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She put her hand on his arm, and he covered it with his own hand.
They were both quiet for a moment before he went on. “But Penelope, today, you showed me my purpose. I’m here to help you be the best queen you can be. I swear to you that I’ll support you, that I won’t leave you, that I’ll help you in every way I know how. You don’t have to be afraid.”
She blinked back tears. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me,” she said softly. “That’s the best wedding present you could give me.”
A strand of that gorgeous hair was hanging over her face. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked it behind her ear, lingering a moment longer than was strictly necessary. “I’m glad,” he told her.
She swallowed, her eyes lingering on his hand for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “And just so you know, you don’t have to be afraid either. You’ll have a home here for as long as you want it,” she told him.
The words sank in and lingered, like a welcome rain in the desert. He hadn’t known how badly he’d needed her to say that. The moment deepened between them, and he caught his gaze slipping to her lips. Right now would be the perfect moment to kiss her. It would be sweet, lovely, just the right end to this beautiful conversation. And her lips were so full and red and plump and perfect. He glanced back at her eyes and saw she was looking at his lips too, which sealed the deal and also made his cock twitch in unexpected anticipation.
He leaned forward. So did she. Just a few more inches, and he would be able to taste her.
A bulb flashed, nearly blinding him. “Much better!” crowed a too-cheerful voice. “Just keep that look up, and we’ll be finished with the session lickety-split.”
The door was wide open and the preening photographer stood on the threshold, peering at his digital camera’s readout in satisfaction.
“What happened to the lockdown?” Simon asked, leaning back toward his side of the loveseat, now imagining stuffing that camera into an even less pleasant place than he had thought about earlier. At least the arm of the chair had been between the camera and the hard-on Simon had been starting to get. Which was now quickly dissipating, thanks to the interruption.
“All clear,” called the guard from beyond the door belatedly.
Simon and Penelope stared at each other in consternation—but a hint of playfulness crinkled the corners of her eyes, and sh
e looked much more relaxed than she had before. “Shall we finish our… conversation later?” she asked graciously.
Hell yes, they would. “Indeed,” he answered gravely, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his own shoulders too.
What an unexpected treasure this woman was. He’d come searching for a purpose, but he was starting to think he might have found much more than that.
5
It was Penelope’s wedding day, and by the time she got to the doors of the abbey, she honestly had no idea how it would end. Either she was going to walk down that aisle and marry Simon Stuart, or she was going to trip over her train yet again—Danovian clogs were neither funky nor chic, but a hazard in shoe form—face-plant in front of an entire church full of nobility, and then run until her legs couldn’t carry her any further.
She tried to take a deep breath but could only manage a shallow gasp. It was partly due to her panic, but also to the way-too-tight corset that was smothering her beneath her wedding gown. The dress itself was far too revealing, with a slit that reached nearly her mid-thigh and lacy fabric that hugged her curves. She might as well be naked. The palace’s PR department hadn’t even let her wear her favorite red lipstick, saying it was too much for a queen, and had limited the number of bangles she could wear because they thought she played with them too much. The only thing that felt just right was the ring from Simon’s family. It had finally been resized, and now sat snugly on her finger like it was meant to be there.
Simon himself felt like he fit, too. They’d done more research together over the last few weeks in preparation for the wedding today and the coronation in a few months, and it had brought back fond memories of her years of studying for her college degree. She was surprised to remember she actually loved research, especially the parts where they could brainstorm how they might change things once Pen was on the throne.
“Okay, let’s get a few more quick mother-daughter pictures in front of the doors,” called the photographer, snapping Pen out of her reverie. She kicked her train out of the way and pivoted, her mother swooping in to hover over her for some action shots.
“Mom, the dress is fine,” Pen said through her forced smile as the woman checked that her sleeves were staying straight and smooth for the hundredth time. Her mother murmured assent but merely moved on to fiddle with Pen’s earrings.
“Make sure you don’t stick your chest out, dear, you want to look regal and not like a slut.” Several more bits of rapid-fire Mom advice—aka passive-aggressive criticism—followed, each one undermining Pen’s confidence a bit more. Her mother had made no secret of her ambitions while Pen was growing up, and now that her only child was actually inheriting the throne she’d reached some scary new level of overinvolved. She finished today’s quiet rant with: “Just don’t make the same mistakes you made in middle school, and you’ll be fine.”
Middle school. Why did she have to bring that up? When Pen was twelve she’d decided to run for Prime Minister. The election had been the work of a well-meaning teacher, but it set off a cut-throat political battle amongst the well-to-do and upwardly mobile parents in the private Country Day School. Penelope’s mother badly wanted to win, but her obsessive coaching had the opposite effect on Debate Day when Pen froze and blurted out the first answers that came to her mind. She lost the election to her mother’s eternal dismay, but gained a reputation for being a quirky and endearing lightweight that had served her well through the years.
But all the quirk in the world wouldn’t help her today. She stood before the massive, intricately decorated doors of Eastman Abbey as just another citizen of Escona, but by the end of the day, she’d be married and Queen.
She tried not to hyperventilate.
The wedding planner approached. “Okay, thirty seconds til the walk down the aisle!” the woman chirped.
Pen clutched her bouquet, a mixture of Esconian roses and Danovian dahlias, and squared her shoulders. Time to buck up, buttercup. She’d decided this was what she wanted and she was going through with it. And an added bonus would be that after her coronation, she could gift her mother with a nice holding in the country, far, far away from Penelope. But even with that tantalizing thought, Pen’s knees were still shaking as the vast doors opened in front of her. She scanned the sea of nobility—all of whom were staring at her, measuring her up against their expectations—along with the cameras that were broadcasting to millions of viewers via the Royal Livestream, and found Simon. He stood at the front of the church, next to the priest, clothed in the dress uniform he’d proposed in. His expression was serious but his eyes crinkled the tiniest bit when her gaze found his, and that familiar almost-smile gave her strength. Today, she was marrying Simon. She would focus only on that.
She marched down the aisle by herself, handed off her bouquet, and took Simon’s hands. He squeezed her fingers lightly. His eyes shone and his almost-smile grew into a real one, small but undeniably there. He was excited about today. The thought eased the butterflies in her stomach a bit more, and she squeezed his hands back, surprised to find that beneath the nerves she was actually a little excited too.
She kept focusing on Simon while the priest rattled on about duty and love and God. When they finally got to read their vows, they felt right—strong and personal. Simon vowed to never stop supporting her in all she chose to do, and Penelope promised to build a home with him.
Then the priest said “You may now kiss the bride,” and every last one of the butterflies in Penelope’s stomach did a backflip. She’d forgotten about this part. Why hadn’t they practiced for it? Why did their first kiss ever have to be in front of millions of people? It was okay, it would be fine, it was just a kiss. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done it before with other guys.
