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The assistant nodded and turned back to the King and Queen. “Show time!” she said, her voice back to cheerful as if the last few minutes hadn’t even happened. “You’re gonna do great, Your Majesty,” she assured Penelope. “Most of the people see you as a very romantic figure, a people’s queen, someone with a good head on her shoulders. You’re already off to a good start. Keep things under control and soon the press will be eating out of your hand.”
Pen took a deep breath and stood, steeling herself. Simon touched her arm, lending her his support. “Okay,” she said. “Showtime.”
The throne room was a disconcerting mixture of traditional and cutting-edge modern. The thrones were high-backed cherrywood chairs inset with jewels and draped in Esconian purple, but they looked out over Hollywood-grade stage lights, teleprompters, and rows and rows of journalist seating. Pen sat straight in her throne, hardly daring to let her spine touch its back, self-conscious in her tablecloth dress. She felt a bit like a little girl borrowing her mother’s clothes and pretending she was royalty. What right did she have to be here, in this centuries-old chair, in front of all these people who called her “Your Majesty” and “Your Royal Highness”? Especially while wearing her tablecloth dress and slut lipstick. She had to make an effort to keep her shoulders square instead of shrinking into herself the way she wanted to.
“The King and Queen will now take questions,” said someone from the PR department, and chose one of the journalists to ask the first one.
“Your Majesty, could you tell us what your first undertaking as Queen will be?” the woman asked.
Pen blew out a breath in relief. This, she could handle. “Absolutely,” she said, making sure to project her voice the way she’d been told. The little mic hidden in her neckline would pick up her words regardless, but a queen mustn’t mutter, or so the PR people kept reminding her. “The first thing I want to do is work on some legislation to add more required play time back into the Esconian school system. Research shows that the move to a stronger focus on academics, especially in primary school, has actually had a negative impact on children’s self-esteem, creativity, and social skills.” She cited more research like a pro, the passion coming through in her voice as she spoke. This was why she’d taken the throne, why she was willing to let herself be judged by so many people—to help the children of her country.
The next question was for Simon. “Your Highness, what do you think about the perceived gap between the quality of Escona’s school lunches versus that of the surrounding nations?”
Caught off guard—this wasn’t a topic he’d be as familiar with as Pen—he drummed his fingers against his knee as he tried to formulate an answer. Without thinking, she reached out to cover his hand with hers, steadying him. She addressed the journalist in his place, redirecting the question toward a subject Simon would be able to answer more confidently. “I believe His Highness is focused on the root problem of bringing the Royal Treasury up to date and closing the gap with the national deficit. After all, a lack of funding for the schools is the reason their lunches aren’t as good as they should be.”
Simon shot her a quick look of gratitude and curled his fingers around hers for a moment before she pulled her hand back. He cleared his throat and clarified his ideas for his pet project of renovating the treasury system, and then it was on to the next question.
The press conference lasted another half-hour, and while Pen stammered a few times and went completely blank once, the PR person in charge was good at redirecting problem questions and giving the queen time to gather herself. It wasn’t nearly the disaster she’d thought it might be, and when it was over she retreated to the adjacent prep room feeling like she might eventually get the hang of this.
Until the PR person leaned over to address her in a low voice. “Your Majesty, it would be best to avoid the handholding and those covert looks between you and King Simon. I recommend toning those down to fall in line with the modesty expectations of the Castle.”
Pen raised an eyebrow, amused. She wasn’t supposed to hold hands with her husband in public? What a load of bullshit. Earlier she’d been a “romantic figure” and the PR department liked that, but apparently she couldn’t look too romantic with her husband or it was deemed immodest. It wasn’t like she’d been dry humping him on national television or anything, for crying out loud.
But Simon was nodding along, his expression serious enough for the both of them. “Of course, we’ll work on that,” he said.
Pen sighed but didn’t say anything. Of course Strict Simon would think they’d need to keep to Victorian standards of chastity in public even though they were technically on their honeymoon.
But as he guided her from the prep room, she couldn’t help but notice his hand drifted a little too low on her back for propriety. She shot him another ‘covert look,’ thinking about all the things she wanted to do to him, and the things she wanted him to do to her, once they were finally alone again. He didn’t return the look, but his eyes did that almost-smiling thing again, and it gave her hope that maybe he hadn’t been as serious about the whole modesty thing as he’d seemed.
9
When Simon walked back into the bedroom the next morning, Penelope was still in bed. “I’m too starving to move,” she groaned from beneath her pile of pillows and blankets.
He smiled fondly. She was kind of adorable, hiding under her blankets like a kid who didn’t want to go to school. Although being too hungry to get up and obtain food seemed a little backwards to him. Still, he graciously held out the remainder of his post-workout smoothie. “You can have the rest of this,” he said. “It’s got kiwi, celery, apples, and far too much peanut butter to be healthy. It’s kind of my weakness.”
Pen’s head popped out from under the covers. She eyed him—he was shirtless, having just returned from his early-morning workout, where he’d worked up a refreshing sweat—but apparently her hunger won out over her lust, because she merely accepted the smoothie and sucked it down with alacrity.
They’d shared a bed for two nights now, but hadn’t consummated. He could’ve blamed the bed, which was so enormous that the entire royal family could sleep there and still practically need a postal system to communicate, but to be honest he remained a little gun-shy about completely committing after she’d admitted her uncertainties. Of course, judging from early signs, she was going to be just as magnificent a ruler as he’d known she would be. All she needed was more confidence in herself. And he hoped she gained it soon, because waiting to make their union official was going to be the death of him. He could hardly stand to look at her—especially now, with her lying in bed, eyes half-lidded and hair mussed from sleep, in a thin nightgown he could almost see her nipples through—without wanting to lay her back down, spread her legs, and drive her to the brink of pleasure until she was begging him to let her come.
He wasn’t sure if she was ready to go that far yet either, though. She hadn’t initiated anything last night even though both of them had been sober. She had, however, rolled—and rolled and rolled—in her sleep across the huge bed until her legs were all tangled up with his and she was snuggled on his chest. He’d had to mentally review all his research on the most boring topics he could think of before his hard-on finally faded enough for him to be able to sleep.
Revived by the smoothie, Pen sat up, knocking a pillow on the floor in the process. “Thanks,” she said, but something in her voice sounded off.
“Everything okay?” Simon asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
She pursed her lips. “To be honest, it wasn’t just starvation keeping me in bed. My only duty today is to get a new dress for the Children’s Education event tonight. ‘Something not resembling a tablecloth’ was the directive both from the Castle and my mother.” She blew out a breath. “The hills aren’t far enough away for the holding I’m going to grant her,” she muttered. “I’m going to have to export her to America or something. Doesn’t Ella own a farm over there?”
Simon frowned. He hadn’t liked it when the assistant had brought up public opinion on Pen’s dresses yesterday, and he liked it even less now. Penelope looked both regal and sexy in her lacy dresses, but beyond that, she should be able to wear whatever the damn hell she wanted. She was a grown woman, not to mention the Queen. No one could stop her from parading across the royal lawn naked if she wanted. Why would she even listen to those nattering mean girls? A category whi
ch included her mother, apparently. “No,” he said, answering her question. “Ella lived in America as a teenager, but never really had a home there. Going back to Danovar showed her where her true home was.”
“That’s right. It’s lovely that she found her home with Phillip.”
“I hadn’t quite thought about it like that before,” Simon admitted. It did make sense though—Ella and King Phillip both certainly seemed at home with each other no matter where they were. Simon could only hope that someday he and Pen might have something like that with each other.
Pen looked at the clock and groaned. “I’m supposed to meet the stylist at her shop in town in an hour. I’m totally gonna call you in on your vows, mister—I need your support on this. Come with me and help me pick something out?”
“Of course,” Simon said. This was perfect. He didn’t have any sisters, but he had quite a lot of female cousins amongst the Danovian nobility, and since he’d been a quiet, observant kid he’d picked up on a lot of secondhand fashion knowledge. With any luck, he’d be able to help Pen find an outfit that made her feel confident and didn’t make the mean-girl PR people throw a hissy fit.
