Royal Package - Lili Valente Page 0,31
smile for the rosy-cheeked maid clearing my dinner plate and replacing it with a small fruit tart for dessert.
Thank God the dinner is almost over.
I’m almost free to change back into my sneakers and escape outside with Andrew. It’s shocking how much I’m looking forward to it, and not just because I’ll finally be able to speak normally once we’re alone.
I had a blast with him on our hike this afternoon. When he suggested we meet up after dinner and take a turn through the maze, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. I’m dying to get into that maze, and Andrew is better company than I ever imagined.
At least when he’s not eating…
Which he isn’t tonight. Apparently, he filled up on a late afternoon snack and is too stuffed to fit in another bite. He’s stuck to wine, water, and peppermint tea while the rest of us moved slowly through the five elegantly presented courses. The food has been fabulous, and Andrew’s family seems very kind, but thanks to my obligation to struggle with conversation the way my sister would, we’ve barely covered the basic “getting to know you” questions.
I’ve told them a few bare-bones things about my family, my home, my village, and my online degree in fashion design, and that’s it. Queen Felicity and Prince Nickolas, Andrew’s youngest brother, have done most of the talking, graciously taking up the slack for me, the unusually quiet Andrew, and the downright stoic—and slightly scary—Jeffrey.
As I dig my fork into my tart’s gooey center, I shoot a glance Jeffrey’s way, struck again by just how large the man is. His shoulders are so broad I bet he has to turn sideways to fit through the palace’s slim, eighteenth-century doorways. And his forearms are bigger than the roast turkey leg he took down so quickly he was finished with the main course ages ago, leaving him plenty of time to shoot piercing, vaguely distrustful looks my way.
I’m not sure what his problem is—whether he’s simply not a fan of arranged marriage or if it’s something more personal—but he’s made me so nervous it’s been easier to pull off a Lizzy-esque stammer than I expected it to be.
“You said you’ve ridden horses before, Elizabeth?” the queen asks with a kind but tired smile.
She was called in to assist on an emergency surgery early this afternoon and arrived back at the palace with just enough time to shower and throw on a designer dress for dinner—as you do when you’re real royalty, apparently.
Our family dresses for dinner every Saturday, but that usually involves me finding a clean pair of jeans, Lizzy brushing her hair for the first time in several days, and Mother adding a turban and jewelry to her satin pajamas. Father is the only one who puts on truly fancy clothes, and his suits are all at least twenty years old.
“Yes, your highness,” I say, racking my brain to remember the last time Lizzy rode a horse. I know my twin better than anyone else in the world, but we’re still separate people living our own lives. I make a mental note to shoot Lizzy a list of questions as soon as I get back to my phone and answer as vaguely as possible, “I r-rode as a g-girl.”
Felicity’s eyes warm as she nods. “Perfect. Then you should be in good shape for the ceremony next week. It’s a simple course and all done at a walk so the press can take pictures before we leave the lawn. But we’ll be sure to pick a gentle horse for you, just in case. You’ll see to that, Andrew?”
“Of course, Mother,” Andrew says over the rim of his teacup. He takes a sip and sets it back down in its poppy-printed, gold-leaf china saucer—even the plates are better dressed than most of my family members. “I thought Death Wish would be a good choice.”
“Death Wish?” I echo, brows shooting up. “He sounds s-scary.”
“She’s a sweetheart. One apple slice, and her heart is yours for life.” Andrew laughs as he nods Nick’s way. “It’s Nick’s fault she sounds like a monster. It was his turn to name the next filly the year she was born, and he was obsessed with spy movies at the time. Mistress Death Wish was his favorite villain.”
Nick grins guiltily as he shrugs. “I was twelve. I grew out of it.”
“Lies,” Andrew says. “He still wants to be a spy. He’s always snooping in other people’s business and hacking into places