final touch on her hair. She stops for a second to squeeze my forearm and wiggle her eyebrows. “We’ll talk after the speech.”
My lips curve up. “Sure.”
But even as I answer, she is hustled past me to stand at Stellan’s side. The balcony doors are swept open by two footmen. The audience begins cheering as Stellan and Margot step outside, smiling and waving.
“Your royal highness,” a palace secretary says, beckoning Lars forward.
Lars clasps my hand in the crook of his elbow and steps forward. I fall into step almost automatically, wincing a little as the sheer wave of sound overtakes me. I step forward and look out at thousands upon thousands of people, cheering and holding signs. It’s freezing outside, but the Danish people don’t seem to care.
“Wave and smile,” Lars shouts in my ear. “And don’t forget to breathe.”
I lift a hand, plastering a smile on my face. He guides me to our prominent position beside Stellan and Margot. We continue smiling and waving as the rest of the family finds their places. The crowd continues to cheer, especially when Annika steps out with Erik.
She’s always been the people’s favorite princess, so no surprise there. Stellan takes the microphone and coughs into it; the noise dies down as he begins his speech.
“Welcome,” he welcomes the crowd. “As you undoubtedly already know, on this day in 1953…”
My brain blanked out whatever he is saying. Not that it’s not important. But I’m too fascinated by looking around at everyone clustered on the balcony on this cold, bright morning.
I look up at Lars, biting my lower lip. He’s focused on a spot in the crowd. I follow his gaze to find that several young girls are holding posters with my picture pasted on them. They say “Pippa + Lars 4Ever” and “Team Pippa!”
I have to admit, I don’t even know who I am playing against in whatever team sport that young girl is so pumped about. I glance at Lars again and he looks at me, giving me a secretive smile. He nods towards Stellan, reminding me that the King is still speaking.
I yank my gaze to Stellan, who speaks for some length of time about the country’s values and how proud he is to be Danish. I smile and sort of check out for a while, coming around when the crowd starts to cheer once more. I applaud, looking around at Lars’s brothers.
Everyone seems to politely clap. No one has even a note of boredom on their faces.
Interesting. I know that Annika has not even the vaguest hint of interest in what Stellan was talking about. Yet I look at her pretty blonde features and she looks engaged.
That must be something learned over time, I guess. I’ve watched a thousand royal events as a member of the audience; it wasn’t until today that I really got to see the other side of things.
“Pippa,” Lars says, putting his hand on my lower back. He guides me back inside, following Stellan and Margot. As soon as we step inside, we are enveloped by warmth and the sound of cheering is immediately dampened.
I take a deep breath as Lars leads me down the stairs in the procession to the formal dining room. The dark wood room has a single long table in the middle with an elaborate and decorative place setting. As we step through the doors, footmen wait for our coats. Lars has his off in a flash, revealing his suave black suit beneath. He smiles at me as he helps me take my coat off, his chilly bare fingers touching my nape for long enough to raise goosebumps.
A server approaches with a tray of champagne. Lars picks up two glasses, just assuming that I want one.
I accept it from him and look around at everyone milling about near the window. “So now what?”
Lars shrugs a shoulder and sips his drink. “Stellan will probably give another speech about how we are all lucky. Then we’ll have dinner.”
I raise my brows. “Is that it?”
“Pretty much, ja.” I see him wrinkle his nose slightly. “Fuck. My grandmother is looking at me like she expects something.”
His hand instinctively finds mine. I blush as his grandmother comes marching over, leading several aunts and uncles in her wake. It’s very difficult not to fidget as his grandmother looks me up and down. Her mouth turns down at the corner.
It’s hard not to take that personally. Nevertheless, I greet her formally, curtsying. “Your royal highness.”