The quartet began softly playing a song I hadn’t heard before. As I looked around, I saw a few of the guests, including Vince, mouthing words I couldn’t hear. I could only assume this must be their national anthem.
The doors opened, ushering in the royal family of Wexstone. The king and queen entered first, their hands clasped.
King Leroy was a handsome man; I could see where Prince Oliver got his chiseled jaw and light eyes. His salt-and-pepper hair was more salt than pepper these days, but he pulled it off well. He was tall and barrel chested, still in great shape for a man in his sixties. His ramrod-straight spine and precise movements indicated that he had been a military man; he carried himself well and with authority.
Queen Isobel had clearly been a knockout in her youth—hell, she was still a knockout. Her hair was twisted into an intricate updo upon which sat a glimmering crown. The sapphires and emeralds glittered against her rich, red hair as her white gown flowed behind her on a phantom wind. I suddenly understood why people were infatuated with royalty; there truly was an air of something special about them.
The king and queen continued their procession into the room. As they passed, men bowed, and women curtsied. I made a mental note to thank Vince and Bronson (well, maybe just Vince—I wouldn’t want Bronson to let it go to his head)for making me practice my curtsy earlier.
Prince Oliver followed just behind his parents. He looked so prestigious in his tuxedo and royal blue sash hung with atleast a dozen different medals. I wondered if they weighed heavily on his shoulders.
There was a man walking beside Prince Oliver who I assumed must be his older brother, Xavier. I could certainly understand why this man had women and men falling over themselves. He had a full head of copper hair like his mother’s and a beard that covered the same strong jaw that I saw on his father. The sash across his chest held more medals than Prince Oliver’s and was a deep green.
But what took me aback were the tattoos covering his hands and neck. Prince Oliver was the only royal I had seen in person before now, but I didn’t think most would find it acceptable for a prince to have so many visible tattoos. Xavier carried himself with an air of defiance. The papers were right: he did look like a rebel.
The royal family moved closer to our end of the line. My nerves set in as I mentally walked through my curtsy. My legs started to tingle. Was this normal or was I about to keel over?It’s just nerves. It’s just nerves. You’re fine, this is fine. Just bend at the knee. The lower you go, the more respect you’re showing. Get it together, Birdie, you spent years ice skating competitively. This is simple. You’ve got this.
The procession was now in front of us and Bronson bent at the waist. Forget stuffy and stiff—the man looked like he did yoga five days a week with his swift, flexible bow.
I reached for the sides of my gown, pulling them out so I wouldn’t step or fall on them. I dipped my head, curtsying as low as I could. I needed the royal family and the people of Wexstone to see how much I respected them.
As they passed by, I made eye contact with Prince Oliver and swore that I saw his cheek raise in a slight smile. Dang, was he really that happy that I was here?
Princess Rosalind and Queen Mother Evelyn walked sideby side just behind the princes. Princess Rosalind looked beautiful in champagne tulle and silk. She held herself so well for her age; you could she had been doing this for her entire life. The smile pasted on her face didn’t quite reach her eyes, though.
Atap, tap, tapcaught my attention, and I raised my eyes a bit to see Queen Mother Evelyn walking by with her cane, on top of which sat a large onyx stone. It caught the light, contrasting with her silver dress.
Just as my curtsy was starting to wane, the guests in the receiving line stood to their full height like a wave at a stadium game. I followed the rest of the guests’ gazes to see that the royal family had taken their places at the head table.
As they sat, the guests transitioned to their own seats. I followed suit, walking close behind Vince and Bronson as they led us to a table. I tried not to feel overwhelmed by the fine china and the amount of cutlery laid before me as Vince pulled out my chair. I thought of the scene inTitanicwhere Kathy Bates’s character tells Leo DiCaprio’s Jack to “start from the outside and work your way in” with the cutlery and said a quick prayer of thanks for my childhood obsession with that movie.
“Bernadette, may I introduce you to Lord Collins and Lady Laurel of House Lewellen,” Vince motioned to the couple sitting to his right. “They are very involved in the lumber production and conservation here in Wexstone.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” I smiled, inclining my head toward them.
“And you. How are you liking Wexstone so far?” Lord Collins asked.
“It’s absolutely beautiful. I am so happy to be here.”
“This must be a culture shock compared to New York,” Lady Laurel said kindly.
“That’s an understatement,” I laughed. “This is definitely a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
After finishing the five-course meal, I wasn’t sure if I could stand, let alone dance along with the rest of the young guests now relocating to the center of the room. As I was trying to determine my next move, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“May I sit down?”
I knew that voice. I looked up to find Prince Oliver standing with his hand on the back of my chair.
“Do you really need permission, Your Royal Highness?” I asked, winking.
“I always ask for permission,” he winked back.
I nodded my head to Bronson’s now-empty seat on my left. “How is your night going?” I inquired as he sat.
“Quite well, aside from suffocating in this tux.”
Suffocating, suffocatingly handsome, same thing.
