Happily Ever After (Runaway Princess: Flicka, Book 5)

by Blair Babylon

  Dieter frowned. “But Princess Diana wasn’t called duchess.”

  “Charles was already the Prince of Wales. Wales is a principality, and thus Prince of Wales is a sovereign title like the Prince of Monaco, so she was Princess Diana, the Princess of Wales. When William takes that seat, then Kate will be Princess Katherine.”

  Time to twist the proverbial knife.

  Dieter grinned at him. “Thus, from my rudimentary and incomplete knowledge of how courtesy titles are handed out—”

  He waited, still grinning wolfishly.

  Understanding dawned in Wulfram’s dark blue eyes, and then exasperation. “Are you serious?”

  Dieter lifted his glass of bourbon and grinned at Wulfram. “Well, if Flicka is still a princess, as you say, and if it is customary—”

  Wulfram’s jaw clenched like he was grinding his teeth together. “I cannot believe we are having this conversation.”

  “Hey, it’s not my royal house, and it’s not my royal rules. But if that’s what you’re supposed to do, I can’t mess things up for you royal people, can I?”

  “Dieter, I will not,” Wulfram sputtered. “I cannot believe—”

  “I’m just bringing up the subject because she said a bunch of stuff about courtesy titles, and it seemed to me that it wasn’t even up to us. It’s about the traditions of the royal House of Hannover. It’s practically a law, right?”

  “The House of Hannover doesn’t have laws.” Wulf’s statement bordered on a snarl.

  “Oh, but there’s semi-Salic law and agnatic-cognatic inheritance, and I don’t even know what else.” His grin widened on his face, and his expression felt like it was becoming a little malevolent. “Surely, there’s a law that, if you marry a princess, don’t you get to be a prince?”

  “Dieter, surely you wouldn’t, surely you don’t—”

  He sipped the Pappy Van Winkle bourbon, savoring the rich whiskey. “I think I do.”

  “This is inconceivable.”

  “It’ll be fun,” Dieter said. “You and I can ‘Prince Wulfram’ and ‘Prince Dieter’ each other over supper at Christmas.”

  Wulfram ground his teeth, and then he sighed into his bourbon. “I suppose it’s better than ‘Prince Pierre of Hannover.’ After he cheated me out of millions during the Devilhouse deal, I thought I might have to hire an assassin to rid myself of him.”

  They both studied their drinks for a moment, considering that it had ended the way it had.

  After what Pierre had done to Flicka on so many fronts, Dieter couldn’t conjure up much sorrow for the rat bastard. In many ways, the world was a better place without that cheating narcissist. Pierre had left behind a widow and four fatherless kids because he couldn’t have the power he’d been promised merely because he’d been born at the right place and time.

  A lot of anger was going to be directed at the hole Pierre had left in the world for many years.

  After a second, Dieter and Wulfram shook off the melancholy and drank deeply, not so much a toast as washing a bad taste out of their mouths.

  Wulfram held the square bottle of bourbon. “Top you off?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  “You’re not serious about this courtesy title nonsense, are you?” Wulf asked.

  “Serious as a heart attack,” Dieter said, unable to stop himself from grinning at Wulfram again. “I think I’ve earned it, actually.

  “How on Earth have you earned the title of Prince of Hannover?”

  “When you save a person’s life, they’re in your debt. I figure I’ve saved your sorry, royal ass at least a dozen times, Durchlaucht, maybe more. If this were medieval times, you’d owe me a castle.”

  “A castle, really?” Wulfram sipped his whiskey. “Princes can’t go around handing out castles, left and right. There wouldn’t be any left for vacations.”

  “Yep, you owe me at least a castle, and lands, and a bunch of serfs.”

  The slight bend in Wulfram’s mouth seemed more rueful than joking. “At least you got to marry the princess.”

  “I suppose we’re even, then,” Dieter said, “as soon as you sign over a castle and people start calling me ‘prince.’ I want the Rogues to have to call me ‘Your Majesty’ when we’re in the field.”

  “‘Your Majesty’ is a bunch of nonsense started by Henry the Eighth,” Wulf groused. “The German translation of what we use is much closer to ‘Your Serenity’ or ‘Your Grace.’ I think Henry’s courtiers were competing to see who could flatter him the most.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Elizabeth the First liked, ‘May angels sing you to your rest,’ and all that baloney. Good thing you never got a big head and wanted the Welfenlegion to butter you up like that. We would’ve taken you down a peg or two for your own good.”

  “And now you want to be called prince, too.”

  Dieter hiked his shirt up on his left side to expose a long scar there. “I took a bullet for you there. I have another machete scar on my other side. Plus, there’s the crease on my arm from when Rainier’s assassin almost got Flicka. I deserve a damn title.”

  Wulfram rolled his eyes. “I suppose you do. I’ll draw up the documents.”

  The door opened, and Luca Wyss glanced inside. “Thought I heard yelling.”

  “No,” Wulf said. “Can you believe that Dieter Schwarz, here, just convinced me to elevate him to the title of Prince of Hannover?”

  Dieter wrenched around and grinned hard at Luca, knowing full well what was about to happen.

  “Scheisse!” Luca swore. “Already? Just now?”

  Wulfram looked back to Dieter. “Yes.” And lower, “Why?”

  Luca glared at Dieter. “Since it’s before Christmas, I owe ‘Prince Dieter’ two hundred bucks.”

  Dieter laughed his ass off and, after a minute, so did Wulfram.

  When Flicka found them half an hour later, they were both quite schnockered, laughing hysterically in their cups, and planning a truly epic practical joke on the Welfenlegion.

  She glared down at them as they lolled in their chairs, drinking. “I suppose I’m going to have to drive home now, even though it’s dark.”

  Behind her, Rae stomped into the room. “Wulf, we need to talk. What is this ‘family insomnia’ thing? Flicka says it’s genetic, and Victoria’s going to stop taking naps when she’s nine months old.”

  “Oh, yes,” Wulfram said, drunkenly trying to stand up, but his heel slid on the rug, nearly toppling him over. “I meant to discuss that with you.”

  Dieter laughed so hard he fell out of his chair.

  A Christmas Wedding

  Flicka von Hannover

  Princes and princesses.

  A week later, Flicka readied herself to walk down the short aisle of a small church just outside the city.

  Wulfram waited for her in the narthex, before the doors to the sanctuary. “I have something for you.”

  “Oh, Wulfie. What now?”

  Wulfram wore a morning suit, a Victorian version of a tuxedo, in dark blue with a matching vest and tie. Of course, Wulf would always pick out the most conservative suit on the rack when Flicka didn’t select his clothes for him. The dark blue did make his blue eyes look even brighter, though.

  He reached inside the suit coat—which was oddly lumpy, but Flicka had just assumed that Wulfie had some financial papers or electronics in there—and removed a small, black velvet bag. “You forgot something in Las Vegas.”

  “What did I—oh.”

  As Wulfram unwrapped the object, the morning sunlight caught the glitter of diamonds. Bright sparkles of refracted light appeared on the walls around them.

  She sighed, “You got the Laurel Tiara back.”

  He handed it to her. “The claim ticket was in the manila envelope that Dieter gave to me in Monaco, along with his will, Alina’s birth certificate, and her passport. I found it when I brought her home.”

  When she turned it over in her hands, the sparkles on the walls revolved. “
It’s so beautiful. I’m glad you got it back.”

  “Wear it.”

  Flicka blinked. “I can’t.”

  “Of course, you can.”

  “Only royal, married women can wear tiaras. I’m not royal anymore.”

  He shrugged one shoulder and shook his head. “Everyone wears a tiara at their wedding.”

  “Not me. Not anymore,” she insisted.

  He shook his head, smiling. “You know I won’t accept your renunciation.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ve already renounced.”

  “We’ll let the lawyers quarrel over it someday. In the meantime,” he took the tiara out of her hands and settled it in her hair, “wear it. You look beautiful in it, and it makes me happy to see it on you.”

  The tiara’s scant weight felt right on her head. “Oh, all right.”

  She tucked her hand in her brother Wulfram’s arm, and they strolled down the aisle of the small church. She held a small bouquet of pale green lisianthus and a few white Christmas roses, as it was Christmas Eve morning.

  Dieter Schwarz was already waiting at the altar for her, dressed in a dark gray morning suit just a few shades deeper than the storm-cloud gray of his eyes. His dark gold hair and the suit’s pale blue vest and apricot tie gave the impression of the sun and sky breaking through after a ferocious downpour.

  He smiled at her, and his eyes lit up as she stepped between the doors.

  Standing on her side of the church, Rae and Georgie Johnson-Grimaldi were standing up with her, wearing shimmering, pale gray dresses. Rae was still soft and curvy in her looser dress from being pregnant just three weeks before, while Georgie was so thin that the material swam on her.

  The rest of their friends who could get there on such short notice—Welfenlegion, Rogues, debs from the Shooting Star cotillion and Le Rosey boarding school, Sophie and Océane Mirabaud and some kids, Scotta and Minx and Charla and Prissy from the Silver Horseshoe Casino, and her father, Prince Phillipp von Hannover—filled the pews of the small church. More people leaned on the walls.

  Christine Grimaldi stood to the side of the altar, holding her violin.

  It took Flicka only a few steps to reach Dieter.

  Wulfie folded her hand into Dieter’s, but he growled at him, “I still don’t like it.”

  Dieter chuckled at him. “Sure you don’t. Now get in your spot.”

  Wulfram stepped to Dieter’s side and stood behind him, as the best man should.

  Magnus Jenson stood behind Wulfram, watching Flicka with cold, blue eyes that seemed like he never blinked.

  In front of them, a tiny sparrow of a judge hobbled out and stepped upon a box in front of them. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today—” She squinted at the paper in her shaking hands and looked up at Dieter. “I thought your name was Raphael Mirabaud.”

  “No, ma’am,” Dieter said, looking down at her. “My legal and true name is Dieter Schwarz. That’s what is listed on the marriage license.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself. We are gathered here today to unite Princess Friederike Augusta von Hannover—”

  “It’s not ‘Princess,’ Judge Malone, your honor,” she told the judge. “I’m not a princess anymore.”

  “Yes, you are,” Wulf said, leaning out from behind Dieter.

  “Shush,” she told him.

  Flicka’s father stood, raising one finger. “If I may state the facts—”

  Judge Malone said, “No, you may not. We’re proceeding with the ceremony.” She closed one eye as she stared up at Flicka. “We are gathered here today to unite Friederike Augusta von Hannover with,” she checked the paper, “Dieter Leo Schwarz.”

  Dieter cleared his throat. “Your honor, if you please, it’s ‘Prince Dieter Leo Schwarz.’”

  Flicka almost jumped backward. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  Wulfram said, “He made a good argument.”

  Judge Malone huffed and twitched her thin shoulders. “Come to order, or I’ll hold you all in contempt. We are here to join these two people in holy matrimony.”

  While the judge spoke about love and not ending up in a Las Vegas courtroom for a quickie divorce, Dieter asked Flicka, “How can she marry us?”

  The judge fixed one beady eye on him. “I hold a degree in divinity as well as a law degree. I can marry you in nine different states, divorce you in Nevada, and do your taxes in New Mexico. Now be quiet so I can finish and we can go to lunch. I was told there would be lunch.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Flicka told her. “Lunch will be held directly afterward.”

  “Good. As I was saying—” Judge Malone finished her sermon and told them to say their vows.

  They repeated their vows from Gibraltar but in English, and Flicka felt the name Dieter Leo Schwarz in her mouth.

  And thus, Flicka and Dieter were married.

  Again.

  Into The Devilhouse

  Flicka von Hannover

  I still think there’s something he’s not telling me.

  Flicka and Dieter opted for a “stay-cation” at their rented house in the Apache Tears Ranch development rather than a honeymoon. They’d both had enough of planes, automobiles, and sprinting across Monaco to last them for a while. Sleeping in their own bed sounded like the most exotic adventure they could think of.

  However, on Saturday night, Dieter told Flicka they were going out for supper and dancing, and she wouldn’t need a purse. Flicka managed to pull herself together, even though staying in again sounded better.

  As they were getting ready to leave, Flicka thought that maybe Dieter was underdressed in black, dress slacks and a black tee shirt, or maybe she was overdressed in a silvery, silk sheath that had become a little too tight over her new, baby-related boobs. When Dieter looked at her, his gaze scorched her right through her dress, and he pressed her back against a wall for a hot, deep kiss before he broke it off and went to his car.

  When they arrived at the nightclub in the cool, desert night, floodlights lit the exterior of the white building, which sort of looked like an Americanized Georgian manor house with high windows and complicated trim work, except for the palm trees.

  “What is this place?” Flicka asked.

  Dieter handed his keys to a burly valet as they walked in. “Just a nightclub I know of. The food is good. There’s dancing. And other things.”

  “You didn’t get a claim check or anything for your keys,” she pointed out.

  Dieter smirked. “They know me.”

  In the vestibule, the light crowd walked toward the sound of the thumping music and darkness beyond the open arches.

  They followed until they were just inside, but Dieter pulled her toward a staircase and told her, “We have a table reserved on the upper balcony.”

  “Oh, fancy.”

  Flicka followed him up an iron, circular staircase, past a burly guard. Dieter just nodded to the guard, a tall, muscular black guy who nodded back.

  Other people had to show the guy something on a phone screen to get past, probably a reservation number, but Dieter just nodded to the guy? Weird. “Do you know him?”

  “That’s Gregory.”

  “So, you know him.”

  “Sure.”

  At their table, Dieter flipped open his menu.

  Flicka asked, “Are we dancing afterward?”

  “Some dancing, sure. But there are other attractions here.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “I think I’ll have the fish,” she said.

  “Try the potatoes with it. They’re really good.”

  “Oh, sure. Maybe someday.” Reality dawned on her. “Oh, I can! I can eat carbs.”

  Dieter laughed. “I think I’ll keep you pregnant all the time, just so that you can enjoy potatoes without guilt.”

  While they ate, Flicka surveyed the wide balconies where they and other diners sat, eating and watching the nightclub down below.

  On one end, a dais was set u
p with, Flicka surmised, an actual throne. It looked a bit more like a Hollywood set designer’s idea of King Arthur’s medieval throne than most real thrones, many of which are from the Georgian or French Louis Quatorze eras, not the Middle Ages. A tiny blond woman perched on the throne and surveyed the nightclub while she talked with the crowd of people who sat around her, laughing and drinking.

  “Hey,” Flicka said to Dieter. “That’s Rae’s friend Lizzy. We should say hi.”

  “Maybe we will later,” he said, “if you’re not too tired.”

  After Flicka ate the tender fish and oh-my-God actual creamy potatoes, she sat back in her chair, thoroughly stuffed. “I’d forgotten how good it feels to stuff yourself silly. Do they have a dessert menu?”

  “I called ahead. The chef said he would make sticky toffee pudding just for you.”

  “I think I’m going to love this pregnancy thing.”

  She ate the warm, caramel toffee pudding and patted her tummy afterward, which she believed was beginning to pooch out from impending motherhood even though she was not even three months along, though it might have been the sticky toffee pudding. “Dancing now?”

  Dieter answered, “Of course, my Durchlauchtig.”

  And yet, she couldn’t shake her odd suspicion that something was up with Dieter. He had the sarcastic half-smile on his face and a snap of silver sparks in his eyes that had meant, in London, that she was going to end up tied to something with her ass in the air.

  When they danced, his hands found her hips and shoulders, caressing her, soothing her, brushing under her jaw and down her arms. She could feel herself responding to him already, swaying against his body, touching his burly arms and feeling the ripples of his abs under his shirt.

  The sparkle in Dieter’s eyes intensified, and he was practically grinning.

  Yeah, he was up to something.

  As he held her in his arms, swaying against her with his hands on her back, he said into her hair, “I have something else to show you.”