Chapter Six
Frederic
“Your Highness, if I may?” My valet, Yusefi, who has been dressing me in my formal attire since I was sixteen, holds out my blue Ledonian sash.
It bears the royal crest, and though it’s heavy with the metaphorical weight of centuries of monarchy, it’s made of satin and weighs next to nothing.
He secures it in place, and I regard myself in the mirror.
“The Princess will think you are very handsome tonight, sir,” Yusefi says as he steps back, his gray hair catching the light in my dressing room.
I offer him a tight smile. “We'll see.”
The truth is I don't know if Astrid sees me as anything other than the diplomatic mission we're both on, aka our arranged marriage. She’s friendly enough, not to mention a diplomatic disaster waiting to happen with her excessive enthusiasm and clumsiness. But she’s friendly to everyone. I’m not special.
The image of her sitting on the floor of the glasshouse, chatting happily to the dogs, fills my mind.
Her pretty face with its high cheekbones and full, pink lips.
Her striking blue eyes that look like the Mediterranean on a warm summer’s day.
The way she moves, so natural and light.
The way her dress molds to her soft curves.
When she smiles, her entire face lights up, and it's hard not to want to smile back. I've been fighting that instinct since she arrived this morning.
I’ve noticed it all, every last drop of her. She might not see me as a man, but I certainly see her as a woman.
She’s intriguing.
Yes. Intriguing. That’s the word for Princess Astrid of Elkevik.
She’s so very different from the usual women I meet.
She’s unguarded and full of the joys of life.
Yes, I’d met her last month when we visited Elkevik, so I knew she wasn’t your run-of-the-mill royal.
But she was at home then, not in a foreign country, not in someone else’s palace.
You’d expect she’d have more reserve here, more concern for how she comes across.
She doesn’t seem to care. She’s who she is, and she’s happy with it.
A part of me wonders what it would be like to be as free as her. What it would be like to experience life as though being the Crown Prince of a country that doesn't seem to want me.
“Will that be all, sir?” Yusefi asks, interrupting my trail of thought.
“Yes, of course. Thank you.”
He turns to leave and then hesitates at the door to my dressing room. I've known him long enough to know he has something he wants to say.
“What is it, Yusefi?”
“You look exceptionally well this evening, sir.”
“It's the same formal attire I wear to every state dinner. Tonight is nothing special,” I reply, even though I know tonight is special. Tonight is the night I introduce my bride-to-be to the country.
“Of course, sir. Henrik mentioned he’d be escorting the princess to the dining room.”
I can’t quite explain why, but the thought of the princess being escorted by anyone other than me suddenly feels wrong.
“A change of plan. I will escort her myself,” I say, surprising myself.
A faint smile passes over Yusefi's face, but it's gone before it’s fully formed. “As you wish, sir.”
Why did I do that? It would have been perfectly fine for someone else to escort her to the dining room. I could have met her at the entrance and we could have entered together.
I'm just being polite. Yes, that's what it is. I'm being polite. Polite towards my future wife.
My mind stutters on the word. Princess Astrid will be my wife.
I swallow, suddenly flustered.
What’s happening to me? I'm usually so in control. I've been trained from birth to take everything in my stride. To not get emotional, certainly not in public. To always present serenity.
In short, to be regal.
All it takes is one pretty girl and my mind is scrambled like eggs for breakfast.
I glance at my watch. It's time to go. One final check in the mirror, and I turn to leave, making my way down the hallway to Astrid's rooms.
I raise my hand to knock on her door and pause. I take a breath. Why do I need to take a breath? This is ridiculous! I know exactly what I'm getting into here.
I knock and hear a voice call out, “Coming!”
When the door swings open, my breath catches in my throat.
Oh no.
Astrid looks somewhere between completely beautiful and utterly preposterous. Her blonde hair is swept up in an up-do, her eyes sparkling even bluer than before, her lips painted a glossy red. She has pearls at her ears and around her neck, and a modest tiara is nestled in her hair.
So far, so utterly, utterly stunning.
Her dress? Well, that’s another story.
It’s emerald-green, made of some kind of floaty material that swishes around her legs like she’s about to hit a disco floor.
The neckline drops into a deep V, and it’s draped and gathered like something straight out of the seventies.
A thick gold belt cinches her small waist, and at her shoulders falls cape-like panels that spill down her back.
It’s like the dress can’t decide if it’s a gown or a superhero costume.
Yet somehow she still looks incredible in it.
Her smile drops. “Is it completely terrible?” she asks, her brows knitted together.
“My lady's maid, Anya, said it looks vintage, and I wonder if that’s a polite way of saying it looks unfashionable. But you see the thing is, it was my mother’s, and she thought it would be nice for me to wear it to be formally introduced as your fiancée. It was her coronation dress.”
I'm still gawking at her, and it takes me a moment to reengage my brain so I can form words. “It’s, err—”
So the forming words part doesn’t seem to be in full working order yet.
She raises a hand. “No, you're right. It's terrible. Should I change?”
“No, no,” I mumble.
“No?”
“No. Don’t change,” I say more firmly.
Her features relax. “So, you’re saying it’s okay?”
Okay? She looks like she could save a city while dancing to disco tunes and charming every man this side of Milan.
“You look… nice,” I say, sounding almost gruff.
“Nice?” she questions, her eyes lighting up.
“The dress is a little old-fashioned, as you say, but the color suits you, and it's entirely appropriate for a state dinner.”
Her lips lift into a smile that lights up her entire face. “You're very sweet, Fred. Thank you.”
Fred.
She narrows her gaze. “You’re not playing with me, are you?”
“Not in the least, I promise you,” I say vehemently.
“I don’t look like a curtain, then?”
“Only the most elegant of curtains,” I reply.
Did I just make a joke about curtains? Sure, it wasn’t exactly laugh-out-loud, but jokes and I have never exactly been on speaking terms before.
Who am I?
Astrid laughs her pretty laugh, and suddenly my terrible joke seems totally worth it. “Only the most elegant of curtains,” she repeats, grinning at me. “You know what? I’ll take it. That’s significantly better than ‘time traveler from the disco era.’ Which is what I was worried about.”
“I’m sure the disco era had its merits.”
She grins. “I love disco. The outfits, the songs, the dancing. Those were the days, eh, Fred? Oh, to have been in our twenties back then.”
I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.
“Fred?” she questions.
“Disco isn’t relevant to your dress, Astrid, I assure you.”
“Oh, I’m afraid you’re wrong. It’s extremely relevant. If you’re going to compliment vintage fashion, you really need to commit to the era.”
As I seem to find when around this woman, I don’t know how to respond. Is this banter? It feels like it should be labeled as such, but banter is for other people. Not me.
Lucky for me she then changes the subject. She holds up her left hand. “The ring looks especially good in the evening light. Don’t you think?”
She’s right. The ring sparkles beautifully, and on her delicate hand it looks twice as large as it did in that infernal box that refused to play fair this afternoon when I proposed.
Heat rises in my cheeks as an image of me flashes before my eyes.
I’m on one knee, the edge of the coffee table virtually cutting off my circulation in one leg, offering the ring to a bemused Astrid.
I know it wasn’t exactly romantic, but we’re not romantic, and I just needed to get it over with so that we could be officially engaged.
She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she was really rather unexpectedly sweet about it all.
I clear my throat. “We should go to dinner.” I offer her my arm, and she loops her hand over it. This close to her, I can’t help but breathe in her subtle floral scent. It’s nothing short of captivating.
Together, we walk the long hallway toward the state rooms. It’s impossible not to be acutely aware of her at my side, the fabric of her dress rustling softly as we move.
I sneak a glance at her. She wears a perpetual smile, as though the world itself delights her.
“Do you remember meeting as children?” she asks, her voice punctuating the silence.
“Of course I do.”
“I didn’t think you’d remembered me. I thought you saw me as far too silly to bother with at the time.”
I think back to when we’d first met. Astrid is a few years younger than me, and she’s right, I did think she was too silly for me. When you’re a newly-minted teenager, as I was back then, that counts for something. Or at least you think it does.
“I’m genuinely sorry if I gave you that impression,” I reply.
“Oh, it’s fine, Fred. I was young and silly. I thought I could charm you with all my silly jokes about my farmyard animals. I’m older now, even if evidence is to the contrary.”
“The spilled tea?”
“Oh, yes. The spilled tea,” she says, with a light laugh.
“Are you concerned about tonight?” I ask as we round a corner. We’re nearing the state rooms now, and we only have a couple of moments left before we’ll be plunged into a roomful of people with us as the star attraction.
“A little. I mean, I did mess up with your parents, even if it worked out well in the end.”
“You charmed them.”