Even as he said the words, Ari could sense Francesca rejecting them. This was all so new to her—too new. She had no way of knowing that it was new to him as well. Ari quickly scanned the far side of the table. Emmaline, Nicki and Lauren all gazed at Francesca with nothing but love in their eyes—love and perhaps a few more tears. She would get no judgment there.
His father and mother watched from the end of the table, but it was his father’s face that seemed more strained than his mother’s, his gaze not on Ari but also on Francesca as she so painfully tried to convince an entire room of her unworthiness, when she’d already proven herself over and over in their minds without even trying.
Finally, he glanced at Cyril, whose opinion he wanted not for any reason that would stop him, but to guide how he should proceed. Of all the Crown’s advisors, Cyril was the most shrewd. He had the ear of the council and he had the pulse of the people. He would know exactly how far Ari could push the acceptance of the nation, and when he should pull back. Ari knew he could not live without Francesca—not now, not ever. But neither would he subject her to a scrutiny that would cause her to cry such tears again. Never would he ever permit her to be in such danger again as she’d faced from his own countrymen. If Cyril disapproved…
His mentor gave him the smallest nod. He could proceed however he wanted.
Ari’s heart expanded in his chest and quickly he turned back to Francesca. He reached out and quieted her hands, which were shredding the tissue she’d pulled from the box to a fine pile of snow.
“What is it you would have of me, Francesca?” he asked, and her eyes met his, blinking in confusion.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do,” he said, shaking his head. “This is not simply a question of me choosing you. If you were to come to Garronia and live with me, your life and your identity would change, again and again.” He smiled as she furrowed her brow. “To one set of constituents, you would have to be a loving mother figure, helping them to teach their children to grow tall and strong, the pride of Garronia. To another you would have to hold their hands like you held mine, in sickness, in loss, and in the sorrow they would feel when their children or their husbands or their grandmothers die. To one set of diplomats you would be laughing and filled with joy on the event of a wedding or an anniversary, to another you would be serious, for their country is at war. You would have breakfast with your enemies and dinner with your allies, and they might be the same people on a given day. It is not a life that many could manage. It is a life perhaps best led by someone who knows the value of understanding who people most need her to be.”
“Ari, what are you saying?” Francesca whispered, but he wasn’t finished yet.
“And then there would be the obligations you would face with me, handling my work, my position, the demands of my time. I would travel—sometimes with you, sometimes without. I would tell you all that I could, but that would not be everything, not always. Yet I would need you to be that same woman who sat next to me on the wind-swept ridge, not saying anything, not doing anything, but simply allowing me to suffer, allowing me to heal, allowing me to become the man that I most have to become in order to be a success at my work. It’s a great deal to ask of anyone, but I’m asking it of you, a total stranger to me before this week—yet someone I feel I’ve known my entire life. I want you to be my wife, Francesca. If you’ll have me.”
By this point, Francesca was staring at him. “You can’t possibly be asking me that,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, so low that no one else would ordinarily be able to hear her, if the entire room wasn’t sitting forward in their seats, hanging on every word.
“I’m not asking you, Francesca,” he said. But before she could glance away he held her fingers tightly, lifting them to his chest as he dropped to one knee. “I’m begging you. On bended knee, I’m pleading with you to live your life with me, to be my wife, the princess of Garronia and one day her queen, one day the mother of our children if we might be so blessed. I want nothing more than for you to hold my hand in sickness and in health and never let go, never let me face the world alone again but always with you by my side, bringing me laughter in times of sorrow, peace in times of pain. I’m asking you to let me care for you too, to love you with my whole heart, to protect you with every force at my disposal and help you be the woman you most want to be. To show me each broken, hurting part of you and let me try to help make it whole, and to accept who and what I am as I accept who and what you are, both of us imperfect but together…together something more. Something more that I want to explore with you, Francesca, you and only you.”
Francesca tried to speak, she truly did, but her mouth was trembling so much that it seemed she couldn’t form any words. Ari took pity on her and squeezed her hands again, letting her catch her breath. “I’m asking you Francesca Simmons, Frannie Lambert, and anyone you have ever been, anyone you will ever be—I’m asking you if you would marry me,” he said softly.
“Yes,” Francesca said, the word far more than a half-sob now, and one that was echoed by other sobs, deeper in the room. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Aristotle Andris. If you’ll have me.”
He grinned as her mascara finally lost the battle with the saltwater of her tears, pulling another tissue to dash away the streaking lines from her beautiful, perfect face. “I’ll have you, Francesca,” he whispered. “And I’ll never let you go.”
He leaned down to kiss her trembling lips but softly, then rested his forehead against hers. When he looked up again, the girls were all leaning together in some kind of complex group hug, his men were grinning—even the stoic Stefan—and his parents were no longer looking at him, but caught into an embrace all their own, their arms wrapped around each other so tightly it was as if they were fashioned from birth to be a matched set.
When he glanced again at Cyril, he found himself unaccountably tensing again, though the advisor had already given his approval.
But Cyril was watching Francesca, an expression on his face unlike any Ari had ever seen. He positively beamed, staring at her, and in that expression Ari realized that of everyone in this room save his own parents, he’d known Cyril the longest. The curmudgeonly counselor had been there when he’d been three years old and had helped him ride his first pony. He’d been there when Ari had fallen off the church wall—where he shouldn’t have been playing at all. He’d stood by silent and watchful through every step of Ari’s life, from childhood to rebellious teen to junior statesman, and he’d never ever smiled…not like this. Not ever like this.
Cyril, sensing Ari’s focus, shifted his gaze to him and tempered his expression only slightly. “You’ve chosen well, Aristotle,” he said in Garronois. “When the time comes, the people of Garronia will stand with you both. Your beautiful, extraordinary Francesca will make a most excellent queen.”
24
Fran watched Nicki running up from the water, her body soaked but her smile undimmed as she crashed out of the waves with her newest windsurfing board. Beyond her, remaining upright on his board, Stefan laughed and called to her, beckoning her back into the sea.
They were on the Royal Beach in Garronia, in a special cordoned off section dedicated to one of the posh hotels, but no additional security was immediately obvious. Despite Ari’s declaration of a few days ago—which Fran still couldn’t quite believe—everyone agreed that they should wait on formal announcements until Queen Catherine discussed the matter with all her closest friends in the elite social circles of Garronia. With two American women set to be future royalty, it was going to cause a stir.
Neither Fran nor Emmaline had much stir left in them.
She looked over to where Emmaline lay now, her hair and face covered by an enormous hat and cat eye sunglasses, and her body encased in a responsible one-piece swimsuit. She’d slathered herself with sunscreen but had balked at Kristos’s suggestion of a tent on the beach. It was only a matter of time before she’d be recognized wherever she went, she’d argued. She wanted to get sun while she could.
On Fran’s other side, Lauren let out a luxurious sigh, stretching out on a blanket-laden chaise. A cooler full of iced drinks lay at her elbow, and she ignored both the business and style magazines she’d brought down with her. Instead she held her hand to her brow, staring out over the open water. “So, Fran—or Emmaline, this might be on you. I think you should insist that the Garronia National Security Force do water maneuvers every time we decide to go sunbathing. Because seriously, this is better than HBO.”
Fran shifted her gaze from Nicki and Stefan to where Dimitri led a team of men into the surf until they were chest high, then ordered them to turn around and beat him out of the water. The churning result of gorgeously built men and splashing water really did look like something from late night cable, and Fran noted that Dimitri won nearly every competition, except for when he was tackled or otherwise fouled by Kristos.
Kristos had returned to the ranks of the GNSF as dawn had broken the morning after the royal ball, and Emmaline watched him now as he bedeviled Dimitri in ever new and inventive ways. “If he pulls down Dimitri’s trunks, he’ll never forgive him,” Emmaline said, as Dimitri spun away from Kristos a third time.
“If he pulls down Dimitri’s trunks, I’m selling it toUS Weekly,” Lauren retorted, pulling out her phone. “Nobody tell him, okay?”
Fran leaned back in her chair. “So, uh, Lauren, you know we expect you to take us on vacation next year, too, right?”
Emmaline straightened. “Yes!” she said. “I already suggested to Kristos that you could build a new business as a travel planner. When you consider your unanticipated success rate for this trip, I’d think you’d be booked out for three years.”
