My Best Friend's Royal Wedding (ARC) Page 18

  “Just keep looking at me,” he says. “Not at your feet.”

  He starts up his MP3 player again, and we start to move. I do what he says, keeping my eyes

  on his, and surprisingly it works. I get so lost in his gaze that I lose the ability to control my feet.

  His hand is firm on my lower back, guiding me as we sweep around the ballroom. When the song

  ends, he stops moving. I feel dizzy, and I don’t think it’s from dancing.

  “See,” he says triumphantly. “When you stop trying to direct everything and go with the

  flow, you dance really well.”

  I’m exhausted by the time we break for lunch. Not that it’s much of a break. We eat alone in

  the breakfast room, with only a maid serving us rather than the terrifying butler, but Adam insists we observe all the correct table manners for a formal dinner. There’s so much to remember - the correct distance to sit from the table (two hands’ width), the correct place to lay a napkin or a fork to send a message to the servers, the correct way to use cutlery so they don’t clink against the plates or cups.

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  “I can’t do this!” I moan, sinking my head down onto the empty place mat after the sorbet

  course has been removed - which I’ve now learned is a palate cleanser rather than dessert. “Please let this week be over.”

  Adam takes pity on me, and gives me the afternoon off. I curl up on my bed, determined to

  finish the Faye Kellerman mystery I’m reading. My eyes grow heavier, until I’m suddenly startled awake by a loud knocking on the door. The room is dark, illuminated only by a shaft of pale blue moonlight. I fumble my way to the door. It’s Adam. Of course.

  And he’s dressed in jeans and a plain black shirt. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in jeans.

  They do really fine things to his ass.

  I rub my eyes. “Am I late for dinner?”

  “Nope. I gave the staff the night off. I’m taking you out on the town tonight.”

  “Just promise me no bars.”

  He arches an eyebrow, and I groan. But I give in. I’d rather be in a crowded place, with loud

  music and lots of other people, than alone in this very big, very empty palace with Adam.

  Neustadt is as magical by night as it is by day. There are bars and restaurants everywhere,

  with lights and music and laughter. The shops stay open late, there are food and craft beer stalls on the street corners, and the sidewalk cafés are full. We wander along the river, stopping at a food truck for a dinner of döner kebabs and local weissbier which we eat sitting on the stone balustrade of a bridge as the tour boats pass beneath us, lit up with multi-colored lights.

  The bar Adam takes me to is the Landmark Café. It looks very different at night, with

  electric blue light reflecting off the brushed-steel bar. There’s live music, and people are dancing out on the terrace overlooking the river. We find an empty sofa in a corner of the bar, and Adam orders us the Landmark’s signature blue cocktail. It’s not as sweet as it looks, and I drink it down rather quicker than I should.

  By the second drink, I let him cajole me onto the dance floor. The music is fast-paced and

  loud, making conversation impossible. This is my kind of dancing, gyrating to a beat rather than

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  having to think about where to place my feet. The music is new to me, with German lyrics and a beat made for dancing. It pulses through me, in time with the swirling light. The dance floor is packed, and we’re pushed close together, our bodies swaying in rhythm, thighs and hips and arms touching until my hormones are drunk on the sensation.

  By the third drink, I can’t remember why I didn’t want to be alone with Adam tonight. In

  fact, I really, really want to get him alone. Because the things I want him to do to me can’t be done in a very public bar.

  He calls for a palace car to fetch us home, and I don’t argue. I want this. I want him. I really, really want him. Those fancy blue drinks clearly cause amnesia, because I can’t remember a single reason why I ever thought being just another notch on Adam Hatton’s bedpost was a bad thing.

  In the back of the car, with the dark glass separating us from the driver up front, I lay my

  hand on Adam’s thigh. He doesn’t push it away. Instead, he lays his hand over mine, trapping my palm against his leg. His long fingers intertwine with mine, and his thumb brushes the back of my hand until my whole body is a molten mess. We sit like that for a long time, as the streets blur past, until the car slides between the massive palace gates and rounds the building towards the private entrance.

  He only lets go of my hand when we climb out the car, but when I stumble, my low heel

  snagging in the loose gravel, he catches me, wrapping a strong arm around my waist, his fingers warm against the bare skin between the top of my jeans and the sparkly sequinned crop tank top I’m wearing.

  Yes! The warmth and strength of his hand against my skin promises pure pleasure.

  His hand stays there, all the way past the sleepy security officer who opens the front door to us, all the way up the stairs and to my bedroom door.

  But when I open the door and hold it wide in invitation, his hand falls away, and he doesn’t

  step across the threshold.

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  “Do you want to come in?” I ask, draping myself against the door like a provocative silver

  screen siren.

  He clears his throat. “That wouldn’t be a good idea. Just friends, remember?”

  Friends. Right.

  “I’ll meet you in the ballroom at nine.” Then he turns and strides away down the corridor

  toward his own room. I shut the door, and throw my purse at it. Lip gloss, tissues, and my phone rain down as the bag bursts open. I sag to the floor, and sink my head into my hands. How is it possible that a man with a reputation like his didn’t take advantage when it was offered to him?

  If I were thinking at all rationally right now, I’d probably hate myself for wanting him. But

  my body is wound so tight, I don’t care. Because that feeling I had when I first laid eyes on him in the library nearly two weeks ago is now ten times stronger than it was back then. Yeah, I’d like to do him.

  #

  Since we only got back to the palace in the early hours, I’ve hardly slept by the time I meet

  Adam in the ballroom. My head hurts, and my muscles ache. I hadn’t realized ballroom dancing

  used so many muscles. Adam has thoughtfully supplied bottles of water which at least relieves my dehydration, even though it does nothing for the pain in my head. The headache has nothing to do with last night’s cocktails, and everything to do with the fact that I spend the better part of the day in Adam’s arms, our bodies constantly touching and swaying together.

  By the time Max and Phoenix return from their weekend escape late that afternoon, I’ve

  mastered the basics of the waltz, rumba, cha-cha, foxtrot and quickstep. I draw the line at learning to tango. I am never going to need to dance a tango.

  With their return, the palace goes from silent as a grave to humming. The next morning,

  there’s an official debrief for the bridal party and all the heads of staff in which Claus runs us through every step of the processions, ceremonies and even the speeches. This is suddenly very

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  real. Though I’ve been working on my speech since I first received Phoenix’s call, I pray for a lightning strike or other act of God to get me out of it.

  On Tuesday, the palace is overrun with staff, preparing for the arrival of the first wedding

  guests - Max’s family.

  Phoenix’s anxiety feels almost like a living thing, and I share the feeling, though for entirely different reasons. Tonight, we’ll be sitting down to dinner with a whole bunch o
f royalty. This will be my first real test since that disastrous dinner party. But for Phoenix, her anxiety isn’t because of the titles or the etiquette, but because they’re family. By lunch time, she’s a wreck.

  “I’ve met them all before, and they’re wonderful people.” She folds her napkin over and

  over. “But it’s just so…”

  Overwhelming. I get it. Her mother died when she was young, and she was raised by a

  single father, just like I was raised by a single mother. Neither of us even knew our grandparents.

  Suddenly finding herself in a large family of in-laws and grandparents and cousins has to be pretty intimidating.

  “My mother sent a long text this morning,” I say, ready to provide a distraction. “She’s

  dating the GP she’s working for.”

  Phoenix laughs. “Oh no! That is so not going to end well. And I thought she was really

  enjoying that job?”

  “Me too.” I sigh. “Her eyes are always so full of stars, she can’t see straight.”

  Which is exactly how I feel about Adam.

  #

  We gather in the private drawing room for pre-dinner drinks. This is a long room with

  French doors opening straight into the private garden. The walls are painted a soft periwinkle blue, and the ceiling is decorated with plaster molding painted in gold. The scent of roses drifts in through the open doors.

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  When I enter, running late because it took me an age to straighten and tame my hair, the

  room is already packed with people. Phoenix comes forward to welcome me, squeezing my hand in

  mutual support, before she introduces me to everyone.

  Max’s mother was a supermodel before she married the former Archduke. She’s still

  beautiful and effortlessly glamorous, with a tanned glow that suggests her new life in California agrees with her, but there’s a sadness in her eyes too. Phoenix once told me Max’s parents were desperately in love, and her husband’s death really knocked her.

  His American grandparents are down-to-earth, and when his grandfather shakes my hand, I

  can feel the roughened work callouses on his palm that remind me he’s still a wine farmer.

  Then there’s Max’s older brother Rik, as dark as Max is fair. His hair’s a little over-long and tattoos peek out beneath his sleeves, making him look more like a marauding pirate than a

  dethroned prince. I cannot believe that once upon a time he was the dutiful brother, the one raised to be Archduke. Rik’s new bride, Kenzie, is a ‘commoner’ like me and Phoenix, and she makes me

  feel less like a unicorn in this room of beautiful people. She’s petite and fragile-looking, with ginger hair, freckles, and sparkling blue eyes. She’s also heavily pregnant.

  “Yes, I was an enormous bride.” She giggles as she rubs her belly. “I can’t wait for the baby

  to come. The sooner he or she arrives, the sooner we can go home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “We live on an island in the Caribbean called Corona, but we’ll be staying with my parents

  in England until after the birth. Rik thinks I should have my mother close by.” She rolls her eyes. “I love my parents dearly, but they also drive me nuts.”

  Trust me, I get it.

  Max’s other brother, Christian, is the newcomer in the family, the late Archduke’s son by

  the girlfriend he had before he met Max’s mother. He’s also an A-list movie star, and I’ve swooned over that face and those hypnotic blue eyes more times than I can count. What red-blooded woman on the planet hasn’t?

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  His wife makes me think of Grace Kelly, with her grace, poise and ice-blonde good looks.

  They really are an intimidatingly gorgeous couple, but Teresa takes my hand and leads me to a sofa, plying me with good-natured questions about how I’m enjoying my visit in Westerwald.

  “I grew up here in Neustadt,” she says. “I really miss it, especially now as the seasons start to change. California’s year-round summer is lovely, but I do miss the autumn leaves and winter snow. You really must come back at Christmas time. The markets and the festive lights are

  magical.”

  If only. I sigh. “Everything about this place is magical! Even the bars. Adam took me to the

  Landmark Café on the weekend, and it’s nothing like any bar I’ve ever been to.”

  She laughs, glancing toward where her husband and Adam stand in conversation beside the

  drinks trolley. “I know that bar.”

  As if sensing her gaze, Christian turns to look at her, and his eyes light up. I don’t even

  bother to hide another sigh. I’ve never had a man look at me like that.

  Dinner is a loud, casual affair, even though it’s served in the formal dining room. The

  conversation flows naturally, and I find myself relaxing, not worrying about small talk or if I’m going to embarrass myself. I’m seated close to Max’s grandparents, who are exactly the kind of grandparents I used to wish for. I never met any of my father’s family, and my mother’s parents were extremely conservative and cut her off when she came to Vegas to dance. That’s another thing Phoenix and I have in common.

  Adam is seated down the far end of the table, with Rik and Kenzie, and though there’s a lot

  of laughter and chatter between us, I notice a reserve between Adam and Kenzie.

  “Please, please tell me you didn’t sleep with her?” I whisper to Adam as we make our way

  back to the drawing room after dinner.

  “Oh God, no!” He looks genuinely horrified at the thought. “She used to date my friend

  Charlie a long time ago, back before she met Rik.”

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  There’s a look in his eyes when he mentions his friend, something more than grief, and I

  wonder if he even knows it’s there. He turns away quickly, smiling at the room, but his smile seems forced.

  Max’s grandparents head off to bed, and his mother soon after, leaving the rest of us to keep

  the party going. Since the servants have packed up for the night, I station myself at the incredibly well-stocked drinks trolley, and do what I do best: mixing and serving drinks until eventually the party breaks up. Max and Phoenix head to their apartment, but the rest of us are all staying in the guest wing, so we walk up the stairs together, parting with hugs and warm “good nights”.

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  Chapter Eighteen

  Khara

  On the morning of the wedding rehearsal, Phoenix and I visit the palace vault with Max’s

  mother. Anna, she insists I call her. The head of palace security accompanies us, but Anna unlocks the door with her own key. The heavy door opens slowly, and Anna switches on the lights. I gasp.

  The windowless room looks like a museum, with low lighting and velvet-lined glass cases

  around the walls. Each case has its own light, illuminating what seems like hundreds of items of jewelry. I follow them hesitantly into the room, pretty sure I shouldn’t even be here.

  There are necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and brooches - and more tiaras than a Disney movie.

  Not the glitzy, plastic-looking tiaras you see in bad TV movies, either, but really old, antique-looking ones.

  In a tall case in the center of the room is a gem-encrusted crown.

  “Max wore that for his coronation,” Phoenix tells me.

  “That was the day he proposed to you, wasn’t it?” Anna asks.

  Phoenix flashes me a conspiratorial look. “That was the day Max made his very public

  proposal, yes.”

  Way to go, Phoenix. Not quite the truth, but not a lie either.

  As we wander from case to case, Archduchess Anna tells us the history of each piece. Some

  came into the family as parts of d
owries, some were gifts from other royal families, and others were

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  made as wedding gifts from husbands to their brides. There’s even a case of Fabergé jewels.

  I have a sudden image of Phoenix doing this one day, walking her own daughter or

  daughter-in-law through the history and significance of each piece.

  “This one-” Anna points to an especially elaborate necklace of rubies and diamonds, almost

  vulgar in its ostentation, “started a war. Archduke Willem had it made for his mistress. Some say it was this necklace that was the last straw. After he presented it to her, the people of Westerwald rose up in support of his queen, who was kept a virtual prisoner while he flaunted his mistress to the world, and there was a very bloody civil war.”

  “Max told me the story,” Phoenix says. “When the war ended, a sorceress cast a spell on the

  royal family so that every royal marriage from that time forward would be blessed with true love.”

  She and Anna exchange a satisfied, secretive look that makes me feel even more like I’m

  eavesdropping on a private conversation.

  Anna gives us a lesson in tiaras, and I learn a whole lot of new words I’d never heard before -

  drops and toppers and festoons, and the difference between bandeaus and wishbones and circlets.

  There are tiaras that can also be used as necklaces, and others that can be taken apart to form brooches, and one with interchangeable gems to match any outfit. We pore over the cases, and

  Phoenix finally settles on a simple bandeau tiara, a scrollwork of vine leaves made of silver and diamonds.

  “Very apt when you’re marrying a winemaker,” Anna says. “Now don’t wash your hair for at

  least a day before the wedding, or the tiara will slip around on your head. And make sure your hair is already lacquered before you put it on, or the tiara itself gets sticky. You also need to ensure that your veil isn’t attached to the tiara, or the weight of the veil will pull it backwards off your head.”

  I stifle a giggle, and both women look at me. “So behind all the glamour that the rest of the