A Thoroughly Modern Princess

by Wendy Markham

  She pulled them off, baring a verdant gaze that told him all he needed to know.

  He shifted his focus from her eyes to her mouth. Her lipstick had long since worn off, leaving her lips a pale, natural pink that reminded him of a seashell’s satin-soft lining.

  No. He couldn’t do this.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but the air was abloom with her rose-scented perfume, plunging him back to that heady June day in the palace garden. He recalled the giddy surge of schoolboy exhilaration when she appeared before him, and heard again the ribbon of girlish laughter in her voice as she said, “I’ll bet you didn’t think I’d take you up on your invitation for a tête-à-tête.”

  “No,” he had replied, “I didn’t think you would. Maybe I judged you too hastily when you were up there in your turret.”

  “Why? What did you think of me?”

  “That you didn’t have the courage to come down here and hear what I have to say.”

  Her green eyes had gleamed at him. “Oh, really? And what do you have to say that can’t be shouted up to my turret?”

  “Sweet nothings, mostly,” he had returned. “And it’s not so much what I can’t say from that distance as it is what I can’t do.”

  “Oh? What can’t you do?”

  But she had known full well then, in that instant before he kissed her, what he was going to do. Just as she knew it now.

  She had wanted it then, just as she wanted it now.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. Her eyes were closed. Her face was tilted upward, her lips moistened and slightly parted. She was waiting for him to kiss her.

  Who was he to disappoint a princess?

  He reached toward her, placing his hands on her bare arms, surprised at how velvety warm her skin was in the arctic chill of the elevator. He heard her breath catch in her throat as he leaned closer.

  “I can’t do this,” he murmured.

  “Oh, but you can.”

  Just as his mouth brushed hers, the elevator bumped to a halt and a soft ding announced that they had reached their destination.

  The doors slid open.

  Frustrated, Granger removed one hand from Emmaline’s arm and pressed the Door Open button firmly. Holding it down, he looked at her.

  “I believe we’ve arrived at your floor,” she said, her voice hushed, her mouth mere inches from his.

  “I believe we have.”

  “Aren’t we going to get off the elevator?”

  “Not until we finish what we started.”

  With that, he kissed her again, hungrily. As her lips parted beneath his, it was all he could do to control the urge to lift his fingers from the Door Open button and allow them to roam. He remembered the supple heat of her naked flesh beneath his caress that night in Chimera. Shyly tentative one moment, unabashedly ardent the next, she had finally confessed to him, as she fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, that she was a virgin.

  He was still as amazed by that revelation as he had been by her impulsive decision to bestow upon him the precious gift she should have been saving for her wedding night. In fact, he had summoned every ounce of self-restraint when she told him, certain that they shouldn’t go any further. It was Emmaline who coaxed him onward, undressing him with growing confidence, and trailing fluttering kisses across his naked chest until he groaned and hauled her against him once again.

  But they were alone then, in a bed, in his hotel room . . .

  This wasn’t the time, or the place.

  Granger pulled back reluctantly.

  Emmaline’s eyes opened. She was panting slightly, her cheeks flushed, her blond wig slightly askew.

  “We should go,” he said raggedly.

  She nodded.

  “My apartment is right there.” He gestured beyond the elevator at the carpeted vestibule and ornate double doors. “We can go inside and—”

  “Talk,” she said abruptly, reaching up to straighten her synthetic hair.

  “Talk,” he said, nodding. “Right. That’s what I was going to say. We can go inside and talk. After you.”

  Granger followed her off the elevator.

  The spell was definitely broken . . . and judging by the sudden all-business expression on Emmaline’s face, he would be wise to head straight for a cold shower.

  A steaming bubble bath . . .

  Yes, and a cup of hot chamomile tea.

  Those familiar indulgences would calm Emmaline’s frazzled nerves and wildly beating heart, if anything could.

  Being kissed by Granger just now had almost pushed her over the edge. It was all she could do to keep herself standing upright as she stepped over the threshold into his penthouse apartment.

  She was instantly met by a wild barking, accompanied by the thunderous scampering of paws across hardwood and marble. Two enormous dogs materialized, joyously catapulting themselves onto Granger.

  “These are my dogs, Newman and Kramer,” he announced over the yapping canine chorus.

  “Do tell.” Emmaline summoned a gracious smile, wondering briefly whether she should ask which was which, before concluding that it didn’t matter. She wasn’t particularly fond of four-legged creatures—a distaste that Granger obviously didn’t share. She watched incredulously as the two enormous animals rested their front paws on their master’s shoulders and slurped dog saliva all over his face, to his apparent delight.

  Finally he laughed and said, “All right, down, boys. I’ve missed you, too.”

  They obeyed. Then, to Emmaline’s utter horror, the black dog trotted over to her and sniffed her legs.

  “Newman . . .” Granger said in a warning tone.

  The dog defiantly proceeded to bury his nose in Emmaline’s crotch.

  Pretending to pat Newman’s head, she did her best to push him away.

  “Sorry,” Granger said, grabbing hold of Newman’s collar. “He does that to guests sometimes.”

  Speechless, Emmaline could only stare as Granger wrestled the dog away, calling, “Come on, you too, Kramer.”

  The German shepherd, who had appeared to be on the verge of following Newman’s lead, gave Emmaline’s lower region a last longing glance before obeying his master’s command.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard Granger putting them into a room and closing a door, ignoring their protesting woofs.

  He returned to the entryway and closed the door, which had been left ajar. “Sorry about that,” he said. “The boys miss me when I’m gone. I’ll keep them in the other room until they settle down a bit. But you’ll get used to them.”

  Emmaline seriously doubted that. But he was clearly trying to be a concerned host. And as his guest, she had to remember her manners.

  “This is very nice,” she murmured, looking around the entryway. It was tastefully appointed: marble floor, wainscot and crown molding, and handsome deco-style wall sconces that cast a soft glow.

  “It’s no royal palace,” Granger said, locking the triple dead bolts, “but I like it.”

  “I wouldn’t mind never setting foot in another palace as long as I live,” she informed him. “I’m ready to . . .”

  “See how the other half lives?” he supplied, when she trailed off.

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, then, Princess, come on in and check things out.” He led the way into a large living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows along two walls provided a dazzling view of the glittering Manhattan skyline and the vast dark rectangle that marked Central Park.

  The color scheme was—well, lacking in color. Everything was done in shades of white and beige. The furniture was what she would expect to find in a well-to-do American bachelor’s apartment: modern and rectangular, glass and leather. A far cry from the fussy European antiques that furnished both the palace back home and Remi’s private quarters in the castle in Buiron.

  The thought of Remi sent another guilty aftershock through Emmaline. What was he doing right now, back in Verdunia? Or had he left for Buiron as soon as it
was apparent that she had left him at the altar?

  Poor Remi. How could you have done such a thing to him?

  And what about Papa, and Mother? They must be frantic with worry, despite the note she had left behind.

  Well, someday everyone—Remi and her family—would understand that this had been her only option, under the circumstances. Better than to marry Remi and publicly humiliate him by bearing another man’s child instead of the expected royal heir.

  It would have been best of all, she reminded herself sternly, if she had never met Granger Lockwood. He was the one who had gotten her into this mess.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, going around the room, turning on table lamps.

  She shook her head, unable to speak, all at once nauseated and exhausted and overwhelmed by her predicament.

  “Emmaline?” He turned toward her, catching a glimpse of her face.

  She did her best to smile, but hot tears were already spilling from her eyes. She turned away quickly and reached up to wipe them away with the back of her hand.

  Granger crossed the room swiftly, beside her before she could make a move to get away.

  Where would she go, anyway? She was in a strange apartment, in a strange city, in a strange country, with a strange man. Oh, what had she done?

  “Emmaline,” Granger said softly, behind her, putting both hands gently on her shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” she said, sniffling. “Quite the opposite.”

  “You’ve been through so much today,” he said, patting her arm. “Once you’ve had a good night’s sleep, you’ll feel better.”

  “I’m sure that I won’t,” she retorted.

  “Of course you will. In the morning everything will seem—”

  “Mornings are the worst,” she snapped, spinning around to face him. “Thanks to you, I have spent every wretched morning with my head in the—”

  She broke off, realizing what she had done. She couldn’t tell him like this.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t tell him at all.

  “With your head in the what?” he asked, looking bewildered.

  “Sand,” she improvised. “With my head in the sand. Thanks to you, I convinced myself that leaving Verdunia and not marrying Remi was the right thing to do.”

  “Hey, this whole thing was your idea,” he said, taking a step back and throwing his hands up. “You called me, remember? You asked me to rescue you before it was too late.”

  “But I never said that I should leave him at the altar!” She shuddered at the thought of how poor Remi must have felt, having to face all those people, and the cameras, and, God help him, his mother, the formidable Queen Cecile.

  “It was the only way,” Granger reminded her. “You don’t plan an escape and cross the ocean and find a helicopter in a few hours. I got there as soon as I could. It just happened to be on your wedding day. You’re lucky I managed to get there in time.”

  “I’m lucky?” She caught a glimpse of herself, blond wig and all, in a large mirror across the room. “I’m standing here in this ridiculous disguise, which I’m probably going to have to wear for the rest of my life, in this apartment I’m never going to be able to leave again, and you think I’m lucky?”

  “Listen, I’ve got news for you, Princess,” Granger said, folding his arms and regarding her with an expression that almost seemed smug. “You’re going to have to leave this apartment.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Are you tossing me out on the street?”

  But . . . he couldn’t make her leave! Panic darted through her. She needed him. He was her only ally.

  Again she cursed herself, and Granger Lockwood, and the fateful night that had led to this plight.

  His expression softened. “Of course I’m not tossing you out. What kind of man do you think I am?”

  “I have no idea what kind of man you are,” she admitted, her eyes filling with tears again. “I just . . .” She took a deep breath and forced herself to look him in the eye. “I have nowhere else to turn. I need to stay here. If only for tonight, until I can—”

  “Emmaline, you can stay tonight,” he said. “That’s not what I meant. It’s—” He exhaled heavi-ly. “Look, I don’t feel like getting into the details right now, but to make a long story short, I’m going to be moving.”

  “Moving? Moving where?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “When?”

  “I have no idea,” he said again, with a shrug. “But I’m certain that it will be only a matter of days before my grandfather throws me out of this place. I’m surprised he hasn’t changed the locks already.”

  “But why would he do such a thing?”

  “Because he owns the building, and now that I’m no longer working for him, I’m pretty sure I’m no longer welcome to live here.”

  “You’re no longer working for Lockwood Enterprises?”

  “I quit a few days ago.”

  “And your grandfather was upset?”

  “Oh, you could say that. In fact, he’s all but disowned me. So you see, Princess, you’re not the only one who’s about to turn your life upside down.”

  “I . . . I don’t know what to say.” Emmaline’s mind was racing.

  She had assumed, perhaps naively, that Granger would take care of her . . . at least until she got herself on her feet and came up with a plan. Now it seemed dubious that he would be able to take care of himself, let alone a displaced princess . . . and a newborn child.

  “Look, it won’t be so bad. I mean, wherever I go, you can come with me,” Granger said. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “Sure. We’ll find a place to live . . . maybe downtown, where the rents are cheaper. And we’ll get jobs.”

  “Jobs?” she echoed weakly.

  He nodded, his blue eyes alight with enthusiasm. “After all, I’ve had a free ride until now, and so have you. Don’t you think it’s time we found out what we’re made of? Don’t you think it’s time we found out how regular people live?”

  She was silent, contemplating that. Regular people. As in commoners.

  All her life, she had wistfully wondered what it would be like to be an unencumbered commoner.

  That didn’t necessarily mean she wanted to find out firsthand. Especially now, when she would have a baby to provide for.

  “Can you imagine what it will be like, not having to answer to anyone for the first time in our lives?” Granger went on. “Not having to live up to anybody’s expectations but our own. Free to explore everything life has to offer. No baggage. Nobody looking over our shoulders, or getting underfoot . . .”

  Nobody except a small child, Emmaline thought grimly.

  She couldn’t possibly tell Granger about the baby now . . . if ever.

  The best thing to do, she concluded, would be to head home to Verdunia as soon as possible. Her parents would shield her from the press and take care of her.

  On second thought, they probably weren’t thrilled with her right now. Perhaps they, like Granger Lockwood’s grandfather, would disown her.

  Well, perhaps she could conceal the pregnancy somehow, and give the baby up for adoption . . .

  But even as the thought entered her mind, she discarded it. She not only wanted to have this child, she wanted to keep it, raise it, love it.

  There were plenty of single mothers in the world. High-profile ones. Even royal ones.

  She could do this, without any help from her parents or Granger Lockwood. Let him go off in search of his cheap downtown apartment and his—his job.

  “What do you say, Emmaline?”

  “I’m exhausted,” she said truthfully. “Can I . . . ?”

  “Sure. I’ll show you where the guest room is. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  She nodded, thinking that she had no intention of talking to him about anything. By the time he awakened in the morning, she would be on her way back to Verdunia.

  Princess Josephine helped herself to a third blueberr
y scone and reached for the butter.

  “How can you eat at a time like this?” Princess Genevieve demanded.

  “I’m hungry,” Josephine said simply, spreading the scone with a generous layer of butter.

  The two sisters were seated on the palace terrace, overlooking the large lawn where Emmaline’s escape helicopter had landed yesterday, according to palace security.

  Josephine couldn’t help being impressed by her sister’s sheer nerve. But that didn’t mean she didn’t consider Emmaline a colossal fool. How could anyone in her right mind abandon the scrumptious Prince Remi at the altar?

  After biting into the rich, crumbly treat, Josephine reached past a vase of bright red poppies for the crystal pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice. She refilled her goblet, splashing a bit. A few droplets landed on Genevieve’s cell phone, which was beside her placemat. She was waiting for a call from Reginaldo, as usual. He called every morning, promptly at eight.

  Three minutes to go, Josephine thought, glancing from her diamond-studded wristwatch to her sister’s untouched breakfast: a cup of black coffee and three plump red strawberries.

  Poor Genevieve. How dreary it must be to constantly have to watch one’s weight. Josephine had never dieted in her life.

  “Perhaps you could sprinkle a bit of sugar on those berries to add extra flavor,” she said helpfully around another mouthful of scone. “Sugar doesn’t have as many calories as—”

  “I’m not worried about calories right now, Josephine! I’m worried about Emmaline. As should you be.”

  Josephine contemplated that, still munching, then said reasonably, “Emmaline’s note said that she’s safe and sound, wherever she is. I don’t see why we need to worry. She’ll turn up sooner or later.”

  Genevieve shook her head, looking exasperated. She pushed back her chair.

  “Where are you going, Genevieve?”

  “To see whether Papa has heard anything from Emmaline yet.”

  Her sister swept through the double French doors into the palace.

  Josephine shrugged and helped herself to a strawberry from her sister’s plate. She bit in, made a face, and reached for the crystal sugar bowl. As she sprinkled a generous spoonful of sugar over the berry, a telephone rang.