A Princess for Christmas - Jenny Holiday Page 0,114

out his thoughts as he spoke. “She’ll lose any chance at repairing her relationship with her father. And even though I personally could give a flying fuck that she’s a princess, doesn’t all the stuff she cares about, like the UN ambassador thing, kind of require her to be in a prominent position? Like, to use her princessness for good?”

“Well, perhaps there is another solution,” Mr. Benz said with that same maddening mildness. “But I suspect that for it to be located, someone may have to make a rather dramatic gesture. May have to shock it into being. A metaphorical shout of ‘What the fuck?’ if you will.”

Leo was starting to understand. He pointed to the clothing rack. “What is that?”

“Formalwear.”

Holy shit. He got it now. “I have to go to the ball. I have to go now.”

Mr. Benz didn’t smile per se, but one corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

He whipped a phone out of his pocket and started barking orders into it. No old-school bell pulls for Mr. Benz. Or any fairy godfather magic wands, for that matter.

After he’d made several calls, he looked at Leo. They held each other’s gazes for a moment, sudden, unlikely allies. Leo felt like he was in the eye of the storm. The cauldron had overflowed. It was temporarily calm right now. But he had heard Mr. Benz summoning Verene, asking that several pairs of shoes be brought up, commandeering a shaving kit.

Shit was about to get real.

“How come everyone calls you Mr. Benz?” Leo asked suddenly.

“Because that is my name. Well, actually my name is Trauttmansdorff-Benz, but that’s rather a mouthful.”

“But everyone calls you Mr. Benz, whereas Torkel is Torkel and Verene is Verene. I feel like if you’re going to fairy-godfather me into a prince, I should know your first name.”

“It’s Matteo.”

“All right then, Matteo. I need to tell you one thing.”

Mr. Benz—Leo couldn’t actually think of him as Matteo, it turned out—raised an eyebrow.

“I am a little bit drunk.”

Mr. Benz rolled his eyes.

“So maybe you should add coffee to that list of stuff you ordered.”

Mr. Benz sighed. Poor Mr. Benz.

Chapter Twenty-One

As Marie paused on the threshold to the ballroom, she tried to appreciate it objectively. The palace staff had worked hard to transform the cavernous space into a gorgeous, glittering winter wonderland. A forty-foot tree decorated to the hilt anchored one end of the dance floor. Holly and pine garlands hung on the walls and from the crystal chandeliers that studded the space.

The guests were gorgeous, too, decked out in frothy formal dresses and tuxedos and military whites. Max, at her side, patted her arm and Marie turned to smile at him, her best friend, her coconspirator. He was dressed exactly as the occasion called for, with his baronial adornments and a sash over his suit. But there was always something about Max that winked at the formality of any proceeding. His hair was a little too tussled, his posture a little too relaxed. Rakish truly was the word.

It was really too bad she couldn’t dredge up any romantic feelings for him.

But on the other hand, pity the poor woman who ever did, because Max wasn’t just rakish. He was a rake.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t just do it now?” Marie whispered, scanning the room for her father as they slipped in through a side door—they’d opted not to make a grand entrance via the stairs at the front. As resolute as she was, she was literally shaking from nerves and just wanted this all to be over so she could go in search of Leo.

“Quite sure,” Max said, nodding at people as they walked to their table, which was about halfway back. Her mother had always insisted that they—the royals—mix with other guests rather than sit at a more traditional head table, and they’d continued the practice after she was gone.

Marie and Max had decided that instead of talking to their parents immediately, they would corner them after dinner—before the dreaded announcement was to be made—so there was less time for a protracted discussion. They were counting on the desire to avoid a public scene to work in their favor. Marie fully expected a private scene to follow later, but they would deal with that when the time came.

Dinner was excruciating, not least because Lucrecia was at their table. But it wasn’t the usual kind of excruciating. There were the typical Lucrecia barbs, but Marie found they didn’t stick like they