Текст книги "Prince Albert"

Автор книги: Sabrina Paige

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CHAPTER SIX

Belle

 

I’m hiding out in my room.  Room is an incredible understatement.  I'm staying in one of the family residences in the palace – a huge suite the size of an apartment, with a ridiculous walk-in closet, filled with designer clothes and shoes that are all my size.  It's everything you'd expect from a palace – opulent beyond belief, antique furniture and wine-colored fabrics and gold-gilded accessories.

I slept like the dead last night, longer than I’ve slept in years.  And I’ve spent all day holed up in my room, doing my best to pretend none of this is actually happening.

I’ve avoided everything on the agenda today.

There is literally an agenda – an actual program, like you’d get at a wedding or a graduation.  It’s printed on delicate cream-colored paper and embossed with the royal crest in the background.

I wonder if they do this every day, whether if they pass out an itinerary, a schedule of events to be adhered to, expectations to be met.

It’s completely and utterly ridiculous.

This entire thing is ludicrous.

I’m not a princess, not even close.  Sure, I’m a Kensington – my family's name is recognizable in certain circles – but I'm nowhere near being royalty.

My father was the child of Polish immigrants who changed their family name from Kedzierski to Kensington when they arrived in America.  Oliver Kensington started working when he was eight, a shoeshine business on a New York sidewalk before going to school in the mornings.  He made his first million dollars before he was twenty.  By then, it was real estate, not shoe shining.

My mother was his high school sweetheart.  When I was a kid, I remember them having late night candlelit dinners every Friday night in our living room.  Sometimes it would be after an event – charity or business something-or-other – and sometimes there was no event at all.  I'd sneak out of my room and hide around the corner, watching them as they held hands and my mother giggled like a schoolgirl, talking to him.

"You get one great love in life, kiddo," he told me once.  "If you're lucky.  So you have to make it count.  Remember that."

Everything changed after my father died.  My mother threw herself into charities, social functions, her status.  She dived into advancing the Kensington name.  I thought it was her way of remembering him, but at some point all of that stuff became an end in and of itself.

Of course, becoming a queen is the ultimate position of status.

I can’t imagine growing up in a place like this.  It’s a million times more rigid and fraught with expectations than my life ever was.  I’d almost feel badly for Albie – if he didn’t seem to enjoy all of it so much.

I spent all morning surfing the internet and getting the scoop on Albie.  There’s a lot of scoop to be had on Albie, too – hundreds of magazine articles, photos taken with telescope lenses of he and whatever girl-of-the-minute he was with, the gossip about his bedroom exploits.

I don’t know how in the world I didn’t recognize him in Vegas.  He’s as famous as the British princes, maybe even more so – a bad boy whose ridiculous antics make headlines around the world.

After he got a Prince Albert – yeah, that kind of piercing – he showed the press.  Literally.  The crown prince of Protrovia dropped his pants and let the press take a thousand photos of it.  A photo of him, shit-eating grin on his face, proudly displaying his new piercing – black bar censoring the royal dick – was plastered on all the major gossip magazines around the world.

PRINCE ALBERT SHOWS OFF HIS PRINCE ALBERT!

 

ROYAL DICK EXPOSED!  GET THE UNCENSORED PHOTOS THE ROYAL FAMILY DOESN’T WANT YOU TO SEE!

 

It only made him more popular with the press.  But not with his father, apparently.  The next major magazine articles, two months later, announced that Albie would be doing his “royal duty” and serving in the army.

The royal dick…

I refrained from searching for the uncensored versions of the photos, even though even now the thought sends a surge of heat flowing through my body that’s so intense it nearly takes my breath away.

I blame my stupid, traitorous body for thinking Albie is hot.  Because more importantly, he's a pretentious, arrogant dickhead.

If you don’t want to stick around for the fireworks this summer…

I can’t stick around here for the summer, pretending to be a princess.

I don’t want to stick around here for the summer.  Not under the same roof as Albie.

That night in Vegas, when we were driving around in the limo, Albie didn’t touch me.  Not once.

He didn’t have to.  The things that came out of his mouth – just like the things he said to me in the hallway yesterday – were enough to leave me practically writhing.

I told myself it was because I hadn’t been with anyone but Derek twice in the past two years, during visits at Christmas.  Not even when I saw Derek when I came home from Africa, right before the Vegas trip.

I should have known things were over when I saw him.  A reasonable person would have realized it – in retrospect, it seems obvious.  He said he was too stressed out because of a big case at the firm.

So it’s been a while.

It’s been forever.

I told myself that was why I was practically crawling out of my skin when I was sitting in the back of that limo with Albie.  And when he kissed me…

“You may kiss this hunk-a…,” Fake Elvis’ voice seems to fade into the background as I look at Albie, trying to stifle my giggle.

Albie steps close to me, and I breathe in sharply at his proximity.  Even through my tequila haze, I’ve never seen any man more beautiful than this one.  “It was just a dare,” I say, my voice soft.  “We don’t have to –“

He cuts me off before I can speak another word, his arm sliding across my lower back and drawing me to him in one swift, hard movement.  When he brings his mouth down on mine, the world stops.  Everything in the universe pauses.

I’ve never been kissed the way he kisses me.  He kisses me with an intensity that takes my breath away, his tongue finding mine hungrily, and I melt against him.

It’s the kind of kiss that demands more.

It’s the kind of kiss that demands everything.

I think I let out a moan that is completely inappropriate for a wedding chapel, even one in Vegas with an Elvis impersonator.  The fact that I’m so swept away by Albie sends a pang of fear through me, and I break away.  I look at him, my fingers touching my lips, still swollen from his kiss.

“Just a dare,” I repeat.

But the way my hands tremble, the way this kiss has shaken me to my core, says it’s not as simple as just a dare.

I shake off the memory.  I try to shake off the feeling it leaves with me, the goose bumps that dot my arms at the thought of his lips pressed against mine, his tongue finding my tongue.  I try to forget the thrill that rushed through me at his touch.

He was deceptive.  He could have told me he was a prince.

He’s a playboy.

He’s definitely no good.

And he’s my new stepbrother.  That fact alone makes him off-limits.

I can still feel his lips against mine.  How fucked up is that?

It’s even more reason for me to leave.

The knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts and I jump, immediately feeling guilty for sitting here thinking of Albie the way I’ve been thinking about him.  I clear my throat.  “Yes?”

I swear to all that is holy, if it’s Albie at the door, I’ll kill him.  He seems to have a way of turning up at the most inopportune times, and an uncanny knack for being able to read my thoughts.

And the thoughts I’ve been having about him are certainly not ones I want read.

“Are you going to hide out in here all summer, or what?” Alexandra stands just inside the doorway, her hand on her hip, glaring at me.  She’s still dressed in her t-shirt and jeans, and she twirls a piece of jet-black hair, laced with colored strands – pink and lime green – around her fingers as she surveys me.

“I was thinking that might be nice,” I say.  “At least until I find my passport.”

“You’re going to leave?” she asks.  She sounds simultaneously accusing and disappointed, and I don’t know what to make of her.  I’m not sure if she wants to be friends with me, or if she hates me on sight.

I cross the room to sit on the bed.  “You can come inside, you know,” I say.  “If you want, I mean.”

Walking inside the room, she looks around.  “I haven’t been in here in a while,” she says.  “I forgot how stuffy these guest residences are.  You’re not the stuffy type, the kind of girl that goes for all of this.”

“Thanks,” I say.  I think it’s a compliment, although I’m not quite sure about her, especially considering her reaction to my broken engagement earlier.  To describe her reaction as gleeful would be an understatement.

She has her back turned to me, looking at one of the paintings on the wall.  “All this shit,” she says.  “You know this painting is worth like a million dollars.  It’s practically a museum in here.  You should definitely redo it, if you stay.”

A million dollars. I’m afraid to touch anything.

Alexandra turns around, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and I notice a lip piercing I didn’t see before.  Maybe she takes it out for special events – like engagement announcements sprung on her new stepsister.  “I’m sorry I was a bitch before,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact.  “About you not getting married, I mean.”

I shrug.  “It’s pretty scandalous, I guess.”

“I’m usually the one disappointing my father,” she says.  “It was nice to not be the center of a scandal, for once.  That sounds terribly selfish, I’m sure.”

I can understand not wanting to be the center of gossip.  “It must be hard being in the spotlight all the time.”

She cocks her head when she looks at me.  “It’s about to be your turn, you know,” she says.  “Your whole life is going to be torn apart.”

Her words send a pang of anxiety rushing through me.  “Did you just come here to make me feel worse?”

Shame flickers in her eyes, and she glances down at the ground.  “I didn’t,” she says.  “Shit.  I mean, sorry.  Sometimes I – I’m too blunt.”

Her phone buzzes, and she slides her thumb across the screen, a look of relief crossing her face.  “I have to go,” she says, not looking at me as she walks away.

I watch the door close behind her, filled with a sense of dread.

Your whole life is going to be torn apart.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Albie

 

“It’s not a formal event.  It’s only dinner with the family.  I can dress myself, Ben, thank you,” I say, not bothering to even try to hide the edge in my voice.  A flicker of embarrassment crosses the valet’s face, and I feel badly.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t sleep well last night.”

He nods.  “I can have Doctor Evanston called, if you like, Your Highness,” he says.

“No,” I say, quickly.  Too quickly.  “It’s nothing.  It’s fine, I mean.”  It’s not nothing.  I haven’t slept well all week, not since I got back from the States.

“As you wish, Your Highness,” he says, retreating toward the door.

“Ben?” I ask.  “Were you able to find Miss Kensington’s misplaced passport?”

“Not yet, Your Highness,” he says.  “But, rest assured, I will find it.”

The idea of having Belle Kensington around the palace all summer might be entertaining, but if she really wants to go back to the States, she should.

I wonder if she’ll even be at dinner.  It’s casual tonight, according to the agenda – which really means that it’s black tie and not full dinner dress.  For me, dinner dress would mean military dress with full regalia.  This is the dinner engagement announcement to my cousins and aunts and uncles, a small family gathering before the more public events get underway.

I walk down the hallway in the direction of one of the dining rooms, an informal one, not the formal ones used for the larger dinners.

“Alb, wait,” Alex calls, and before I can react, she’s slamming into me, swinging her arm around my shoulder.

“God, you’re a pain in the ass,” I joke, as she leans into me.  “What are you doing?  Are you coming to dinner?”

“Yah,” she says, snapping her gum loudly in my ear.  “Why are you dressing up for this bullshit, anyway?”

“Because I’m a responsible member of society,” I say, grinning.  “And a respectable member of the royal family.”

Alex wrinkles her nose at me.  “You’ve never been responsible, you lying liar,” she says.  “Don’t even try to scam me – I know the Army didn’t change you that much.  And seriously, what is with the tux?  You can’t make me the only rebel.  Who are you trying to impress?  Ohhh.”

I shake my head as her eyes go wide.  “I’m impressing no one,” I say.

“The girl,” she says, her voice a sing-song.  “Yeah, you are.  You’re trying to impress her cause she’s totally hot.”

I shrug.  “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, right,” she says, laughing.  “You noticed.  She’s your new stepsister, in case you haven’t figured that out.  That means you need to keep your dick in your pants.”

“That’s a phrase I could do without ever hearing come out of your mouth again,” I say.  “You might want to go put on something that isn’t jeans.  Maybe consider buttering our father up a little bit by actually playing by the rules, for once.  Aren’t you planning on going to Monaco?”

“So?” she asks.  “Finn’s father has a plane.”

“Yes, but aren’t you using our house in Monaco?”

Alex exhales heavily.  “Fine.  You have a point.”

“What’s that?” I ask, cupping my ear.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t hear you.  Could you say that louder, please?  Did you say I was right?”

“I liked you a lot better before you did the whole military thing, you know,” she says.  “Before, you would have shown up to dinner stoned or with a stripper on your arm.  Now you’re all about working for the man.”

“It’s called picking your battles, Alex,” I call to her back as she stomps off in the opposite direction.  “And I never brought any strippers to the palace.”

Well, I never brought any strippers to dinner at the palace.

I'm about to turn in the direction of the dining room, but I don't.  Instead, I head in the opposite direction.

Toward her room.

"Yes?" Belle asks, her voice muffled.  When I open the door, she's turned with her back toward me, her arms contorted as she tries to zip the back of her dress.  "I guess I do need help with the zipper, after all."

"I'm better at unzipping dresses than I am at zipping them up, but I'll give it a try," I say.

Belle whirls around at the sound of my voice, one of the straps of her dress sliding over the edge of her shoulder.  Shit, her and the damn straps of dresses.  It's enough to make me want to rip the fabric off her entirely.

"Oh my God, what are you doing here?" she squeals, pressing her hands to the top of her dress, and clutching the garment against her breasts.  "I thought you were the woman who was supposed to help me dress.  She just left."

"Turn around," I say, crossing the room toward her.  I know full and well that this is a bad idea.  I shouldn't be in here with her, not when the sight of her shoulder has me hard as a rock.  I swear to all that is holy, my dick is acting like I've never seen a woman’s shoulder before.

“I will not,” she says.  “You need to leave.  I’m sure you’re not supposed to be in here.  Isn’t there some kind of palace rule against this kind of th–”

She stops talking when I reach her, and I hear her inhale deeply, the sound sharp in the stillness of the room.  Her breasts rise underneath her palms, and I think about covering my hands with hers and simply moving them, causing her dress to fall to the ground in a pool at her feet.

I could do it.  It would be so easy.

And the way she’s looking at me right now, her eyes big and her pupils dilated, makes me think she would let me do exactly that.

“Some kind of what?” I ask, my voice soft.  She looks up at me with her lips slightly parted, and a sheen of gloss on them.  Even though it’s simple, the effect is somehow the most seductive thing I’ve ever seen.  “A rule against a prince welcoming his new st—”

“Do not say it,” she whispers.  “I’ll slap you.”

I look down at her hands.  “Please do,” I say.  “But use both hands.  I’d like to see that dress on the floor.”

Belle blushes.  “You have to leave.”

“Or what, luv?” I ask.  “Are you that afraid of being in the same room alone with me?  Relax.  I’m harmless.”

She laughs.  “Said the lion to the mouse.”

“Isn’t there a story about a lion and a mouse?  One where they’re friends?”

She narrows her eyes at me.  “It’s probably more like the fox in the henhouse,” she says.  “I did some reading about you.”

“Mmm,” I murmur, not sure whether to be irritated or flattered that she’s reading about my exploits – tabloid sensationalism, no doubt.  Quickly, before she can protest, I reach around her waist and spin her so that her back is to me.  Her dress falls open, revealing an expanse of bare creamy skin.

Shit, she’s not even wearing a bra.  I wonder what else she’s not wearing under that little black dress of hers.  The thought sends a rush of blood to my cock, which tents the fabric of my pants.

Fuck.  This girl is going to unravel me.

“And?” I ask, clearing my throat to cover the arousal I think must be evident in my tone.  I reach for the zipper at the base of her dress, my hand resting lightly on the small of her back, the apex of the curve of her ass.  She doesn’t move.  She doesn’t step forward or protest the way I linger there.

Maybe she’s not aware that I’m contemplating flattening my palm, running it over the curve of her ass and down her thighs, yanking up that skirt of hers.

“What did you learn about me from all your research?” I ask.

“You’re a playboy,” she says.

“Boring,” I whisper, pulling on her zipper, my other hand on the top of the fabric, guiding the zipper up, up, up her back.  “You already knew that.”

My fingertips graze her back on the way, and she shivers visibly at my touch, her head lolling to the side.  I pull the zipper farther, my lips close to her ear.

I blow lightly on her neck, scattering a few errant hairs that have come astray from her updo.  She squirms at the sensation.  “What sordid secrets of mine did you learn from your research?”

“Do you have sordid secrets?” she says softly.

“You tell me, luv.”  I trace my finger lightly across the back of her neck.  “I could.  I have one with you, in fact.  That one’s not as sordid as I’d like it to be, unfortunately.”

“You should stop…doing…that,” she says, when I trace my finger up to the baseline of her hair.  I’m two seconds away from taking the decorative pin out of her hair, this silver piece with antiqued edges that must be some relic from the palace she was told to wear, and letting the whole thing tumble down in waves.  I’m this close to unraveling her completely.

“What should I stop doing, luv?” I whisper, watching the way she moves when my breath wafts along her skin.  “Should I stop making you wet?”

“You’re not making me w—” Her voice drifts off.  She doesn’t say the word.

“I know you can’t stop thinking about me,” I say.  “Did you think about me last night?”

“God, no,” she says, her voice catching.  Then, more firmly.  “No.  No.  Absolutely not.”

She’s lying and we both know it.

The knock on the door startles us both, and she jumps away, looking at me in horror.  “Shit,” she whispers.  Then, louder: “I’m just…getting dressed.  Who is it?”

But secret passageways are made for times like this, aren’t they?  I press on the electronic panel on the wall beside the fireplace, and wink at her before I leave.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Belle

 

I am so wet.

He asked me if he was making me wet, and I lied.  If he had reached between my legs a moment ago, he would have known I was lying through my teeth.  Every part of my body is on edge, like I’m charged with static electricity or something.

No one has ever made me wet by whispering into my ear.  He’s barely touched me, and I’m practically melting.

I’m going to be late for dinner, something that’s surely frowned upon in a palace.  I’m not certain about palace etiquette, but that’s probably right up there with a real offense.

Like marrying your future stepbrother in Vegas.

I tell myself I’ll just be a minute.  I tell myself that I can’t possibly go to dinner like this.  I can’t sit at the same table as Albie in my current state.

That’s what I tell myself as I lock the door to the bedroom.

That’s what I tell myself to justify the fact that I’m going to be late for a dinner with the king and soon-to-be-queen of a damn country, for goodness’ sake.

I’m not the kind of girl who lets her libido get the best of her.  My ex-fiancé never left me feeling like this – not once.

No one has ever left me feeling like this.

Running my fingers up the sides of my thighs, I pull the fabric of the black dress – the very proper, very appropriate, very subdued black dress chosen by whatever stylist my mother hired to fill this closet in the room – up around my waist.

I glance at the secret panel on the wall where Albie disappeared.  Just for a second, I almost wish he would reappear right now.

But I push thoughts of him out of my mind.  I don’t need to think about Albie, with that smug, self-satisfied grin of his, the one I imagine drives women wild.

The throbbing between my legs is incessant, demanding, refusing to be ignored, and I tell myself that has nothing to do with thoughts of Albie.  And it certainly has nothing to do with what he just did.  It has nothing to do with his breath on my neck, his fingertips running softly across my skin.

My skirt ruched up around my waist, I slip my fingers between my thighs, finding my clit, and press my fingertips against it, sighing louder than I’d like at the relief that immediately floods my body.

I sink onto the bed, lying here in this room touching myself while, at this very moment, everyone in my brand-spanking-new family is on the other side of the palace in the dining room.

Including Albie.

Deliciously sexy Albie.

Dark-haired, blue-but-more-periwinkle eyed Albie, who has a reputation for bedding every model and actress in the western hemisphere.

Albie, the epitome of a shallow, arrogant, entitled man.

He’s everything I should find repulsive.

Except, right now, as my fingertips slide over and over my clit, moving in circles until arousal courses through my body, he’s the person I picture.

I imagine him with his lips near my ear, his warm breath against my neck, asking me if I’m wet for him.  Goosebumps dot my skin, a chill traveling down my spine as I think of him.

My eyes closed, my fingers dancing over my clit – over and over until my heart races in my chest, until my breath comes so short that I’m nearly breathless – I think of him.  I imagine him with his head buried between my thighs, my dress pulled up around my waist, his tongue tasting me.

I think of his tongue, hot between my legs, flicking over my clit until I can’t do anything except call his name.

I imagine my fingers threaded through his hair, my legs wrapped around his shoulders.

I can almost feel him sliding his fingers inside me, fucking me until I pant his name.

I’m so far gone, brought so close to the edge by just the thought of his mouth between my legs, that I can barely keep myself from crying out when I crash over.

And Albie’s name is on my lips.

***

“I’m so pleased that you decided to join us, Isabella.”  My mother raises her glass of wine to her lips.  Her chilly tune conveys the exact opposite of her words, and the look she gives me is just as frosty as her voice.

She’s pissed off that I’m late for dinner.

I’m afraid the reason I’m late is written all over my face, that my guilt is immediately evident.  Even as I slide into my seat at the table, I can’t get the thought of Albie as I imagined him – naked, throbbing, irresistible – out of my head.

That fact sends heat to my face, and I know I’m blushing.

I glance at Albie, and immediately regret it.  Evidently, he finds my current state amusing.

“Yes,” Albie says, “I was afraid you’d gotten lost, that we’d have to send a search and rescue party after you.”

“I had to finish up something,” I say, trying to keep my voice composed, settled.  Nonchalant.

I might be failing terribly at the nonchalant part of things.

“Well, I hope you know that I’m always willing to help with whatever needs attending to,” Albie says, looking at me meaningfully.  Arousal washes over me like a wave, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat, crossing one leg over the other.

“I’m sure,” Alexandra snorts, rolling her eyes.  She flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder and looks at me across the table.  And winks.

I might actually die of embarrassment right now, if my mother didn’t interrupt to present me to the other guests at the table.  She rattles off the names and positions of the grandmother, two aunts, an uncle, and three cousins.  I nod, feigning interest in the social pleasantries but mostly just distracting myself from the incessant throbbing between my legs.

“Oh Albert, you are always such a gentleman.”  Albie’s grandmother beams at Albie, adoration written all over her face.  She’s regal, poised from head to toe, dressed in a cream-colored suit with a single strand of pearls, her grey hair pulled up into a loose bun.

Her words bring a fresh snort from Alexandra, and I wonder what she suspects, or if she’s just being obnoxious.

“Yes, you’re quite considerate, Albert,” my mother says before turning to put her hand on the king’s arm.  King Leopold looks at her and smiles, obviously smitten with her.

“Isabella, I was told you’ve spent the last few years doing charity work.”  One of the aunts, Victoria something-or-other, interrupts.

“Oh, I adore charity work,” the blonde cousin says.  The cousins are triplets, two blondes and a brunette, with matching names: Lily, Rose, and Violet.  “I just love all of the dinner parties and fundraising.  In Paris once, we – oh, what was your cause?”

“My cause?” I ask, looking at her blankly.

“Your charity,” Lily says, staring at me.  “Your cause.  Hunger, shoes for poor children, whatever.”

“I wasn’t actually hosting parties and fundraising,” I say, starting to explain what I’d been doing the last two years.

“Oh,” Rose says, her brow furrowed.  “What kind of fundraising were you doing?”

My mother interrupts.  “Isabella means to say that she was working with a non-profit group.”

“Working?” the dark-haired triplet, Violet, asks.  Her nose wrinkled, she looks at me like I’m a different species.  “Working, as in a job?”

“I was working, yes,” I say.  This entire conversation is beginning to sound surreal.  “In Africa, actually.”

“Isabella,” my mother says, her voice unnaturally bright.  “You must tell us all about it later, perhaps at a time other than when we’re celebrating.”

“I would love to hear about Africa sometime, Isabella,” the King says, his voice warm.  “There’s an aid organization from Protrovia that you might have worked with.  From what your mother has told me, I believe they may have been in the same region you were.”

“You were in Africa?” The King’s mother sniffs.  “Isn’t that rather dangerous?”

“Actually, I –“ I start, before my mother interrupts.

“His Royal Highness tells me you’re spending the fall semester in Paris,” my mother says, directing her attention to Lily.

Lily rolls her eyes.  “I guess,” she says.  “Semester abroad and all that.  I’m supposed to expand my horizons.  It’s not like I haven’t been to Paris a million times before.”

The triplets sound bored with everything – bored with this dinner, bored with the company, bored with their wealth, bored with their lives.  They’re every kid of every socialite parent I attended high school with in Manhattan.

“I’m going to New York,” Violet interrupts, leaning forward.  “Back to design school.”

“I don’t know what you’re going to do with fashion design,” the king’s mother says.  “In my day, women of means learned certain things.  These art degrees and –“

“By your day, I assume you mean the eighteen hundreds.”  Violet snickers into her napkin.

“Don’t get uppity,” Albie’s grandmother scolds.  “New York City is no place for someone of your stature.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Lady Margaret,” my mother says, her tone frosty.  “It was good enough for a future queen, so I’m sure Violet’s American education will be more than sufficient.”

The King clears his throat.  “I’ve heard that you’ve also done very well in school, Rose.”

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” Rose sniffs, glaring at her sister.

“I don’t approve of all this traipsing about,” Lady Margaret says.  “Running off to New York City.  Or, worse, can you imagine?  Charity work in Africa?  Actually milling about with…those people?”

Irritation courses through me, as the table goes quiet, no one speaking.  When I open my mouth, I speak with an edge that surprises even me.  “By those people, I’m sure you must be referring to the children who don’t have adequate medical care or potable drinking water?”

“Isabella,” my mother says, her gaze penetrating.  “Perhaps we’ll save this conversation for another time, since it’s not the appropriate place.”

King Leopold clears his throat.  “Mother, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the fact that Isabella was working with a medical non-profit organization,” he says.  “I recall you traveling around Europe to visit hospitals during the war.”

“Yeah, in World War I,” Rose snickers, and her sister covers her mouth as she giggles.

“Hush your mouth,” Lady Margaret snaps.  “I’m old, not deaf.  And it was the second great war, for your information.”

“This is definitely more interesting than the conversations we normally have at dinner,” Alexandra interrupts, popping a forkful of food into her mouth and raising her eyebrows.

“Seriously,” Lily says, wrinkling her nose as she looks at her sister.  “If I have to hear about one more American designer…”

“You’re such a snob,” Violet says.  “When you really just have no concept of design.”

“Oh, why don’t you educate me, with your portfolio of work and –“

“I trust you’re settling in, Isabella?” When the King interrupts, both cousins stop squabbling and immediately go silent, their expressions pouty, like children who’ve been scolded.

“Yes, King Leopold,” I say. “Although I’m afraid I may not be able to stay for as long as I’d like.”