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 mywife.
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. Tonot 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 itlooks 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.”
