A Princess for Christmas

by Jenny Holiday

  She opened her mouth to demur, to override Monsieur Lavoie and tell Leo to go.

  But then she closed it.

  Leo, still looking at her, linked his fingers, extended his arms out in front of him, and cracked his knuckles. “All right. Definitely not going to the ball, but let’s do this.”

  Something spiked in her belly.

  Monsieur Lavoie approached. “Allow me to show you the steps first, Mr. Ricci. I will take the lady’s part.”

  Leo’s sudden startled look made Marie smile. He was a good sport, despite the fact that he probably had not expected to end up twirling around the floor with an elderly Frenchman.

  “You have a natural rhythm,” Monsieur Lavoie pronounced as the two men came to a halt a few minutes later.

  “Piece of cake,” Leo said.

  “Monsieur Lavoie is a retired professional ballroom dancer,” Marie said. She had always found it easy to dance with Monsieur Lavoie, both because he counted quietly in her ear and because he took such a strong lead—her body simply had to go where he put it. It was never the same in the wild, though, and of course real dances were often also fraught socially.

  “Her Royal Highness is not Her Royal Highness when you are dancing with her,” Monsieur Lavoie informed Leo as he lined them up in front of each other. “She is your dancing partner. You lead. She follows.”

  Was that perhaps why her partners’ leads never felt as strong as Monsieur Lavoie’s? Because they were consciously or unconsciously deferring to her?

  “Do not be intimidated by her,” Monsieur Lavoie went on, and Leo raised an eyebrow.

  If finding someone who would not fuss over her position was critical to the success of the dancing endeavor, Leo was her perfect partner.

  Monsieur Lavoie put her right hand in Leo’s left as Leo slid his hand around to her lower back and pulled her close.

  And there it was. Those arms. Stepping into them was like lowering herself into a thermal spring in the mountains. Warmth where there had been cold, relief where there had been tension.

  He had pulled her too close for a waltz, though, and Monsieur Lavoie wasn’t having it.

  “No, my dears, no!” He clapped his hands in two, sharp staccato bursts and stepped in to rearrange them. “Remember your frame.” He put some distance between them and lightly slapped their arms, one at time. “Tension in the frame so that where you lead”—he pointed at Leo—“she goes.”

  There was that eyebrow again. Leo was enjoying this way too much.

  But he certainly led. He got the hang of it quickly, and aside from a few early missteps, soon he was putting her where she needed to go. Like Monsieur Lavoie.

  Except not like Monsieur Lavoie. Monsieur Lavoie’s hands were not as big, or as warm, as Leo’s. Monsieur Lavoie did not stare at her with his eyes burning with an odd mixture of heat and amusement. Monsieur Lavoie did not smell like spicy oranges.

  Marie’s stomach fluttered, but she kept moving.

  She was lighter on her feet than usual. In addition to the strong lead, Leo was graceful enough for the both of them. He kept tension in his frame, but brought a kind of flow to the proceedings.

  He made it feel easier.

  Which, now that she thought about it, was true about him in general, whether “it” was a waltz or a meeting at a watch shop. Leo made everything feel easier.

  After fifteen minutes, Monsieur Lavoie was showering them with delighted applause. “Shall we move on to the ländler?” Then, to Leo, he added, “It’s a traditional Eldovian dance.”

  “It’s hard,” Marie said. “Think Sound of Music.”

  “I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead,” Leo said. “I was just telling Marie yesterday that in my book, dancing is swaying. I guess I was wrong.”

  “No,” Monsieur Lavoie said, “not wrong.” Marie was shocked. Not once in the eighteen years she’d been working with Monsieur Lavoie had he said anything like that. “Dancing is many things. For someone like the princess, it is a performance. Part of her job. That kind of dancing is highly choreographed. But in other contexts, dancing can be many other things.”

  “What do you mean?” Marie asked. “What else can it be?”

  “Dancing can be joy. Comfort.” He looked at her as if he’d recently uncovered a delicious secret. “Love.”

  “Well, that’s not what’s going on here,” she said quickly. “None of those things.” She was lying, though. Hadn’t she just been comparing Leo’s embrace to a hot mountain spring? Goodness, she sounded like a lovesick teenager.

  A laugh bubbled up, like a jet in her imaginary spring. Monsieur Lavoie looked at her quizzically. She patted his arm. “I’m sorry. You know I appreciate you, Monsieur, but if I never had to dance again, I would be a very happy woman.”

  Yesterday, that would have been the truth. Today? She glanced at Leo. It was hard to say.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Waltzing is fun. Who knew?” Leo mused as they crunched along in the snow. Marie had asked him to come on a walk with her, saying she wanted to show him something before dinner. He hadn’t had to be asked twice.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Marie said.

  “Oh, I’ve converted you to the swaying method, have I?”

  She laughed. He loved making her laugh.

  “No. It’s just that dancing with you or with Monsieur Lavoie is different from dancing at the Cocoa Ball where everyone’s attention is on me.”

  “Isn’t there a cheesy song lyric about dancing like no one is watching?”

  She scoffed. “Well, that’s a pretty sentiment, but I’ve never in my life been able to do that.”

  Not even last night? He bit his tongue, though.

  “You know who was a wonderful dancer? My mother.”

  “Ah, yes, your beautiful, graceful paragon of a mother.”

  She swatted him on the chest—for the second time this afternoon. He didn’t hate it. So he kept poking. “I bet she danced like no one was watching all the time.”

  “She didn’t.” Marie grew serious, so he did, too. “She was extraordinarily graceful, but she was acutely aware of her position, and of the scrutiny that came with it. And even though she never let the outside world see it, it sometimes chafed. In public, she danced like everyone was watching her every move—because they were, and she knew it. She just made it look otherwise.”

  That struck Leo as incredibly sad. “Your father was king, right? She became queen because she married him?”

  “Yes. She came from an old, wealthy family, so she was used to attention, but being a royal is different.”

  He marveled that anyone would choose such a life, especially if what Marie said about her mother chafing under royal scrutiny was true.

  She must have anticipated his unspoken question. She said, softly, “He used to be more lovable. He used to be worth the sacrifices she made.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Her death changed him. It brought out the worst in him. He loved her terribly. I know it’s hard to imagine if you’re only meeting him today. I don’t think any of us realized how much she stabilized him. Softened him. Until she was . . .”

  Her voice cracked, and Leo felt like his heart did a little bit, too. They were walking on a path that cut through the woods—the hill the palace was situated on was crisscrossed with paths maintained for hiking and horseback riding and cross-country skiing. There were trees on either side of them, thickly lining the path even though they had shed their leaves for the winter. They’d been walking single file because the path wasn’t quite wide enough for two people to walk abreast comfortably, but screw comfort. Leo shoved up next to Marie and slung an arm around her shoulders, but he kept them walking so it felt casual. Sort of.

  “I kept thinking time would help,” she said quietly, “but it hasn’t. She died just before Christmas—on the twenty-second. I wanted to take the next term off, but Father made me go back to school.” She huffed a rueful little laugh. “We actually had an e
normous argument about it.” Another laugh, this one even more bitter. “Of course, he won.”

  “What did he say?” Leo asked gently, not sure he wanted to know, because he feared that the answer might make him even more cranky the next time he had to see His Goddamn Majesty.

  “He said that life goes on, that my wanting to be with him was just postponing us finding closure.” Leo rolled his eyes, but made sure she didn’t see it. “I went back to Oxford. I told myself he needed time alone, that we all deal with grief in our own ways.” His heart broke to think of Marie, rejected by her father, alone with her sadness. “But the maddening thing was that I don’t believe he addressed his grief at all. He just drowned himself in it. When I came home at the next term break, he was more brittle and short-tempered than ever. I try to do what he wants, to . . . be what he wants but . . .”

  It was never enough. He knew how that sentence ended, because he could see her trying to manage her father, to smooth over his rough edges and placate him. “I’m sorry,” Leo said, and he was. So much. At least he and Gabby had had each other to lean on. He didn’t know what else to say, but Marie didn’t seem to be expecting anything, so he let silence settle. But he kept his arm slung over her shoulders. They walked in silence for a few minutes until Marie shook off his arm. So that was the end of that little interlude. It was for the best—it had been feeling awfully cozy, and cozy was dangerous. Cozy was not something he could have in any permanent sort of way.

  But wait, she’d pulled away because they’d arrived at their destination. A clearing. A big one, hidden deep within the woods.

  “Wow,” he marveled as he followed her in. “You’d never know this was here.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “You said dance like no one is watching. This is the only place in my life where no one is watching.”

  He took a few more steps in and started to turn slowly, taking in the space. It was like a secret room in the woods. He didn’t know if it was a natural clearing—Were those actual things? His city self didn’t know—or if the trees had been removed. Either way, you could see all the way up to the sky, which was currently clear and blue and just starting to look like dusk was coming. He almost expected there to be some ancient druidic ruins here. He kept rotating, and—whoa. It seemed like there were ruins on one end? “What’s that?”

  “It’s a log cabin. The start of one, anyway. Three-quarters of one.”

  It was indeed. He moved closer. Construction appeared to have been abandoned—the structure stopped at his eye level and lacked a roof. It had an opening for a door, though, so he ducked under it. “Wow.” The interior was small. He had no idea if internal walls had been planned, but there were spots at which the structure jutted out, and he could well imagine small rooms or at least nooks to create separate uses within an open-concept great room.

  Marie followed. “This was my mother’s favorite spot, this clearing.”

  “Was it always here, or did someone remove the trees?”

  “It was always here. Well, it was always here in my lifetime and hers. She’s the one who had the network of trails put in on the hill, before I was born. Before that, there was just the main road. She hired a landscape architect, but she was very involved, tromping around and helping figure out what the best layout would be. They stumbled on this clearing, and she fell in love with it. She used to come here all the time, to get away from things.”

  “To dance like no one was watching—for real,” Leo said.

  “Exactly. She would drag my father out here, too, sometimes, and have picnics.” A mischievous smiled bloomed. “Supposedly I was conceived here.”

  “Well, hot damn.”

  “She brought me here all the time. Some of my first memories are of sitting by the fire out here.” Marie went back out the door opening and Leo followed her. “There’s a firepit out here. Usually my mother and I would come by ourselves, but sometimes my father would come, too.”

  It was hard to imagine King Emil kicking back in the clearing, but Leo could totally see young Marie and the mother she had described doing so.

  “She used to say it was our secret family place.” Marie continued. “She would tell the palace staff that we were going for a walk, but we would come here. You were surprised that I’m allowed to come and go as I please. I told you about the fence but really, I think my mother is the reason I enjoy what freedom I have—she set those expectations.” She spun in place, looking at the clearing as if she were seeing it for the first time. “Maman thought of this as a place where we could be a regular family. As soon as I was old enough to understand the concept, she swore me to secrecy regarding its existence.”

  “So why have you brought me here?” The question came out gruffer than he’d intended. But honestly, he was gobsmacked by this place. By the fact that she’d decided to show it to him.

  “I figure you’re safe.”

  Safe. He liked that idea. It stirred up something in his chest.

  “You’re leaving in a week,” Marie said, “and I think it’s safe to say you’ll probably never be back to Eldovia.”

  He didn’t like that idea. Not so much the idea of never coming back to Eldovia, although after the day spent in the village, the place had grown on him. But the thought of never seeing Marie again was . . . unsettling.

  “I don’t know.” She seemed dissatisfied with her previous answer and kept talking. “I suppose the truth is that although I’ve kept coming here by myself, it’s become a lonely place. It’s meant to be a family place, but I don’t really have a family anymore.”

  Leo was about to reflexively object, but Marie held up a hand. What she said next summed it up better than he could have. “Yes, I have my father. But I don’t really have my father anymore. I have the king.” He couldn’t argue with that, so he said nothing. “As for why I’ve brought you here . . .” She shrugged. “I thought you would like this place. I thought I would like showing it to you.”

  I thought I would like showing it to you. Jesus. Her voice had gone all low and sexy. He wouldn’t have thought it was on purpose—Marie was absurdly innocent in a lot of ways. But the phrase shifted the air between them. Charged it. I thought I would like showing it to you. He took a step toward her. “And did you? Like showing it to me?”

  He loved that she didn’t step back, didn’t hesitate. Didn’t do anything but stare him down and say, calmly, “Yes.”

  They stared at each other for a few beats before she surprised him by saying, “I’m vexed with you.”

  What? He’d thought they were . . . Well, he didn’t know what. He forced himself to tune into what she was saying and found that he didn’t like the way it felt to have Marie “vexed” with him. “Why?”

  “You should have told me about architecture school. You had several opportunities when it would have been natural to do so.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said automatically, though god knew why he was apologizing. He didn’t owe her anything. “It’s kind of a sore spot.”

  “Still. I thought we were friends, or . . .” She bit her lip.

  Or what? She thought they were friends? Or she thought they were something else?

  He’d been thinking about that something else, too. About that or. Fuck it. He’d been thinking of the gulf between them—the princess and the cabdriver—as a reason to keep his hands off her, but maybe that was backward. She was right. The princess of Eldovia and the cabdriver from the Bronx were never going to see each other again after this week. There had been sparks flying today, and between her snuggling up against him while dancing and being all coy just now, they weren’t just coming from him.

  So what the hell was he waiting for?

  Leo had just enough coherent reason left in him to peel off his gloves first. He knew he was going to want to feel Marie. Her skin, her hair. Her.

  Her breaths were shallow. Little bursts of steam emitted from her lips. His world shrank so those lips were the world. That rosebud. That heart. He swooped in, but stoppe
d just short of her mouth, so the steam from his breath joined with hers. Waited. Because although he had come, rather rapidly, to his “fuck it” revelation, that didn’t mean she had.

  He hoped she had. Please let her have.

  There were only a few millimeters between them.

  She closed the gap. It felt like a triumph. Belatedly, he remembered his hands. Or maybe his hands remembered her. They came down on her cheeks to ensure that she didn’t go anywhere—no one was going anywhere for a very long time. He was going to feast on her.

  It was different this time. This wasn’t some impromptu kiss outside his building where Gabby might stumble on them. This was premeditated, and they were in her secret place in the middle of the goddamn Alps.

  When his lips came down on hers, her mouth opened. So smoothly, so completely. As if this was choreography they’d been doing together for a long time. As if this was a dance she knew how to do.

  He’d forgotten how amazing kissing could be, even—maybe especially—when it wasn’t just the precursor to more. Kissing for its own sake, like you had all the time in the world, was pretty fucking great.

  He could feel Marie relax as his tongue made its initial incursions. Even her head grew heavier in his hands. It was like she was shedding an invisible burden, surrendering it to him. He was happy to take it. Proud that she trusted him with it. That she thought he was, as she had said, safe.

  So they stood there in the cold and kissed. Kissed like they were in a goddamned movie.

  But it wasn’t all heady emotion urging him onward; it was also pure, animalistic want. It was powerful, coarse, and highly improper. As he swept his tongue deeply through her mouth, he let one hand leave her face and slide down her back until he made contact with her ass. He encouraged her forward then, wanting her to feel what this was doing to him. Not that he expected anything to happen beyond this kiss, but he suddenly felt like the girl who thought she wasn’t graceful or beautiful or whatever should feel decided evidence to the contrary.