Royal Wedding - Meg Cabot Page 0,31

No one ever hears anything about him (except for prank calls about having “Albert in the can,” and of course references to a certain genital piercing, which in historical fact the real Prince Albert did not have, and of course, as we all know from having watched Sex Sent Me to the ER, can actually be quite medically dangerous to both the pierced and their sex partners).

But early into Queen Victoria’s marriage to Albert, while they were both riding in an open carriage, the prince consort saw a would-be assassin draw a gun. Instead of freaking out, Albert did the most practical thing on the planet: he pulled Queen Victoria down against the carriage seat (and himself) so the bullet brushed him and not her (at least according to what I remember of the biopic. Obviously I can’t fact-check it right now, as I have no Internet access, and also I’m in the bathroom).

How completely sensible—yet utterly romantic—is that?

And how like something Michael would do, if ever given the opportunity . . . which I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he will never have to. Because protecting your subjects, which includes your loved ones, is what being a royal is all about.

Of course, if they make a third movie of my life, it would be lovely if they show Michael taking a bullet for me, just to liven things up a bit. But only a small one that does minor damage, and not to his face (or anything downstairs).

It wasn’t until I saw Michael eating his own crab cakes (with surprising savagery) that I realized that’s what’s been going on in his eyes lately: Mr. Gianini’s dying, a possible madman wanting to kill me, and protesters throwing genetically modified oranges at my bodyguard have brought home to him how fleeting life is, and how, when you really love someone, all you want to do is spend all the time you can with that person.

Why delay happiness—even for a matter of principle—if you can have it right away? Of course, we’re going to have a talk eventually about all those things that were mentioned in the Post article—like that when we get married, he’s going to have to give up his name (and U.S. citizenship, etc.). Women give up those things when they marry as a matter of course—well, not their citizenship, generally—so it shouldn’t be such a big deal (plus, I think he already knows), but we live in a society where, for most men, I’m afraid this would be nonnegotiable.

But Michael’s not like most men.

I did tell him that we are absolutely one hundred percent going to have to elope because there is no way I’m going through what William and Kate did on their wedding day. That was completely ludicrous. Sweet to watch on television if you weren’t there yourself, but the behind-the-scenes drama was insane.

He agreed.

Except a little while later, after we’d finished dinner—I have to admit, I was so excited and happy I could barely finish my shrimp pasta, though I did manage to polish off all my crab cakes and lemon sorbet in limoncello—and we were both in the hammock, looking for shooting stars (I do not think that last one was a satellite no matter what he says), he said, “My parents are going to be really disappointed if we don’t have a wedding.”

“But, Michael, your parents are so progressive! They subscribe to Mother Jones.”

“Yes, but they’re getting older, and lately they’ve been dropping hints that there are only two occasions during which families get together anymore, and only one of them is happy.”

It took me a little while to figure out what Michael meant. I lifted my head with a jerk from his chest. “Yikes!”

“Yes,” he said grimly. “Think about the number of funerals there’ve been in our families lately.”

“Of course,” I murmured, lowering my head again. “Mr. Gianini.”

“My great-aunt Rose.”

“Pavlov . . .”

He laughed and kissed me. We didn’t actually have a funeral for his dog. He now lives as tiny cremated ashes in an elegant tin shaped like Rosie the Robot from The Jetsons on Michael’s bedroom shelf.

“What if we have a very small wedding?” I asked. “Just family and friends.”

“Do you really think you could get away with that?”

“Why not? Brad and Angelina did.”

He looked skeptical. “They’re movie stars. You’re going to rule a country.”

“That makes it even easier, in a way,” I said. “I have national security to help me keep it a secret.”

“True,