3. “Danza Kuduro” - Don Omar Lucenzo
“Danza Kuduro” - Don Omar + Lucenzo
I’ve just finished my weekly audience with the prime minister when my phone rings. My lips lift in a smile when Adelaide’s name appears on the screen.
“Hello, my lovely girl,” she says when I answer.
“How are you?” I say. “How is Peter?”
“We’re terrific. Well, I am. Peter is a twat.”
I chuckle in surprise. “He seemed perfectly normal when I met him.”
Adelaide and Peter have been dating—or what she calls “knocking boots”—for a few years. Neither of them have any plans of marriage, which she claims is the antidote to fighting.
“That’s because when you met him he wasn’t planning a fishing trip with his ‘buddies,’” she says. “Bloody Americans.”
I laugh again. “I’m assuming said fishing trip is interfering with your plans?”
“Of course it is. I need to practice my salsa dancing.”
I gaze out the window that overlooks the peony garden. The gardener is plucking dead blooms from the plants. “Surely he won’t be gone long enough for it to have any ill effects?”
Adelaide tuts. “He’s planning to be gone for two whole weeks.”
“Two weeks? You’ll have forgotten how by then,” I tease.
“No, I won’t.”
“See? That’s the attitude.”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
I close my eyes. “Here we go.”
Her tone carries a definite note of smugness. “You’re going to help me practice.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t have time. What do you think I do all day, sit around?”
“Do you really want to know?”
I pause. “If you think I have time for salsa dancing, then no, I don’t want to know.”
“Then I’ll keep my thoughts to myself. As long as you agree to help me.”
“I don’t know the first thing about salsa. I still think of it as food.”
A loud pfft comes through the phone. “You can ballroom dance with the best of them. Salsa isn’t much different,” Adelaide says. After a few beats, she adds, “Less formality, more sensuality.”
“You’re not exactly selling me on the whole idea.”
“You’ll love it. I’ve already talked to Maisie. She said you’re free between one and two. I’ll see you then.” She hangs up before I can protest.
I’m going to wring Maisie’s neck. That one blissful hour was going to be spent taking a much-needed and long-awaited nap. I haven’t taken a nap in months, and now I’ll be whirling around the dance floor with a seventy-five-year-old woman who thinks she’s still twenty-five.
When Maisie ushers Adelaide into my office that afternoon, I cut them each a look. They both pretend not to notice.
“Ready?” I ask Adelaide. “The ballroom is empty.”
“Oh, let’s not use the ballroom,” she says. “I’ve seen it dozens of times before.”
I cock a brow, catching Maisie’s look of amusement over Adelaide’s shoulder. “My office is hardly conducive to dancing.” I glance around at the richly paneled walls and thick carpeting. “Of any kind.”
Adelaide waves her hand like I’m being ridiculous. “Not in here, poppet. Let’s use the Green Drawing Room.”
“Okay,” I say, dragging the word out. “May I ask why?” They should’ve made her queen. She was born for the position.
“Because I’ve been dying to see it ever since it was featured in Traditional Homes.”
“It’s open,” Maisie adds.
I know when I’ve been defeated, so Adelaide and I head to the Green Drawing Room.
As promised, it is empty when we arrive.
It boasts light green silk tabinet on the walls, thick ornamental plasterwork around all the doors and windows, and several large chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
The center of the space is clear of furniture and covered in a dark green rug with a low pile.
I have to admit, it is the perfect room for dancing.
Adelaide digs a Bluetooth speaker from her handbag, setting both it and her phone on the mantle. Latin music fills the air within seconds. That setup would have taken me five minutes. This woman is going to outlive me.
“Ready for this?” she asks, walking toward me with her hands extended.
“Not in a million years,” I mutter.
“Okay, first things first. I’ll be the leader. You will follow.”
“Obviously.”
Adelaide narrows her eyes. “Now the trick is timing. We’ll follow an eight-beat pattern, okay? Your steps are the inverse of mine, so back, center, back—beat four is a pause—then front, center, front, and another pause. Got it?”
“Not even close.”
“Just follow me.”
I close my eyes to prepare for the disaster that is sure to come. She cocks her arm to reach my waist, and I rest my hand on her shoulder. We extend our joined hands to the side.
“Now mirror my movements,” she says.
The concept should be simple.
The concept is anything but simple.
Within thirty seconds it’s like I’m part of a traveling circus. Specifically, the part they keep hidden behind the curtain.
Adelaide sighs and drops both hands. “You’re supposed to be following me.”
“I tried! I had no idea where you were going.”
“You’re not supposed to,” she says. “That’s the point. You follow.”
“I’m not much of a follower.”
She looks at me over the top of her reading glasses. “You don’t say.”
I sink into one of the silk-covered chairs dating back to the eighteenth century, courtesy of the king of Spain.
Adelaide stares at me from across the room, hands on her hips. “Get up,” she snaps. “You are not giving up.”
I get back on my feet. God, the woman is relentless.
She grabs my hands again and puts them into position. “Now, remember, I am leading. You are following. Quit trying to figure out what I’m going to do. Just focus on your steps.”
Something clicks for me this time, and we manage to get a good rhythm going. The music pulses through the room—which I bet has never heard Latin before—and before I know it, I’m smiling.
“Ahh,” Adelaide says, catching it before it disappears. “The real reason I came.”
“What are you talking about?” I lose count of my steps and go left at the same time she’s going right.
“You haven’t been happy,” she says, getting us back on track.
“How would you know that?”
“I’ve got two eyes. Now spin.” She twirls me in a circle before bringing us back to the same beat. “And your husband called me.”
My feet shudder to a stop. “Henry called you? About me?”
“Calm down, poppet. He said you’ve been down lately and wondered if I might be able to help.”
I let out an exasperated sigh and turn to the French doors leading into the garden. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“That might convince the media, but you can’t think it’s going to fool those of us who know you well.”
“Okay, you want the truth?” I turn around to face her. “I haven’t been happy in a long time.”
“And why do you think that is?” She studies me as if she already knows the answer and is just waiting for me to figure it out.
I lift my hands in frustration and drop them back to my sides again. “I don’t have a bloody clue.”
“I think you do,” she says. The song changes, and she grabs my hands and pulls me back into a dance. “I love this song. Don’t have a clue what they’re singing, but I love it.”
We dance a few more rounds of beats, but I know better than to think Adelaide’s going to drop the topic. “You still love him, don’t you?” she asks.
“Henry? Of course I love him.”
“So things are good between you?”
I frown at my feet. I don’t even know how to answer such a simple question.
Things are good. For the most part. We still make each other laugh, occasionally anyway.
My heart still kicks up ten notches when he strolls into a room, unaware of the fact that he’s stopped my entire world on its axis.
We still have sex, at least when I’m supposed to be ovulating.
Other than that, it’s pretty hit or miss.
Certainly none of the stuff from when we were first together.
Sure, he’s annoyed with me about how much I work, but that kind of comes with the territory, doesn’t it? If the roles were reversed, I’m sure I’d parrot those same words back to him.
And then there’s the baby thing, or the lack thereof. But aside from keeping that teensy little secret from him—for now—and the way he keeps stressing about it, we’re good. Great, even.
“Yes,” I finally say. “Things are good.”
This time it’s Adelaide who stops the dancing. “Celia Eleanor, that was the biggest, most bald-faced lie you’ve ever told me.”
Something inside of me cracks at her chastisement. “What do you want me to say? That we’re like two strangers living in the same house?”
“If that’s the truth.”
“It’s close.” My voice comes out the size of a mouse.
“What is going on? You two were so in love.”
“We are,” I say, the words tumbling out on top of each other. “Things are just . . . hard right now.”
“I imagine they’re not easy for any couple in your situation. Care to tell me what’s going on?”
In for an inch, in for a mile, right? I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “He wants a baby.”
Her arms are crossed, she nods for me to continue.
“And I don’t. At least not right now.”
“That’ll do it every time.” She presses her lips into a firm line. “Do you fight about this a lot?”
“Not exactly. He’s under the impression that we are struggling with infertility.” I wince as the words echo back to me.
Adelaide says nothing, doesn’t even move for what seems an eternity. When she finally does, it’s to march over to the speaker to stop the music. The room is flooded with a silence that feels louder than those Latin beats were.
“You realize that is a bloody stupid idea, and it will, with 100 percent certainty, backfire, right?” Adelaide says, her eyes flashing with anger and disappointment.
“It has occurred to me, yes, but I fully intend to—”
“Celia, listen to me.” She steps closer. “I’ve always pegged you as bright. But what you’re doing right now is playing with fire. And people who play with fire—”
“Get burned. I know.”
“—wet the bed. Or at least that’s what I was always told. Regardless, this will not turn out well. For either of you.”
“What was I supposed to do?” I ask. “He wants a baby, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“That doesn’t sound like Henry.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “He didn’t pressure me exactly, but I knew it was what he wanted, and—”
“And you couldn’t handle the thought of him thinking any less of you.”
When you put it like that, I sound like a vain bitch. “I just don’t understand the rush.”
“Then you should tell him that instead of lying to him,” Adelaide says.
“It’s just for a little while, just until I’m ready.”
She cocks a brow at me. “Keep deluding yourself like this, and things will not end well, I promise you.”
“I know Henry. He won’t suspect.”
“You’re manipulating him.”
“It’s my body. That makes it my decision.”
“Just be careful, Celia. Controlling others is what weak people think power looks like.”
After that, things between Adelaide and me feel too much like cardboard, and while that kind of stiffness might work for ballroom dancing, it does not fly in salsa. She gathers her things, and I walk her to the private exit.
We’re in the west gallery when Preston finds us. “There you are,” he says, jogging to catch up.
We both turn and stop to wait for him. Preston is just over six foot, with a shock of thick, dark hair that he continually has to push out of his eyes. He is also devastatingly handsome, a fact I suspect he is more than a little aware of.
“So sorry to interrupt.” He nods to Adelaide, then turns his attention to me, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “But I knew you would want to know right away.”
“Preston,” I say. “This is Dame Adelaide Mansfield. Adelaide, meet our press secretary, Preston Ansley.” They exchange nods, neither one impressed by the other.
“I just got confirmation on the documentary. They want to start filming the night of the ball,” Preston says.
We’ve been subtly pushing for a documentary about the royal family for over a year. When one was done on the British royals back in 1969, it was watched by thirty-eight million people the night it aired. It did more for that country than an entire year’s worth of walkabouts.
And now Wesbourne is going to get her own.
“That’s incredible news,” I say. “I want all the details.”
“I’ll wait for you in your office.” He winks and heads back down the hall.
I’m still grinning when I turn back toward Adelaide. Her glare immediately melts the smile off my face.
“What? What did I do?” I swipe at my mouth, afraid I’ve managed to smear chocolate all over it without even eating any.
“Did I just witness flirting?” She spits the word out as though it tastes like rubbish.
“Who? Me? Him?” I shake my head, unable to get anything more out.
“What is going on with you and that young man?”
I blink at her, words a foreign substance to me now. “What are you talking about? Me and Preston? Nothing. I swear to you. Nothing at all.”
“He is obviously infatuated with you.”
Shock ripples through me. A fire alarm would be a welcome diversion right now. “Apparently not that obviously,” I mutter.
“You’re blind as a bat. He was practically salivating all over these fine rugs.” She gestures to the floor. “And didn’t even have the decency to bow to his queen,” she adds, shaking her head in disgust.
“We keep things low-key around here. You didn’t bow to me either,” I say as we head toward the door again.
“We’re friends. He’s a staff member.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s also not in love with me.”
When we reach the exit, Adelaide grabs my hands in her own. “Please think about what I said earlier. I would hate for you to sabotage your marriage before it’s even had a chance to start.”