not—"
Her hand shot up to stop him in midsentence. If she were the fainting type, those words would have brought on a spell. Mercifully, he didn't find the need to lay it all out in words. She'd entertained thoughts along those lines during their ride this morning, but not since being informed that they had to get married.
On the stairs, he grinned and held out his elbow for her. "Yes, I think you understand."
She declined his arm and ascended without him. "If we were to get married—" she left no room for doubt about that not happening in this lifetime "—even children don't take up that much room."
He kept pace with her. "Oh, but they will need quite large apartments as they reach adulthood."
"Apartments?"
"Yes. Mine is thirty rooms. They will each have—"
"Wait. Stop. Let me get this straight. You live in a thirty-room apartment in this castle?"
"If you find it too small, I shall have it enlarged."
"I won't even see it."
"Very well. There is a nice apartment that I hope you will like. It is near mine."
The better to annoy you, my dear. A blaring stereo, perhaps, would be a good start.
"It is smaller, though. Only twenty-five rooms."
Chloe couldn't help herself; she laughed. The poor man hadn't a clue how much American ingenuity she possessed.
Yet.
Another car pulled up behind the one they'd just exited.
"Ah, your clothes have arrived. Good. You will be able to dress in time."
"In time for what?"
"Dinner."
Inside the entry hall, she gave up trying not to look like a tourist. Let William think she had a short-term memory if he wanted. As long as she had to be here, she was going to enjoy her prison. Much larger than her father's, the entry had a black-and-white marble floor, so highly polished that it appeared no one ever walked on it. On the wall were two large, dark portraits. She stepped closer to them and searched her memory for facts she'd learned long ago in Art Appreciation.
"Rembrandt?" she whispered reverently.
"Yes. I thought they belonged here rather than lost among the others in the east gallery."
They had his eyes, the men in those two paintings, though William's were warmer and twinkled with his sense of humor. The same straight nose, though they were looking down theirs as if they were gods and she were lower than a peon. William was obstinate about the marriage agreement he'd made with King Albert, but he hadn't stooped to looking down his royal nose at her.
Good thing, too. Of course, that might be because he thought she was as royal as he.
Even if she hadn't been raised in foster homes, she couldn't have imagined her ancestors ever having portraits done of themselves, much less by Rembrandt.
William spoke with his secretary, then returned to Chloe's side. "Leonard will have someone here shortly to show you to your apartment. Dinner with the prim minister is in one hour."
The prime minister?
She needed Emma sooner than she'd thought. Chloe hadn't a clue what a princess wore to dinner in the neighboring king's castle, with or without a prime minister in attendance. It was Emma's job to tell her what Moira would already know, like how to address the man, what kind of small talk to make—all stuff that had not been covered in any of Chloe's years of college courses. For heaven's sake, she didn't even know whether she—as Moira—had ever met the man before. For all she knew, he might be another old family friend.
She debated faking a headache, but there was no need. Her head was positively spinning. She had no choice but to put her foot down until Emma returned.
* * *
"Excuse me," William begged of the prime minister. "I must check on Her Royal Highness."
It was the stupidest excuse he had ever offered. Hell, it might have been the only excuse he had ever uttered, but he wanted Moira present —now—and he knew he was not going to get his wish unless he retrieved her himself. She had already told Leonard she could not make it tonight, and Leonard had also reported
Her hand shot up to stop him in midsentence. If she were the fainting type, those words would have brought on a spell. Mercifully, he didn't find the need to lay it all out in words. She'd entertained thoughts along those lines during their ride this morning, but not since being informed that they had to get married.
On the stairs, he grinned and held out his elbow for her. "Yes, I think you understand."
She declined his arm and ascended without him. "If we were to get married—" she left no room for doubt about that not happening in this lifetime "—even children don't take up that much room."
He kept pace with her. "Oh, but they will need quite large apartments as they reach adulthood."
"Apartments?"
"Yes. Mine is thirty rooms. They will each have—"
"Wait. Stop. Let me get this straight. You live in a thirty-room apartment in this castle?"
"If you find it too small, I shall have it enlarged."
"I won't even see it."
"Very well. There is a nice apartment that I hope you will like. It is near mine."
The better to annoy you, my dear. A blaring stereo, perhaps, would be a good start.
"It is smaller, though. Only twenty-five rooms."
Chloe couldn't help herself; she laughed. The poor man hadn't a clue how much American ingenuity she possessed.
Yet.
Another car pulled up behind the one they'd just exited.
"Ah, your clothes have arrived. Good. You will be able to dress in time."
"In time for what?"
"Dinner."
Inside the entry hall, she gave up trying not to look like a tourist. Let William think she had a short-term memory if he wanted. As long as she had to be here, she was going to enjoy her prison. Much larger than her father's, the entry had a black-and-white marble floor, so highly polished that it appeared no one ever walked on it. On the wall were two large, dark portraits. She stepped closer to them and searched her memory for facts she'd learned long ago in Art Appreciation.
"Rembrandt?" she whispered reverently.
"Yes. I thought they belonged here rather than lost among the others in the east gallery."
They had his eyes, the men in those two paintings, though William's were warmer and twinkled with his sense of humor. The same straight nose, though they were looking down theirs as if they were gods and she were lower than a peon. William was obstinate about the marriage agreement he'd made with King Albert, but he hadn't stooped to looking down his royal nose at her.
Good thing, too. Of course, that might be because he thought she was as royal as he.
Even if she hadn't been raised in foster homes, she couldn't have imagined her ancestors ever having portraits done of themselves, much less by Rembrandt.
William spoke with his secretary, then returned to Chloe's side. "Leonard will have someone here shortly to show you to your apartment. Dinner with the prim minister is in one hour."
The prime minister?
She needed Emma sooner than she'd thought. Chloe hadn't a clue what a princess wore to dinner in the neighboring king's castle, with or without a prime minister in attendance. It was Emma's job to tell her what Moira would already know, like how to address the man, what kind of small talk to make—all stuff that had not been covered in any of Chloe's years of college courses. For heaven's sake, she didn't even know whether she—as Moira—had ever met the man before. For all she knew, he might be another old family friend.
She debated faking a headache, but there was no need. Her head was positively spinning. She had no choice but to put her foot down until Emma returned.
* * *
"Excuse me," William begged of the prime minister. "I must check on Her Royal Highness."
It was the stupidest excuse he had ever offered. Hell, it might have been the only excuse he had ever uttered, but he wanted Moira present —now—and he knew he was not going to get his wish unless he retrieved her himself. She had already told Leonard she could not make it tonight, and Leonard had also reported
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