Chapter 7 #2
“Okay, let’s do this,” he said as he clapped his hands together.
After hours of being quizzed by Vince and practicing my curtsy, my thighs and calves were on fire.
I would have thought that after years of ice skating and countless mornings in the barre studio that I would have the perfect curtsy and my legs could endure an hour of practice.
Forget Jane Fonda, nobility should have their own workout DVD.
I could barely walk up the stairs to my room to shower before the entire glam squad made their appearance.
After a late lunch and the best shower of my life—How will I ever go back to one measly shower head?—all hopes for a nap to stave off the jet lag were dashed by Clarence’s minions as they bobby pinned my hair into a low chignon at the base of my neck.
Another assistant painstakingly applied feathery false lashes and a deep mauve lipstick as the last one filed and painted my nails.
Once they were done, I stepped into a floor-length cobalt-blue gown.
I loved this dress. The satin hugged my curves in all the right places and the sweetheart neckline accentuated my breasts without making them the star of the show.
It was classy, yet sexy. It felt just like me.
“How do I look?” I asked, turning to Vince and Bronson as they entered the room.
“Breathtaking,” Vince said as Bronson responded with, “Acceptable.”
“Thank you for all of your hard work today,” I said to the team who had spent hours measuring, fixing, and sewing me into the gorgeous dress.
As I looked at myself in the floor-length mirror, an emotion that I hadn’t felt in a long time came washing over me: I was beautiful.
I had avoided prom and other formal dances growing up because my family never had the money.
I preferred to pretend that school dances were too cliché to attend, turning down any boys who asked me.
I never imagined that this would be my first time wearing a formal gown.
The thought that I could see myself this way and be dressed in couture for the rest of my life if I married Prince Oliver was fleeting, but it still made me feel…well, that wasn’t worth pondering on right then. Soak this in. Enjoy this experience.
The 1950s Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud was warm but a little cramped as Carter, the Alexander family’s driver, drove Vince, Bronson, and me to the palace. Wexstone’s countryside continued to awe me. I hoped the wonder of this country would never wear off.
We took one last turn around a snow-covered mountain and onto a straight stretch of road as the palace came into view.
Large, black wrought-iron gates opened to an expansive drive leading to the four-story building.
Countless windows lined the stone walls.
Pristine snow covered the lawn, not marred by even a single footprint.
Crystal-clear water bubbled out of an alabaster fountain, which had to be heated.
It was exactly what little girls and boys dreamed of when thinking of far-off kingdoms and Prince Charming.
My stomach flipped at the thought of seeing Prince Oliver and Knox again. I needed to see some familiar faces to remind myself that this was real and not some fantasy I had stumbled upon.
I wondered what it was like for the prince to grow up in the palace. Did he run the halls and play hide and seek? Did he have a favorite corner to read in? What was dinner like? Did they sit at a large table that could hold dozens of guests or did they dine as a family in a private dining room?
And Knox. Did he live here as well? Did he ever feel half as nervous as I was when he approached the palace? The man is so cocky, he probably never feels nervous about anything.
Bronson interrupted my thoughts. “Vincent told me he reviewed the members of the royal family with you. I trust he discussed your fellow contestants as well?” I didn’t miss the doubt in his voice that belied his use of the word “trust.”
“Yes, he did,” I assured. “Let’s see. There’s Mellie Schneider—she’s a journalist. Sabine Thorne is an environmentalist, right?
” Vince nodded encouragingly. I continued.
“Adelaide Levy is a primary-school teacher. Cora Maximo is a baker. Three of the women are from titled families: Gemma Rousseau-Wu, Ginny Wu-Murphy, and Renata…” I trailed off, unable to remember her last name.
“Raines. Yes. That will do.” Bronson’s voice was clipped as he dismissed the conversation.
The car came to a stop, and I took one final deep breath. This was happening. It was go time.
Vince reached over and gave my hand a light squeeze. “You’re going to do amazingly,” he said reassuringly.
“I hope so. I’m a little nervous.”
“What’s there to be nervous about? It’s just your entire reputation and our entire house name at stake,” Bronson quipped dryly.
I turned to look at him over my shoulder. “Exactly, what’s there to lose, right?” I replied in a sugary voice.
Bronson scowled and shook his head as he ran his hands over his face. I resisted the urge to say, “Watch out, your face might get stuck like that.”
“I’m sorry, but you walked right into that,” I said instead. “I promise that’s my last sarcastic comment of the night.” Out loud. To you. I smiled.
Our car crept forward as those in front of us let out their passengers and turned back down the drive.
A red carpet lined the walkway to the palace’s front doors.
What looked like a hundred reporters and paparazzi swarmed each side of the carpet, snapping photos and calling out questions.
Vince and Bronson had prepared me for their presence, but seeing them made me swallow hard.
“Just remember,” Vince said softly, “if you don’t want to answer a question…”
“No comment,” I finished.
“Exactly. Here we go.”
Cameras flashed and snapped as the car door opened. I pulled my faux-fur shawl around my shoulders and stepped onto the carpet.
A breeze hit as I smoothed my dress out. It was ungodly cold in Wexstone—the type of cold I was used to from Michigan winters, but still often made me wish I lived on a beach instead. I drew the shawl tighter as I looked up at the palace.
I didn’t have much time to take in its beauty before I was hit by a torrent of questions.
“Who are you wearing?”
“Is this your first time in Wexstone?”
“How did you meet His Royal Highness?”
“Have you been sleeping with the prince?”
“What makes you fit to be our queen?”
I was shocked by some of the questions. These reporters really don’t hold back, do they? I turned to look for Vince but couldn’t see him through the camera flashes.
I turned back and continued to walk straight down the red carpet.
It was like a map, guiding me to where I needed to go.
I could see the large opening of the palace doors just ahead.
To my surprise, I spotted Knox just inside.
My breath caught in my throat. His broad frame looked delectable in his crisp black tuxedo.
It was a vast difference from the flannel shirt and glasses he had been wearing in New York.
The Clark Kent vibe was undeniably sexy.
The relentless questions and snap of cameras brought me back to reality. “Is this your first time in Wexstone?” one reporter repeated as she shoved a tiny microphone in my face.
I smiled. “Yes, it is.”
“How have you liked it so far?”
“It’s been wonderful. The country is beautiful.” These questions weren’t so bad. It felt like talking to someone in line at the coffee shop.
“Where in America are you from?” another reporter shouted.
“I live in New York City.” I felt a bit of pride rise in my chest.
“Is it true that when you first arrived, you were stopped at customs?”
Oh fuck. “Um, yes, that’s true.” I felt my smile start to falter but pasted it back into place. Maybe they wouldn’t push any further on this.
“Why, Ms. Hamilton?”
“They uh…they thought they spotted something in my bag.” Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. This was definitely a “no comment” line of questioning. I started to laugh nervously, my default for awkward situations.
“What exactly did they find?” Shit, shit, fuck, shit. I can’t answer that! This is humiliating. But if I say “no comment” now, that will be even more suspicious.
A large, warm hand wrapped tightly around my elbow and pulled me toward the door.
“No comment,” Knox’s deep voice sternly told the reporter, who immediately backed off, looking for someone else to interrogate.
I looked up and was met with those bright blue eyes and the scent of pine and mint.
Once we had passed the throng of reporters, Knox rested my arm in the crook of his elbow and led me the rest of the way up the red carpet.
As we climbed the marble steps, I couldn’t help but notice the way the tuxedo jacked hugged his biceps and the way the pants grazed his toned thighs.
I caught a glimpse of his tattoos peeking out from the cuff of his shirt as he shook hands with the man taking coats and shawls inside the door.
I tried not to think of his boxer-briefed ass in my tiny New York kitchen.
I handed off my shawl to the man and thanked him. I held onto my small clutch with all my might, as if the scraps of fabric could keep me from floating away.
“Thank you for saving me back there.”
“Don’t mention it,” Knox growled. “They’re vultures.”
“With all of the prepping we did today on how to handle a herd of hungry paparazzi, that question wasn’t exactly on the list,” I muttered.
I caught a slight smile roll across Knox’s face. I wondered if he knew why I had been pulled aside by customs, though the smile suggested that he must. I hoped I wasn’t blushing too much.
The foyer of the palace had smooth white limestone floors with the same stone forming the walls. The ceiling was a large glass dome, through which you could see the stars.
“What did you think of the red carpet?” Vince asked as he passed off his coat and made his way toward Knox and me.