Sighing, he pushed away the latest job offer he’d received via snail mail. He stacked it with the others on his desk and viewed the little skyscraper he was making with the damn proposals.
Working in a hedge fund was what he wanted to do. The last thing he wanted was to work with the Minister of Finance. Even in an advisory capacity, most of the ministry would spend their time trying to give him the runaround. But that didn’t stop him from being able to access everything they were doing… from being able to make sure funding was appropriately arranged.
Though he’d prefer the Veronian Democrats to be in power than De Montfort’s Conservative League, he trusted neither.
With a heavy breath, he switched his attention to something that was actually useful—the table arrangements for the wedding reception.
Neither Perry nor Edward seemed willing to take responsibility for it, so George had volunteered.
Hell, maybe he should go into event management. Seemed like he had the knack for it, and with the royal wedding on his resume… talk about the right kind of references to have.
He grinned at the thought, then buried himself in the diplomatic nightmare ahead of him. Better that than to worry about a life tucked away in the dingy halls of the government because duty compelled him to think with his head and not his heart.
Chapter Fourteen
The sound of another jet landing shouldn’t have been all that disconcerting. But they’d arrived on the private airfield twenty minutes ago, and unlike major airports, there wasn’t that much traffic.
She could hear the birds tweeting outside: that was how quiet it had been since they’d cut the engines to the private jet.
Strange, wasn’t it? How she’d been living in a palace for the past five months, and yet, what really made things hit home was this jet.
Luxury had become a part of her life. As ridiculous as that sounded, it was the truth. She slept on a four poster that had, once upon a time—and she really hoped they’d changed the mattresses since then—comforted and sheltered royalty. She drank food that came from royal estates, ate on Limoges plates… even her panties had designer labels.
And as terrifying as it sounded, what had once perplexed her, now was just a part of life.
Still, this wasn’t.
This plane?
Nuh-uh.
This was terrifying in because she, Little Miss Nobody, had access to a private jet.
What the hell was that even about? Perry asked herself as, for the millionth time, she gaped at her surroundings.
It was a small plane, she guessed. Nothing like what she’d traveled on in the past. And she had it to herself. Maybe that was why this was even more impressive? Or wasteful?
She wasn’t sure which.
Even her conservationist heart was bewildered at being able to have this kind of luxury on call. And though it didn’t improve matters much in her head, Drake had explained to her that she wouldn’t just be putting herself in danger if she traveled on a regular flight, but all the innocents on board, too.
That, more than anything, had given some semblance of peace about the situation. But the peace had come with a kind of terror of its own.
The only reason those innocents would be in danger was if she was in danger.
She was now a person who could endanger those around her.
The mind boggled.
Enough that she wished George was here to tease her out of her funk, or that Xavier was there to hold her hand. She’d sit in Edward’s lap if she could. And no mistake about it, she’d do anything to find some kind of normality in this crazy new reality of hers.
She was only here because she’d insisted on coming. Had refused to let her parents travel to Veronia alone. Drake’s compromise had been that she travel by herself, and even though Edward hadn’t been happy about it, he’d let her make the decision while railing at the head of security all the while.
Once again, however, Giles had won.
It amazed her how much power he had over the rulers of a nation, but safety was everything. It was paramount.
And this jet was a reminder of the kind of world Perry was diving into.
The leather was soft beneath her, the color of a café latte. The bucket seats were plush and cushioned, and she could lay down in the space between this seat and the next—that was how much legroom she had.
Coach, this was not. Cattle, she’d ceased to be.
A bouncy carpet underfoot cushioned her feet, the walls were paneled in a gleaming mahogany, and the light fittings were uplighters. Soft pools of gold bathed the ceiling, not dark enough to fall asleep, but light enough to not get eye strain.
A sofa ran down the length of one side, and opposite it, there was a narrow table in matching mahogany—for business meetings, she assumed.
Even the air smelled rich. Like incense, of all things. And that horrible squeak that came as part and parcel of traveling in the air? Yeah, that wasn’t there.
She’d eaten five-star fare on honest-to-God porcelain dishes, and had been shown to a small bedroom with a connecting bath that would have put a seven star hotel in Dubai to shame.
This?
It just beggared belief.
Of course, the one thing to spoil it were the two men sitting on the sofa. Yeah, she hadn’t mentioned them because they weren’t exactly people she wanted near.
Guards.
Two of them. Of a team of ten.
The numbers were astonishing.
How could she, one tiny person, need so much protection? Hell, they just had to shove her in a small hidey-hole and she’d be fine. There had to be some joy in being a short-ass.
Apparently not.
The remaining eight guards hadn’t needed to come because she wasn’t actually leaving the plane.
She was here to make sure her parents, her salt-of-the-earth folks, didn’t balk at the sight of the private jet.
They were already hesitant about coming.
She heard it every time she’d called her mom the past month or so. Perry had been making an effort to be more in touch with her, but every time she did, she wondered if she wasn’t making it worse.
Janice, like most mothers, had the nasty habit of finding a reason for her daughter’s unease and picking it apart until the matter was resolved.
Only trouble was, some of these situations couldn’t be resolved by a mother’s loving advice.
The EA still wasn’t listening to her, wasn’t taking her seriously. How could Janice help with that?
The ball held in honor of the Ukrainian president? The Veronian courtiers had still snubbed her. Had still peered at her as though she was shit on their shoes.
How could Janice rectify that?
Then there was the nightmare of the wedding itself. Every day closer to the event of the century, according to the Veronian press anyway, and there was more to do. More to worry about.
How could Janice help with that?
Perry bit her lip, praying as she’d been praying for the past few hours, that her parents wouldn’t balk further. That they’d come.
In a normal situation, she had no doubt they’d be at her wedding quicker than a NASCAR rally car around the track. But this wasn’t normal.
And the jet was just further proof of that.
It had all the makings of the nail in her goddamn coffin.
When a cellphone rang, she jolted in surprise. The silence since the jet had landed had been pretty nice. She’d closed her eyes, had taken the moment to just breathe. To prepare herself for the many, many questions her parents would have for her when they boarded.
As the guard started talking, however, she opened her eyes and studied him.
He was remarkably short for a guard. A few inches taller than her. His head was shaved and shiny on top, and he plucked his eyebrows.
Why did men do that? Perry asked herself, tilting her head to the side as the Veronian guard’s voice raised.
She didn’t have to speak the damn languag
e to know he was cursing.
“What is it?” she asked, raising her own voice to be heard over the man’s curses.
The guard, Gerard, clenched his jaw. But that was the only response he gave her. He got to his feet and headed for the door. At his approach, one of the stewards stood and frowned.
More Veronian, confused this time, went down, but the door opened. She sat up, wondering what was going on and irritated as fuck that she didn’t have a clue why Gerard was angry.
Soon as she was married, goddamn Veronian classes were on the huge list of things she had to do.
After solving the nation’s drought, of course.
A woman, even a princess, needed priorities.
Still, Gerard wasn’t concerned… he was angry. That meant her safety wasn’t compromised, surely?
The guards stood to attention in a way that pricked Perry’s curiosity all the more. She went from sitting straight to getting to her feet, too.
When Gerard saluted, she knew the person on the other side of the door had to be a royal.
Her lips curved at the notion, but what astonished her more were the tears that burned her eyes when Edward appeared in the doorway.
His smile was tight when he shot something back to Gerard who was mumbling his displeasure, but Perry interrupted and said, “He might not be pleased to see you, but I’m relieved as all hell that you’re here.”
Gerard sighed, knowing he was beat, and when to quit mumbling, but Edward grinned as he stepped nearer to her.
He looked divine. His bronze-like hair dappled in the golden lights onboard. His skin was creamy now that summer was mostly over. He’d also grown paler because he wasn’t being allowed out to ride as much as he usually was.
His eyes were like peridot, facets of light making them sparkle and glint gold. His lips, full and almost rose in color, curved with a genuine warmth that eased her more than she could say.
She hadn’t realized she’d been cold inside. Not until then.
Fear, she guessed. Concern and disconcertion over being here, in this jet, over waiting for her folks…
But his presence soothed that. Let her breathe a little easier.
She didn’t care that his suit was tailored, that the fabric of his shirt was an exquisite silk blend. When he brought her into his arms, she clenched her fingers in the fine tailored jacket, and pressed her cheek to the soft caress of the silk.
Letting out a shudder of relief, she whispered, “You’re not supposed to be here. Drake said you would be in danger if you came.”
“Is that a complaint?” he teased.
She rubbed her cheek against his chest, wishing it was bare, wishing she could smell him, just him. “No. Never.” She paused. If Gerard had been that angry, how mad was Drake? “Are you in trouble for coming?”
He shrugged. “I’m the Crown Prince,” he murmured. “Trouble is my middle name.”
A laugh escaped her at that. “You rebel, you. Should I call you James Dean now?”
He chuckled, pressed his lips to her hair. “No. Edward suits me fine. Although James is one of my many names, so I’d answer to it.”
She stilled at that, then pulled back to stare into his eyes. “Many names?” she asked, seeking clarification.
He winked. “I have about eight.”
Her lips parted. “Eight?”
“Yes. One for each of our allies. Or so it seems.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “Queen Victoria is a great, great, great-grandmother. For all the nations where her bloodline sowed a seed, we’re unofficial allies.”
“So, like England and Russia?”
He reached down a traced a finger over the curve of her cheek. “Yes. Greece, Finland. Yugoslavia, Romania, et cetera.”
“So what are all your names then?” she asked, tilting her head to the side so he could better cup her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she sucked in air that he shared.
“You’ll find out on our wedding day.”
Her eyes popped open at that. “Meanie.”
He grinned. “We don’t have time. Your parents are five minutes away.”
She gulped. “You were supposed to wait in Veronia.”
“There are many places I’m supposed to be today, and the only one that mattered is here. I’ve already let your father down by asking for your hand over the phone. I couldn’t let my relationship with him deteriorate further.”
Her stomach, so tightly clenched with nerves, eased some at that. The butterflies stopped dancing, and she sagged into him, tightening her arms around him once more. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion.
“Oh, Perry, carilla, you never have to thank me for being here. This is where I’m supposed to be.”
And that, God help her, was better than any vow he could speak in church.
It meant the world, and from a man intending to give her just that, it meant even more.
Chapter Fifteen
“You can’t be serious.”
At her side, Cass pressed a hand to her mouth.
Perry glowered at her. “Don’t you dare laugh.”
“I’m not laughing, I’m not,” she retorted, but she had to cough a few times to dispel her mirth.
“Seems like it to me,” Perry grumbled as she stacked her hands on her hips and studied the three different vehicles before her.
In a gust of Chanel No. 5, Marianne appeared from one of Masonbrook’s side entrances. There were many, and the Queen had taken a different one than Perry and her newly appointed Matron of Honor, Cass.
“I see you’re ready, Perry,” Marianne said gaily.
“Ready to commit murder,” she bit off under her breath, making Cass snort.
“Stop making me laugh. She already thinks I’m rude.”
“That’s because you are,” Perry said on a chuckle of her own when Cass elbowed her in the side.
Sweeping her hands out in a graceful gesture—one of many in her repertoire—Marianne murmured, “This is your last lesson before the wedding.”
“We’ve already gone over how to get in and out of cars, Marianne,” Perry complained, folding her arms across her chest.
“Do these look like regular cars to you?” the Queen snapped, mimicking Perry’s pose. “We have a low sports car, that’s the one you’ll be climbing in and out of after the reception, and Edward will use it to drive you to the airfield. Then, the first carriage. This is the covered one you will travel to the abbey in with your father. The open-top carriage is for after the ceremony.”
Perry cut Cass a look. “What am I missing?”
Marianne’s nostrils flared with irritation. “Edward and George have rightly pointed out how clumsy you are, and that it would be remiss of me to fail to cover this potential hole in your education.”
Well, wouldn’t she just make them pay for that pleasant little suggestion later?
“It can’t be so hard, can it?” she asked brightly, eyeing the formal gold and powder-blue cab that reminded her of a moving Fabergé egg, and the open carriage that looked like it belonged in a Disney movie. The car was an E-type Jaguar. It was low, looked mean and fast, and would suit Edward down to the ground.
“In your wedding dress, you’ll be maneuvering with a hefty weight of fabric around your legs and ankles,” Marianne pointed out. “For the Jaguar, you’ll be changing into a simpler dress for the reception so you won’t have as much to worry about, but there are still concerns.”
“There are?” Perry asked doubtfully, her feet crunching on the gravel as she approached Marianne and the three luxury vehicles. Each of which spoke of a completely different époque in Veronian history.
“You could end up flashing your boobs or your panties, depending on what you’re wearing,” Cass advised quietly, nodding at Marianne. “You have to be careful. It can be really embarrassing, especially if there are paparazzi following you, Perry.”
The turncoat.
“I thought you were on
my side,” Perry groused.
“I am,” Cass joked. “That’s why Marianne’s right. You do need to know this, Perry. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
She winced. “Okay, so where do you want me?”
So began a tedious two-hour class on how to climb into and out of the carriages, tips on how to sit straight even if the horses were making the ride rocky, as well as the perfect wave—Marianne even slapped her hand a few times when Perry found the motion difficult to mimic.
Of course, the instant she did that, Perry knew immediately what to do.
She was starting to think she was a glutton for punishment. Either that or one of Pavlov’s dogs. A simple slap on the wrist from the Queen, and like clockwork, she immediately started behaving.
If it wasn’t downright weird, it would have been damn funny.
“We’ll have footmen on either side of the doorway. They can either help your father and Edward, or just one can, but I’d recommend you grip both their hands with your own and allow them to guide you to the ground, Perry,” Marianne murmured as Perry stood in the open-top carriage, two bored servants standing in front of her.
Half sure she’d been less mortified at her first pool party after her boobs had popped up overnight, she placed her hands into the men’s and transferred her weight onto them so she could climb down the steps with ease.
Really, it wasn’t rocket science, but Marianne had her practice a handful of times.
Then, when she was deigned fit for purpose, Marianne opened the Jaguar.
“I’ve seen your dress. There’s no need to worry about your panties, and you’ll certainly not be wearing anything that short in future…” Marianne pursed her lips in disapproval, but before Perry could defend her future self of any wrongdoing, the Queen stepped into the car and faced the windshield.
At that moment, it was impossible to think the woman was almost seventy. Not only was she spry, but in her neat pantsuit, and with elegantly coiffed hair and made-up face, Marianne was so damn perfect, it was almost sickening.
With the sunlight beaming down on them and flushing her cheeks pink, the sky a pleasant, if strong, blue that had her squinting at the brightness, and a piece of gravel stuck in the tread of her shoe making her toes ache, Perry felt the exact opposite of perfect. Between the sweat gathering at her brow, and a wedgie—a constant state of affairs now—lodged in her ass crack… the last person she was emulating was Marianne.
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