I knew I was about to piss him off, but I couldn’t help myself. I turned on my best New Yorker accent. “What, are you sayin’ there’s something wrong with the way I dress?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Bronson replied, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice. He turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the room.
“Don’t mind him, Birdie.” Vince sounded tired.
“He doesn’t respond well to humor, does he?”
“That he does not.” Vince smiled. “Given how well I know Oliver, Bronson entrusted me to choose the woman we would sponsor. But now that I have chosen an American, he is feeling the pressure and, per usual, questioning everything I do.”
“The pressure?”
“To have you be chosen. You may have picked up on this, but Bronson is hyper fixated on image and status. He feels that the positive press and accolades that would come from assisting in finding our queen would be a boon to our family legacy.”
I flushed, realizing that there was more riding on my being there than I had previously thought. I hadn’t considered the ways in which my participation in this nonsense could affect Vince and his family, even if I personally might not understand them.
Our conversation was cut short as Bronson reentered the room, followed by a short, squat man in a green velvet jacket and four lithe assistants. The man in the velvet jacket introduced himself with a flourish as Clarence. “I will be helping you to stun the prince.”
Before I knew it, the assistants were unfolding a screen and rolling in racks of gowns. One by one, dresses were shoved into my hands as I was shuffled behind the screen to change. Some dresses elicited a furrowed brow and a shake of the head from Clarence, while others prompted a quick snap of his fingers, leading the assistants to adjust hemlines, mark where the bodices needed to be taken in or let out, and, at more than one point, adjust my cleavage to their apparent liking.
When I had tried on what felt like a hundred dresses, Clarence approached, pulling my chestnut hair out of itsponytail. It fell just past my shoulders. He inspected the ends, then peered closely at my face.
“Well. At least we don’t have any split ends to contend with, although those eyebrows need some cleaning up.” He snapped his fingers again, and I was rushed into a chair, where I received an eyebrow wax and had some kind of mud mask applied to my face.
Now I know how Mia Thermopolis felt,I thought.
Bronson and Vince, who had disappeared while I was poked and prodded and pinned, returned as one of the assistants finished wiping the mask from my face.
“Bernadette. Are you familiar with any of the royal customs? Have you ever met royalty before?” Bronson asked.
“I once spotted Beyoncé at a Starbucks in Brooklyn, does that count?”
Bronson rolled his eyes. Vince let a half-grin slide across his face, his dimple appearing.
“Your quick remarks and less-than-serious attitude will not get you far in this courtship. You should take this seriously. This isn’t an American beauty pageant; this is the prince’s hand in marriage,” Bronson lectured.
I sobered. “I apologize, Bronson. I assure you I am taking this seriously,” I promised. As much as I already enjoyed getting under Bronson’s skin, I reminded myself that he was going out on a limb for me. My talent for quick comebacks and laughing things off may have helped me when I was being teased by the popular kids in junior high for my second-hand jeans and braces, but I would need to rein it in when I met the rest of the royal family.
“When you enter the royal palace, you will be led to the grand ballroom. At dinner, you are not allowed to sit until the royal family sits,” Bronson continued. “As you are not a citizen of Wexstone, you are not required to curtsy when meeting theroyal family, but it is a sign of respect should you wish to do so.” His eyes narrowed. “People will be watching you extra carefully, so it would do you well to go above and beyond in niceties.”
“Ok. Not sitting until they sit, curtsy when I shake their hands.”
“No shaking!” Bronson exclaimed, panic in his voice. “You willplaceyour hand in theirs if offered. Donotshake.”
“No shaking,” I repeated. “Got it. How do I address them? That’s what I’m most nervous about. Is it Your Highness? King? Queen? Majesty?”
“When you meet the king and queen for the first time, address them as Your Majesty. For other members of the royal family, address them as Your Highness or Your Royal Highness. After the first time you speak to them, it is acceptable to address them as sir or ma’am.” Bronson glanced at his watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I have other duties to attend to. Clarence, I will see you and your team out. Bernadette, they will be back tomorrow to help you prepare for the gala. Vincent, please continue educating our guest.”
Bronson led Clarence and his assistants out of the room. The door clicked closed behind them.
I collapsed onto the velvet loveseat, thoroughly exhausted. My mind was swimming. Vince lowered himself into the adjacent armchair. He crossed his legs and tilted his head, looking at me with amusement.
“I take it you are tired?” he asked.
I laughed. “Between jet lag and”—I gestured vaguely at spot where my makeover had just taken place—“all of that…yeah, you could say that. Your brother is a lot. Has he always been so…strung up?”
“Bronson is intense. Our mother passed away shortly after I was born, and it changed him. He only knows how to thrivethrough control and order. I think that has only worsened since our father died last year.”
I felt a pang in my chest. Maybe I should give Bronson a break.
