Princess In Denim

by Jenna McKnight

  "Apartments?"

  "Yes. Mine is thirty rooms. They will each have—"

  "Wait. Stop. Let me get this straight. You live in a thirty-room apartment in this castle?"

  "If you find it too small, I shall have it enlarged."

  "I won't even see it."

  "Very well. There is a nice apartment that I hope you will like. It is near mine."

  The better to annoy you, my dear. A blaring stereo, perhaps, would be a good start.

  "It is smaller, though. Only twenty-five rooms."

  Chloe couldn't help herself; she laughed. The poor man hadn't a clue how much American ingenuity she possessed.

  Yet.

  Another car pulled up behind the one they'd just exited.

  "Ah, your clothes have arrived. Good. You will be able to dress in time."

  "In time for what?"

  "Dinner."

  Inside the entry hall, she gave up trying not to look like a tourist. Let William think she had a short-term memory if he wanted. As long as she had to be here, she was going to enjoy her prison. Much larger than her father's, the entry had a black-and-white marble floor, so highly polished that it appeared no one ever walked on it. On the wall were two large, dark portraits. She stepped closer to them and searched her memory for facts she'd learned long ago in Art Appreciation.

  "Rembrandt?" she whispered reverently.

  "Yes. I thought they belonged here rather than lost among the others in the east gallery."

  They had his eyes, the men in those two paintings, though William's were warmer and twinkled with his sense of humor. The same straight nose, though they were looking down theirs as if they were gods and she were lower than a peon. William was obstinate about the marriage agreement he'd made with King Albert, but he hadn't stooped to looking down his royal nose at her.

  Good thing, too. Of course, that might be because he thought she was as royal as he.

  Even if she hadn't been raised in foster homes, she couldn't have imagined her ancestors ever having portraits done of themselves, much less by Rembrandt.

  William spoke with his secretary, then returned to Chloe's side. "Leonard will have someone here shortly to show you to your apartment. Dinner with the prim minister is in one hour."

  The prime minister?

  She needed Emma sooner than she'd thought. Chloe hadn't a clue what a princess wore to dinner in the neighboring king's castle, with or without a prime minister in attendance. It was Emma's job to tell her what Moira would already know, like how to address the man, what kind of small talk to make—all stuff that had not been covered in any of Chloe's years of college courses. For heaven's sake, she didn't even know whether she—as Moira—had ever met the man before. For all she knew, he might be another old family friend.

  She debated faking a headache, but there was no need. Her head was positively spinning. She had no choice but to put her foot down until Emma returned.

  * * *

  "Excuse me," William begged of the prime minister. "I must check on Her Royal Highness."

  It was the stupidest excuse he had ever offered. Hell, it might have been the only excuse he had ever uttered, but he wanted Moira present —now—and he knew he was not going to get his wish unless he retrieved her himself. She had already told Leonard she could not make it tonight, and Leonard had also reported that she had dismissed her maid for the evening.

  The prime minister had been eyeing him speculatively for the past hour, and William could not stand it anymore. Ordinarily, someone would have handled this task for him. A man-at-arms was looking like a good choice for the job. This evening, though, William took it on himself and got a good dose of just how big his castle was by how long it took him to reach Moira's apartment.

  With the flat side of his fist he pounded on the door, wasting no time with social amenities.

  "Who is it?" floated softly from inside.

  "You know damn well—" He took a deep breath and needlessly tugged his suit coat into submission. "It is William, Your Highness."

  "I've retired for the evening, Your Majesty."

  He had hoped she would revert to his name, but it appeared it was not to be so tonight. "Open the blasted—" Again, he paused. He raked his fingers through his hair. He had never done that before. Now he understood the emotion behind it when he'd seen other men do it. "May I come in?"

  He pressed his ear up to the wood to hear whether she was laughing. He liked her laugh. A lot. Too much perhaps, because he should have kicked the door open and dragged her kicking and screaming to dinner. Instead, he heard music, and not with a beat he imagined anyone would "retire" to.

  "Yes, come in."

  He pushed the door open to a scene he had never had the foresight to imagine. Moira, her blond hair in a high, bouncy ponytail, a fuzzy peach-colored sweat band around her forehead, a pretty pink flush to her face as she stretched first one arm up over her head then the other. Over and over, she kept time with the music. The cropped hem of her matching shirt rose with her arms, giving him a glimpse of bare midriff before the hem dropped and covered her again.

  Glimpse. Cover. Glimpse. Cover.

  With a sweep of his hand, he indicated her attire. "What the hell is that?"

  She looked down at herself, but continued exercising as she counted, "Nineteen . . . and . . . twenty. Sweats," she replied, then placed her hands on her hips and bent sideways. "One and two and . . ."

  "I know what sweats are." Was that growl coming from him? "What are you doing in them? Why are you— Stop that!" He strode across the room and punched the volume button off.

  She came to an abrupt halt, which sent her ponytail jiggling down to a slower stop. He wanted to go over to her and bat it and get it bouncing again.

  "I'm exercising."

  "I can see that. The question is, why are you doing that when you were expected at dinner an hour ago?"

  She bent down and stretched her fingers beyond her toes, laying her hands flat on the floor, giving him time to study the tiny bumps that made up her lower spine. "Didn't Leonard tell you I have a headache?"

  "I will send you some aspirin."

  "I don't take medicine."

  He was so surprised, he got sidetracked. "Never?"

  "Nope. My physiology professor had us do experiments that convinced me I don't want to mess with drugs." She stood upright, then bent over backward, arching her body until her hands touched down on the floor behind her feet.

  William's mouth went dry. If she would stretch just a little bit farther, he would find out whether she was wearing a bra. And whether it was peach-colored, too. He was unable to think coherently until she righted herself. And while he waited with bated breath, his annoyance ebbed. He wondered whether she was deliberately teasing him, but, if this is how she chose to do it, he did not care.

  "You must come to dinner at once."

  "Are you all right? You sound a bit hoarse."

  "I have a guest waiting. I am upset that you did not come to dinner."

  She rose and, with her sleeve, blotted a drop of sweat amid the tendrils of hair sweeping her neck. "Okay. Lead the way."

  "You are not dressed properly."

  "Oh, well, if you want me to dress properly, I'd need Emma to pick out something appropriate for me."

  "That is your maid's job."

  "I dismissed her for the night"

  "Ah, yes." So this was how she wanted it to be. He grinned. "Very well." He found the closet on his third attempt, and selected a pale green dress. "Put this on."

  "Not my color."

  "Your what?"

  "It's not my color. I don't look good in it."

  "Then why do you have it?"

  She shrugged. "A mistake?"

  He selected a camel-colored dress and shoved it into her hands.

  She held it up and looked at it as if she had never seen it before. "Nice."

  "I am happy it meets with your approval. Get dressed."

  "I need shoes."

 
He had second thoughts about wanting to marry her. He searched through the shelves, selected a pair of high heels and slapped them into her hands. "There. I will expect you in ten minutes."

  "Jewelry?"

  "You do not need any."

  She fingered one earlobe. "I don't know. I think I'd feel naked without earrings."

  He thought she ought not to say "naked" to a man who wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. "Where are your jewels?" he demanded.

  She made a face that was certainly supposed to be puzzled, but he could only think of it as cute. Not something he needed to be thinking just now.

  "Then you will have to do without earrings until your maid arrives tomorrow."

  "Mmm, I guess I could."

  Finally!

  "But I need someone to do my hair."

  Never had he met anyone so exasperating. Not as a prince, and certainly not in all his ten years as king. "Would you like me to dress you, too?"

  He must have caught her off guard, because she did not have a snappy retort to that stupid question. He did not particularly care how she took it—he might as well have sentenced himself to the torture chamber for all the distress that threat gave him.

  Lifting her sweatshirt off over her head, seeing more of the tanned skin beneath, finding out if she wore a bra. Then pulling her sweatpants down around her ankles, allowing her to kick them off. This was how he would undress her. And once he got that far, he did not think he would be able to bear covering her up with more clothing. Not immediately.

  He hoped to hell she did not accept his dare, or the prime minister would be dining alone.

  Chloe could have called his bluff and let him dress her, but she wasn't ready for all that entailed. Once he made the offer, his eyes had turned the darkest shade of blue she'd ever seen. She wasn't ready for what he had to offer. Not if she wanted to leave this castle a single woman.

  Without another word, he turned abruptly and fled her apartment.

  So, she couldn't call his bluff. That left possibly making a fool of herself in front of his dinner guest. All she could do was summon up some good ol' American spunk and make do. Perhaps choose her words carefully, so as not to indicate whether she thought they'd met before or not.

  But she was tired of thinking all the time before she spoke, of racking her brain for the best, most tactful, most demure way of phrasing everything. Emma had said to be herself, that her American ways were part of her charm over here.

  Okay, she could do that.

  She stripped, washed, brushed and dressed in fifteen minutes, all the while wondering where Emma had gone. Without her, Chloe had no one to look to for dependable advice. Was Emma in Texas with Moira, helping her, when she should be here?

  A maid was waiting in the hall outside Chloe's door. "I will show you the way to the dining room, Your Highness." Her English was far better than Angela's.

  Chloe thought the rather large, unsmiling woman was more of an escort than a leader. Which bothered her not a bit.

  Their route seemed to be a shortcut. Instead of the wide, well-lit passageways she'd taken to reach her apartment in the first place, she was led along plain narrow passageways and down winding neweled staircases with no handrails for support if she got dizzy.

  "Your Highness," the maid said as she approached a wide doorway and stepped to the side.

  Inside, Chloe surveyed a room that surely must have been a chapel at one time. Three-story ceiling arches of cut granite that had to have employed a mason for years, dark wood between them, heavily leaded windows towering in the far wall. The dining table, with all its china and crystal and candles, looked lost in the center of the carpet in the long, narrow room. William and his guest waited in wall chairs pulled at angles to the hearth, though there was no fire. Alone, Chloe thought, the prime minister would be considered a handsome man. Well dressed. Sophisticated looking. However, next to William's broad shoulders and carved features—just a touch of ruggedness to add character—he paled in comparison.

  Should she address him as "Sir," or "Mr. Prime Minister," or "Mr. X"? If she used no form of address at all, would it be as bad as using an incorrect one?

  What a lot of phony brouhaha.

  She'd gotten through her first twenty-eight years without these worries. Why not the next twenty-eight, too?

  When she stepped into the room, William and the prime minister rose immediately to their feet and set their drinks on a side table.

  She took a deep breath and remembered to be herself. Careful not to let a high heel tangle in the fringe on the edge, she walked across the carpet to the two men, smiled, extended her hand and said, "Hi. How're y'all doin'?"

  Chapter Seven

  Much to William's amusement, the neighboring prime minister remained at Baesland Castle for three days.

  "Her Highness is such a breath of fresh air," he said with a toothy smile the first day, right after the princess dismissed her correct style as so much "royal brouhaha" and told him he could use her given name, Moira.

  William could not argue with that assessment. He could add so much more about her, but nothing he wanted to share.

  "I want to practice my English with her," was the excuse the prime minister gave for remaining a second day.

  "Your English is fine," William pointed out. If anyone was to practice their English with her, he wanted to be the one. He wanted to go riding with her again. He toyed with the idea of challenging her to another swim in his moat.

  Late in the third day, the prime minister was summoned to the telephone for an unexpected, unexplained phone call that William had ordered Leonard to manufacture. The prime minister departed soon afterward, leaving William to dine alone this morning with Moira.

  At last!

  As he went in search of her, he carried two things with him. The first was a folder filled with sketches of wedding gowns submitted overnight by various designers, all vying for the privilege of making Her Highness's dress for the wedding of the century. The sooner she chose, the better. For many reasons. One was her safety. Another was his imagination, which had been spinning quite elaborate fantasies involving the two of them alone in his suite for an entire night.

  And in the pocket of his jacket, nestled in a burgundy velvet box bearing the Baesland insignia, was a platinum engagement ring. After signing the marriage contract, William had selected rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, passed down from generation to generation of ancestral queens, and had them reset. The design was a unique melding of two slightly different crowns, representing the unification of Baesland and Ennsway which would take place, by agreement with King Albert, on their wedding day.

  Moira had neither done nor said anything to indicate that she would accept the ring. He carried it with him every day so that he would have it when the perfect time arrived. That would be either when she came to her senses or when he charmed her into it.

  As for getting her to choose a dress designer, he was about to discover whether that would require charm or chicanery.

  He found her, not in the atrium where they had dined for the past three mornings with the prime minister—and where she had perpetually shown up late—but eating breakfast alone in her own apartment, at a table by a sunny window. He figured her tardiness was designed to annoy him, but in fact it only made him anticipate her arrival more.

  "Good morning, Your Highness."

  "Your Majesty."

  While her greeting was not unpleasant, he suspected the ring would remain in his pocket today. "I have brought sketches for you from the best designers in Europe."

  "Leave them on the table."

  Boldly he pulled out a chair and seated himself adjacent to her. "Thank you. I would love to join you."

  She did not bolt.

  Assured that she did not find his presence intolerable, he opened the folder and spread out eight sketches. The white tablecloth was hand-embroidered with bouquets of red roses, and he hoped its subliminal message would put her in the right mood.


  "What are these?" she asked.

  "Wedding gowns."

  "Let me rephrase the question." She stirred her tea with more agitation than necessary, and the spoon pinged repeatedly against the inside of the cup. "Why are they here?"

  "For you to choose a designer. If one of these—"

  "I don't think I should choose a dress before I choose a husband, do you?"

  "Is that how it is done in America?"

  "Yes."

  "Young girls there do not read magazines and dream of their gowns from the time they are old enough to walk?"

  "Certainly not." She raised her cup, blew on it gently and took a tiny sip to test the temperature.

  "I think you are lying."

  "I think you're behind the times."

  Fingers outstretched, he made minor adjustments to the layout of the sketches, in order to draw her attention back to them. "Please choose one."

  She spared them a glance. "Do you have pop-ups in this country?"

  "Pop-ups?"

  "Yeah, they're a breakfast food."

  "I have never heard of them."

  "You toast them in the toaster. You do have toasters, don't you?"

  With a shrug, he told the truth. "I have no idea. But please, the sketches. You do not find the slightest admiration for the talent of any one of these designers?"

  She shook her head. "Sorry, I just can't think without my pop-ups." She sipped more tea.

  "I will see what my chef can do."

  Many of the gowns were very traditional, but some were, to put it kindly, typically designer-innovative. He selected one he thought particularly hideous—it would be a crime to cover her lovely curves in such a sack—and slid it toward her until it touched her rose-rimmed plate.

  "I think this one suits you," he said.

  "You'd have to lock me in the tower first."

  A tiny crease puckered above the bridge of her nose, and he wanted to reach up with his finger and erase it. But if his hand got that far without her batting it away, he knew he would not stop there. He would slide it across her cheek to see whether her skin was as soft as it looked. His fingers would wander on their own, over her jawline, brush across her ear and wind into her hair, which she had left down.