“Ja,” I say softly. Bending down, I whisper in her ear. “Your dress is really killing me right now. I’m imagining that it would look so nice on my bedroom floor.”
“Stellan!” she admonishes me. Then her lips twitch. “I guess you really aren’t mad at me.”
“You wouldn’t be here if I was.” I straighten up as one of my father’s cabinet comes into view. “Ah, shit. There is a man over there that I would rather avoid, if I can. Let’s keep moving.”
Margot lets me guide her into the next room, which is just more of the same thing. Light gray walls, with photographs centered ten feet apart. I flag down a waitress and get her a glass of champagne.
For her part, she seems to pay less attention to the art hanging on the walls than the glamorous people in fancy dresses and swanky suits strolling around. She’s unusually closemouthed, which makes me even more curious.
“I can’t help but wonder what you’re thinking,” I say.
She breaks away from her hawk-eyed gaze over the gallery patrons and flushes. “I guess I’m just… absorbing. I had never considered before today that maybe people just live like this. The parties and galas, the freshly pressed suits and fancy dresses…”
“You realize that you are wearing a ballgown, do you not? You’re actually a little bit better dressed than almost everyone else here.”
She gives me a tiny glare. “This is a rented dress, Stellan. I’m definitely Cinderella in this scenario, trying to fit in at the ball.”
I smirk. “Do you have singing mice to dress you?”
“No, but I’ve got Pippa.” She rolls her eyes. “I just… I’m wondering if all billionaires and millionaires are so… hands off. That’s what I was thinking, to answer your question.”
“Ah. Well… in my family, the answer is definitely no. My mother is very active in her charitable work, most of which involves spending a lot of time with HIV and AIDS patients. My sister Annika is really devoted to working with the NATO peacekeepers. She’s gone for a month at a time, advocating on their behalf. Finn spends a good deal of time working with refugees in Spain and Portugal. Anders is worried about feeding the entire world…” I shake my head. “Everyone that I know has their causes that they support and work toward.”
She frowns. “But not you?”
“Uhh, no. I mean, I have events like this. I’m a major patron of so many museums and I sit on the board of tons of charities… but when it comes down to it, I just have the crown to worry about. Trust me, it’s plenty.”
Her eyes meet mine briefly before she glances away. “I see.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Do you?”
She nods, screwing up her face briefly. “Actually, yeah. I can imagine that it’s an all-encompassing thing. As it should be, I guess. I mean… in the United States, we have the president. And they have to be on call twenty four hours a day, seven days a week while they’re in office. I can’t imagine that being the king of Denmark is any different… and that’sfor life.”
Making a face, I nod. “Ja, that’s about the size of it.”
She squeezes my arm. “Wanna get out of here for a while? I mean, as long as you are avoiding people…”
I smirk. “I can give you about half an hour. Then people will start to notice my absence, I think.”
She grins, mischief lighting her eyes. “Take a walk on the wild side, Prince Stellan. Be bad.”
I roll my eyes. “Please. Nobody does bad the way royals do it, okay?”
“Mm.” Her eyes dart around the room, spying a partially hidden door. “Let’s see where that one goes.”
I let her pull me along after her, slipping out the door and into the shadows of the museum after nightfall. Margot slides her small hand into mine and pulls me down the hall.
I would be lying if I said that feeling her warm skin against mine wasn’t as exciting as our escape from the gallery benefit. I try to remind myself that I can’t actually like this girl… I shouldn’t even be here, letting her pull me into a darkened gallery.
But I don’t do anything to stop her. I’m not entirely sure I could if I wanted to. She turns the light switches on, a spotlight falling on her and throwing her into profile.
She glances at me, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Pick a painting.” She motions to a couple of paintings. “And look at it for a minute. Then tell me how it makes youfeel.”
“You had me sneak away from the party to critique art?” I ask.
Margot cocks her head, tugging at my elbow. “It’s important to look at things and process how we feel about them. Art is all about making that process happen in a safe space. Sometimes what you see intentionally invokes emotion; sometimes it’s a more…” She pauses to find the right word. “Internal process, I guess.”
She pulls me over to one painting. It looks vaguely familiar. It’s small, probably only two feet by three. Hanging in a simple silver frame, it’s an enormous field of what looks like wheat, all in oranges and yellows. There is a lone figure cutting the wheat in the far corner. Overhead, a light green sky overshadows the mountains.
