of course, and white shirt. His hair is a little longer now, shining in the bright sunshine and swooped to one side.
He passes by us and gives us a little nod and then his eyes meet mine. Then they trail down my blouse, sash, skirt, and back up to the white bonnet pinned to my head.
And he laughs.
The bastard laughs.
In front of everyone.
Dick.
Then he quickly covers it up and turns to the crowd, clearing his throat, before he greets them all.
My Danish at this point is good enough that I understand most of the speech and it totally helps that over the last few days, I’ve been sneaking into his room to go over the speech with him, helping him practice. He talks about the country’s pride and prosperity, he talks about freedom and traditions and culture, he talks about families and today’s youth.
All in all, it’s a stirring speech, and he’s just as magnetic with the crowd as he was with me in practice, and the crowd seems to be just as in love with him as I am.
“You’ve done such a good job with him,” Maja whispers to me, briefly placing her hand on mine.
I’m surprised at her affection. “He’s the one who wrote the speech.”
“Not just with that,” she says. “With everything. This is not the same King that gave a speech last year. This is a different man. This is a man who sits on a throne and inspires a country. This is who he was always meant to be.”
I swallow hard. “I guess it takes time to come into your own.”
“It does,” she says softly, giving my hand a squeeze. “But let’s not pretend he hasn’t had the help.”
I stare at her, wondering if she could possibly know what’s going on between us. We’ve been so careful with each other, even though Maja is as sharp as a tack.
But if she does know, then it obviously doesn’t bother her.
She’s probably just thanking you for your nanny duties, don’t get carried away.
So I don’t.
When the ceremony and speeches with Aksel, the Prime Minister, and some local celebrity (which, sadly, wasn’t Viggo Mortensen) ends, everyone goes their separate ways to prepare for the ball.
My job, as usual, is to watch the girls and keep them out of trouble.
My job is also to sequester Snarf Snarf into a guest bathroom on the third floor, just to keep him out of people’s way. It’s not an easy job since the bigger the pig gets, the more aversion he has to stairs, and I practically have to carry the giant beast all the way up.
Point is, I’m a mess and I’m a wreck and suddenly going to bed early seems like a better alternative to going to this royal ball.
“Girls,” I call out to them. I’m collapsed in what feels like a bottomless beanbag chair in their room, while they sit on the floor, Clara reading a story to Freja in Danish. “You don’t really want to go to this party, do you?”
“Yes we do, we go every year,” Clara says and without skipping a beat, goes back to reading out loud.
“I don’t even have anything to wear.”
“Why don’t you wear what you wore earlier,” Freja says, snickering. “Papa thought you looked funny.”
I groan. He did. That was his plan all along. And I still haven’t had a moment alone with him to kick him in the shins.
But the truth is, I don’t have anything to wear. For some reason I thought I would be wearing a costume to the ball and now that I know that’s not happening, I’m left with my own clothes and I’ve got nothing except miniskirts.
I sigh and text Henrik, who is probably super busy right now driving food and party supplies back and forth, but I do it anyway. Since I can’t leave the girls, and I’m not about to take them into a clothing store, I ask if Henrik can pick up a dress during one of his errands. I tell him my size and tell him I don’t want anything too clingy around my stomach because I don’t want to show off the little belly I’ve gained thanks to endless potatoes and rye bread. Really, I just want him to pick something that will fit in with the ball. He’ll know better than I do.
He doesn’t come back with the dress until way late. We skipped dinner because Karla and the cooks have been so busy with appetizers and dri
nks for the ball, so I scrounge around in the bustling kitchen for some bread and cheese and then bring it out to the dining room, so we at least have something to munch on before things get started.
My makeup is already done, and I straightened my hair, wearing it down to make up for the fact that it was stuffed in a braid and bonnet all afternoon, when he appears in the other doorway to the hall.
“Sorry I’m so late,” Henrik says, breathless. In his hands he’s holding a huge garment bag. “But I got the dress. I may have consulted with my wife on this one, so if you don’t like it, it’s all her fault.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I tell him, and I’m a bit relieved since I’ve met his wife once and she seemed to have good fashion sense. Then again, most people in this city are effortlessly stylish.
When we’re done scarfing down the bread and cheese, I wrangle the girls back up to my room since I don’t dare trust them alone when there’s party prep going on. I place them on the bed and tell them they can be my fashion show judges.
“Make sure you smize,” Clara calls out as I take the dress into the bathroom.
How on earth this girl knows about “smizing” and America’s Next Top Model is beyond me.
I close the door and unzip the garment bag.
Well, the first impression is good.
It’s a bronzy, nude color with glitter and sequins and…
I wrestle it out of the bag and then it expands to five times its size.
Holy shit.
This is an actual ball gown.
Like, a princess kind of ball gown.
From a Disney film.
I hold it up, trying to see if it will even fit but thankfully it seems to be my size.
I manage to get it on and look in the mirror.
The bustier top is full-on sequins, low-cut, pushing up my breasts while nipping in my stomach. The rest of the gown poufs out majorly, all glitter and tulle and magic.
Wow.
“Let us see,” I hear Clara cry out.
I open the door and make a dramatic entrance, shifting my hips to the side and throwing out my arms. “Ta-da!”
“You’re a princess!” Clara yells, jumping off the bed and running over to me. “You’re more princess than I am!”
“Du ser smuk ud,” Freja says, following her sister and running her hands down the side of my dress.
“Thank you,” I tell her. She said I look gorgeous.
I feel gorgeous.
For once I don’t think that my ears stick out a little or that my teeth and smile are oversized or that my brows are too strong and bold for my face. For once I think it all comes together, making me beautiful.
But let’s face it, Aksel has been making me feel beautiful every single night that I’m in his bed.
“Sleeping Beauty,” Clara says, looking me over. “That’s who you are.”
“Princess Aurora,” Freja clarifies.
Clara grabs her sister by the arm and starts twirling her around my bedroom. “I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream,” she sings one of the songs from the cartoon. It’s terribly off-key and she shrieks more than she sings, but there’s something so utterly charming about the scene in front of me that I feel my heart breaking into a million pieces. It’s so strange how something can make you feel so happy, so good, it makes you painfully sad at the same time.
“You’re crying,” Freja says, once Clara has twirled her toward me.
“Am I?” I say, carefully running the edge of my fingers under my eye. “Probably just dust in the air.”
I head to the bathroom and look in the mirror again, making sure that my makeup isn’t ruined. I don’t know if it was the compliments that Maja was giving me earlier, or seeing Aksel give that rousing speech, or feeling like a princess, like I actually belong here for once, but my emotions all seem to be at the surface today.
As long as I don’t drink too much, I’ll be able to hold it together.
At about 7:30 p.m., after I get the girls into dresses of their own, shiny pink and green numbers with bows, I get a text from Aksel.
Where are you?
I breathe a sigh of giddy relief. I thought he’d forgotten about me.
I text back: Just got the girls ready.
He says: Come down. I need you here.
I need you.
Such simple words and they’re setting my heart on fire.
Be right there.
“Okay girls,” I say, putting my phone on the desk. I don’t have a clutch and the dress doesn’t have pockets so it’s better off in my room. “Let’s go.”
I take them by the hands and we head off to the ball.
The ballroom is located at the far wing of the palace on the first floor and other than playing with the girls and Snarf Snarf in there, I don’t go there much.
But tonight, it’s like entering another world.
You know those royal balls you see in the movies, people in fancy dresses dancing beneath glittering chandeliers, while butlers walk around with appetizers and champagne and a violin orchestra plays in the corner.
It’s like that.
Except everyone is a lot more modestly dressed.
And by that, I mean it’s all very sleek and Scandinavian and understated.
And I’ve just walked in the room in the world’s poufiest prom dress.
Heads turn.
People whisper.
“Who is that?”
“Is that the nanny?”
“Who does she think she is, a princess?”
Okay, well I can’t really hear or understand them from where I am, but I’m pretty sure that’s what they’re saying.
It doesn’t matter though. I hold my head high, ignoring the looks, and scan the room for Aksel.
I don’t see him at first, so, while still holding the girls’ hands with an iron grip, I slowly walk through the crowd, nodding my head at some of the staff that I know. But even they are giving me a look, you know, the one that says, aren’t you working too? Probably followed by, how on earth did she afford that dress on our wages?
The latter I don’t know. The label said Valentino and I really hope it doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass, because I don’t have those kind of funds.
And then, like the sea parting for Moses, the crowd disintegrates in front of me and I see Aksel, standing with the Danish Prime Minister.
The Prime Minister spots me first, nods and says something to Aksel.
Aksel’s head pivots toward me.
His jaw practically drops. At least it seems that way to me since it’s usually held in such a tense manner.
That was the reaction I was hoping for.
I smile at him, knowing my smile makes him weak at the knees, and then glide toward him.
“Good evening, Your Majesty,” I say to him sweetly. “I have your children here.” You know, to remind him that I’m the nanny and we haven’t been secretly screwing for several months.
Clara and Freja are incredibly quiet at the moment and Aksel says to the Prime Minister, “Warnekros, may I introduce to you my nanny, Aurora James.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Prime Minister,” I say, holding out my hand.
Warnekros is an older man with a shock of white hair and glasses and he seems a little befuddled at the moment. Still, he shakes my hand with a firm grip then looks at Aksel. “She’s much prettier in person.”
He said that in Danish but I’m certain that’s what he said.
Not sure if I should be insulted or not. I guess the tabloids never do publish my good side.
“I’ll let you two be,” the Prime Minister says, placing a hand on Aksel’s shoulder before walking away to the champagne.
“Lovely party,” I say to Aksel.
“It just got a lot lovelier,” he says, his voice awed and rough. He’s getting a look in his eyes, a look he can’t show in public. “You…” his eyes slowly rake over me, up and down. “You’re more than a goddess.”
I gr
in, wishing I could reach out and adjust his bowtie. “Well you look like a Nordic god in that tux, so I guess we make quiet the pair.”
It’s only then that I realize both Clara and Freja are staring up at us, watching.
“Okay girls,” I say to them, overly cheery. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
“Give them to Maja,” he says, reaching out and touching my shoulder.
“Why?”
“I want to dance with you,” he says. His eyes are intense and commanding, I can feel them all the way to my toes. They possess me in ways that nothing else does.
I look around. A lot of people are staring at us. Actually, I think everyone is. They’re watching our every interaction, our every look.
I feel like I’m at the zoo.
The most glamorous zoo in the world.
“You want to dance with me?” I ask. “What happened to you not being able to dance?”
“Perhaps I’ve improved.” He turns and waves at Maja nearby then smiles at his girls. “Go to your Tante Maja. I’ll bring Aurora back.”
They nod and Clara grabs Freja’s hand and they cross the ballroom to Maja, all while I hear Clara start to sing, “I know you, I danced with you once upon a dream.”
Once upon a dream is right.
Aksel holds out his arm for me to take. “If you will, Miss James.”
I do a small curtsey and then take his arm as he leads me to the middle of the floor.
Everyone who was dancing there suddenly scatters, leaving it open for just us.
He won’t stop smiling at me, not as I put my other hand on his shoulder, not as he puts his other hand at the small of my waist.
“Aren’t you afraid people will get the wrong idea?” I whisper, keeping focused on the strong, chiseled lines of his handsome face. From a scar across this nose where he broke it during his rally driving crash, to the sprinkles of grey at his temple and the permanent crease between his arched brows, I’ve memorized his face like a map that leads me home.
“Let them think what they want,” he says, his grasp tightening around me. “You can’t control that anyway.”
He’s got a point.
So I keep smiling as we glide and twirl around the ballroom, the world disappearing around us. Fragments of Clara’s song twinkle inside my head like stardust.
A Nordic King Page 26
