"Of course."
Thierry Renaud approached with the measured steps of someone who was perpetually calculating.He was probably in his late fifties, with sharp blue eyes and the kind of face that would be perfectly at home on currency.Or possibly a "wanted" poster, depending on how the next few minutes went.
"I trust your lessons are progressing well?"
"That depends on your definition of progress," I said."If you mean 'learning new and creative ways to embarrass myself,' then yes.Spectacular progress.I should get a medal."
He made another note in his portfolio, and I caught a glimpse of what looked like detailed observations about my responses.Under a heading that read "Protocol Adaptation Assessment," I could see phrases like "resistant to correction" and "American informality persistent."
Great.I was being graded on my sarcasm.Hopefully, there was extra credit.
"The adjustment period can be challenging," he said diplomatically."Perhaps we should discuss your schedule for the remainder of the week.There are several important lessons that require your immediate attention."
"Such as?"
"Diplomatic greetings, formal dining with multiple courses, proper conversation techniques for state functions."He consulted his notes."Your Italian language instructor mentioned some difficulties with pronunciation.We may need to add additional sessions."
"Is there anything I'm doing right?"
"Your enthusiasm is...noted."He made another entry in his portfolio."Though we may need to work on channeling that energy in more appropriate directions."
There was something about the way he was studying me that made my skin prickle.Not in a creepy way, but in a way that suggested he was looking for weaknesses he could file away for later.
"I should mention," he continued, "that there will be some additional paperwork regarding your marriage contract.Simple clarifications about your new diplomatic status and inheritance rights.Nothing complex, but the lawyers want to ensure everything is properly documented."
"What kind of clarifications?"
For just a moment, something flickered across his face, too quick to read, but it made me pay closer attention to his answer.
"Standard provisions for royal marriages.Property arrangements, succession charts.All routine, but the legal language can be quite complex."He closed his portfolio with a decisive snap."I'll have the documents prepared for your review."
"Should I have my own lawyer look at them?"
"That's entirely your prerogative, though I should mention that European marriage law is quite specialized.Most American lawyers wouldn't be familiar with the intricacies involved."His smile was perfectly pleasant and somehow unsettling."But of course, the choice is yours."
After he left, I escaped the drawing room and wandered through the palace corridors, feeling like a kid playing dress-up in her mother's closet.Everything about this place screamed money and tradition and centuries of people who knew exactly which fork to use for what.I was Betty from Oregon who put ketchup on mac and cheese and considered flip-flops appropriate footwear for most occasions.
The smell of something amazing led me toward what had to be the kitchen.My stomach growled, reminding me that I'd barely touched the formal breakfast laid out in the dining room.Apparently, there was a proper way to eat croissants that didn't involve tearing them apart with my hands like some kind of pastry savage.Who knew?
I pushed through a set of swinging doors and entered what looked like the command center of a five-star restaurant.Copper pots hung from ceiling racks, professional-grade appliances covered every surface, and the whole space hummed with organized activity.This was the kind of kitchen where Gordon Ramsay would feel right at home, probably yelling at someone about risotto.
"You must be the princess."
I turned to see a man in his forties wearing chef's whites and an expression of mild amusement.He was stocky and bearded, with the kind of hands that suggested he actually used them for work rather than just gesturing elegantly at things.
"Just Betty, please.And you must be the person responsible for whatever smells incredible in here."
"Chef Auguste Moreau," he said with a slight bow that managed to be respectful without being mocking."And you look like someone who could use actual food instead of whatever decorative nonsense they served you this morning."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Madame, I have been cooking for royalty for fifteen years.I know the look of someone who is slowly starving on haute cuisine."He moved to the stove and began assembling something that looked like heaven on a plate."Sit.Eat.Tell me what disaster occurred in etiquette class today."
I perched on a stool at the counter and watched him work."How did you know about etiquette class?"
"Palace walls have ears.Also, Madame Delacroix looked like she needed a very strong drink when she passed through here ten minutes ago.Possibly several."
The plate he set in front of me contained what had to be the most perfect omelet ever created, filled with herbs and cheese, and accompanied by bread that was still steaming from the oven.I took a bite and actually groaned with pleasure.
