Chapter Twelve

Kelsey looked in the mirror.

It showed the reflection of all the other mirrors in the palace’s hair salon. The reflections of Genevieve, Mathilde, Agathe…and Mallory. All lined up like that, under the bright bubble lights circling each station, it was unarguably obvious that she was a part of the Villani family.

And that she and Mallory looked absolutely nothing alike. Sure, Elias’s fingerprint test had already told her that she wasn’t truly a Wishner. They’d done a blood test, too, since she’d arrived. But accepting the words and seeing the proof of generations of blond, violet-eyed women around her were very different things.

Just like watching Elias move with cat-like grace across the gardens and watching that same feline grace as he crawled naked across the bed to her were very different things.

Yup. That’d been her Saturday so far. No matter what she did, or thought, after a maximum of five minutes, her thoughts circled back to last night’s date with her handsome bodyguard.

And oh boy, did he know her body now.

“Valentina, are you quite all right? You look flushed.” Mathilde clapped a plump hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Kelsey. Old habits are hard to break, but I do promise I’m trying.”

“That’s okay. I appreciate the effort, and I’m fine.” Her cheeks, throat, and chest were as pink as cotton candy, but yeah, fine. “Just nervous about what’s going to happen to my hair for this official portrait deal, I suppose.”

Reina, in a lavender smock that looked more suited to a spa, patted her shoulder and gave a reassuring smile. But she didn’t say anything as she kept making tiny snips to Kelsey’s hair. Was she, as staff, not allowed to talk? With all the senior royals in confab? Crap. It probably said somewhere in that damned protocol manual.

“The palace stylists are the best in all the land. They aren’t going to do anything drastic. Merely give you some actual shape and fullness.” Her grandmother’s voice had a snap to it. But at least she hadn’t come straight out and said that Kelsey’s current cut lacked style.

She’d chalk that up as progress.

Mallory angled in her chair to face Agathe. “Thank you, Your Grace, for allowing me the treat of participating today.”

Obsequiousness, thy name was Mallory.

Her sister had memorized that enormous protocol binder backward and forward. Which, admittedly, was helpful for both of them, since Kelsey hadn’t put nearly as much effort into it once she discovered that it mostly applied to people with stations…titles or lack thereof…below hers.

On the one hand, she bristled at the idea of anyone being seen as below her. Both on the feminist, democratic front and because Kelsey knew she was average, utterly ordinary, on her best days. How was it that nobody in this country had noticed this about her yet? And when they did, what would happen? Would they demand the king send her away? Or should she just escape back to America at the end of this trip no matter what, full of relief to make it home before she was called out as a princess fraud?

On the other hand, it did give her a free pass to behave normally toward everyone except the king.

“You won’t be included in the family portrait we’re taking this evening, of course.”

Another almost-barb from her grandmother. Great.

“But we did so want the chance to have a little hen party and get to know you, Mallory. Because you’re so important to our Kelsey.” Mathilde was great at smoothing things over. And she’d gotten her name right this time. As long as Kelsey didn’t walk out of this room with a Priscilla Presley circa 1968 bouffant, this might turn out to be a good afternoon.

Tapping her flawless French manicure against her crystal goblet of lemon water, Genevieve said, “Yes. Do tell us some quaint childhood story where you ate too many cherries and threw up all over each other.”

And there it was. Her royal sis bringing the full bitch. Topping the list of things Kelsey wouldn’t miss if she hightailed it out of this country in a week…

“Oh, so you know Michigan is famous for cherries.” Mallory toed her chair all the way around to beam at Genevieve in the mirror. “It’s so lovely of you to take an interest in our home state.”

Kelsey’s jaw dropped. Holy crap, Mallory could pile on the bullshit. How had she turned that insult so handily into a compliment? She appreciated the assist, but she couldn’t let Mallory do it alone.

“Our best childhood stories revolve around gory, accidental medicine. We both delivered a baby in a blizzard back in high school. Oh, and I used a tourniquet and set a broken leg on a friend when I was only twelve.”

“Did the baby and mother survive the ordeal?” Genevieve asked snidely.

Mallory’s auburn brows creased together into a frown that came and went so fast, Kelsey was sure she was the only one who’d seen it. But it was clear the continual digs were getting to her sister. Nevertheless, her voice was steady and even a tad cocky when she replied, “Of course. We had great training.”

Before Mallory could go on to explain that it was because their parents were doctors—since the Wishner parents were a touchy subject, at best, with the Villanis—Kelsey jumped right back in. “We’re both certified in advanced first aid. Which is a handy, FYI, in case you ever slip on all the marble steps around here and dislocate something.”

Yep, she’d like nothing better than to hold a whimpering Genevieve down on the floor and use all her weight to jam a joint back into place. Petty? Sure. But technically, since it’d end up fixing Her Royal Bitchiness, it was okay for a girl to dream, right?

“Goodness. If someone went into labor in front of me? I’d simply fall to pieces and not have an inkling of what to do—and I’ve given birth myself twice.” Mathilde trilled out a laugh. “You must be good under pressure. Just like Genny here. Isn’t it nice to discover things you have in common beyond your looks?”

Yes. Yes, it was. After all, Elias made it sound like, while Genevieve might be a tad high maintenance, she didn’t go around in a twenty-four-seven snit. At least, not until Kelsey had appeared on the scene. It was easy to snap back at her, in the moment. Every time.

Too easy, for sure.

She wanted to be the bigger person. Or at least try a little harder. Because the fact was that she and Genevieve needed to find some way to communicate beyond sniping at each other. Kelsey genuinely wanted to connect to the non-bitchy side of her new sister.

If at all possible.

Maybe she and Mallory should go online tonight and Google royal watcher fan sites. They’d probably be chock full of useful and interesting info. Like a Cliff’s Notes intro to the House of Villani. Even something as dumb as who prefers wine to beer, or heck, their college majors, would give Kelsey a starting point for finding a spark of interest to share.

“So, who has an endearing childhood story to reveal about Genny?” The nickname felt too casual, too…fun. Genny looked perfect and poised and, well, princess-y every moment. Even now, with a spinning brush fluffing one side of her hair, the other clipped back starkly and wet? She sat ramrod straight with her makeup flawless (how had she not gotten splashed and smeary during the shampoo?).

For a few long moments there, the only sound was the snip of hair scissors and the crinkle of foil for Mathilde’s color treatment.

Mallory shot her a panicked glance, which Kelsey promptly volleyed back. Who knew asking for a “she named her pony Sprinkles” type story would shut everyone down?

The squeak of the leather cushion at the opposite end alerted her to a shift by the grand duchess. “Your sister climbed into your crib the night you were born. We hadn’t transitioned her out of her own yet. There’d been no attempt by her to get out of it. But she climbed up and out of her crib, toddled down the hall to your nursery, climbed in, and fell asleep with an arm across your swaddling. Genevieve did it every night. After a week, your mother simply let her go to sleep next to you, and then moved her back to her room so you wouldn’t wake her up when you needed to feed.”

Wow. That was one heck of a monologue. A real, honest-to-goodness grandmotherly reminiscence.

It was a gift, one so unexpected and lovely that Kelsey had no words. But her hands came to rest, together, over her heart. And she didn’t need to peek at the mirror to know that her eyes were brimming with tears.

“You never told me that story,” Genevieve said. Accusation and annoyance sharpened her words enough they could probably carve a how dare you keep secrets into those diamond studs at her ears.

“You didn’t need to hear it. Kelsey did.”

The grand duchess poked back at Genevieve. Just like a real grandmother! This was going so well. Kelsey envisioned monthly shared trips to the salon with all the women in the family.

If she stayed.

But she didn’t want to stay. Kelsey was only here out of duty, out of courtesy and respect to the grief of the family, the country that had lost her. Staying meant…turning into someone else. Adding, accepting the title of princess would change her. Kelsey didn’t even know how to accomplish that big a change. How to become the princess everyone expected.

Did going back home make her a coward? Someone too lazy to put in the effort? A quitter?

This was why she didn’t sleep more than a few hours at a time.

Genevieve pushed out of her chair, fury vibrating off of her as she confronted Agathe. “I didn’t need to hear a story about my own mother? When I’ve flat-out begged you for them over the years? When I’ve spent my life combing websites and microfiche and every possible outlet to compile pictures and videos and memories that show who she was?”

“We didn’t want to risk you remembering it yourself. After. When we couldn’t get you to stay out of that empty crib once baby Valentina was gone. You cried all night for months.”

Crap. Just that fast, the story teeter-tottered from awesome to angsty. Well, it was her fault for asking and thus opening this Pandora’s Box, so she’d just have to fix it.

Kelsey murmured, “Excuse me,” to Renate as she rose and joined her sister. Even reached out to pat—tentatively, like you would a piranha—Genevieve’s arm. “I’m sorry you didn’t know, but maybe it’s for the best that we both got to hear that story for the first time, together. I’m not taking anything away from you, after all, by learning about it with you.”

In a whip-crack fast motion, Genevieve lifted and twisted her arm to remove Kelsey’s hand. And her arm stayed raised, fingers outstretched, as if perhaps she was one second away from actually striking her. “You already did. It’s your fault my entire childhood was taken away. Your fault that I lost my mother. Or didn’t you know that she committed suicide on your birthday?”

No. Oh no. Nooooo.

Why had nobody told her their mother wasn’t just long dead, but took her own life? That double wallop of pain must’ve tainted everything, everyone in the palace.

Ripping off her protective cape, Genevieve slammed out the door. Oddly, the stylists hadn’t so much as paused in working on the two older women. But Kelsey was damn sure frozen in place by the news.

Did everyone blame her?

Mallory got up and gave her a wordless side hug, leading her back to the chair.

Mathilde fluttered a plump hand at her. “It wasn’t actually your fault, my dear. Your mother was suffering from severe post-partum depression. She did with all three of you. Your kidnapping simply pushed her over the edge on which she was barely balanced.”

That all made sense. Depression was a disease, and could be as serious and fatal as heart disease. But Kelsey could also see how Genevieve would’ve needed somewhere to pile the blame in a way to deal with the pain of losing her mother. It made Kelsey worry that others in the family harbored the same bitterness toward her. How many even knew? Did she stand any chance at getting them to overlook her as the trigger and accept her for herself? Or should she give up now and go back home?

How did you decide the entire course of your life in a matter of days?

Renate hovered, comb and scissors outstretched. So Kelsey sat back down and watched her snip and tease and spray her hair into a near-match to Genevieve’s.

Which also made her resemblance to the portrait of Queen Serena in the throne room even more striking.

…

Elias bowed deeply as the Grand Duchess Agathe swept by him. He halfway straightened as Mathilde also exited, then came up into simply a nod as Kelsey passed through the doors of the palace salon. “Your Highness.”

She cruised by him at a pretty swift clip, too. So fast that he couldn’t get a full look at whatever they’d done to her in there. “Let’s go.”

“What about Miss Wishner?” Mallory was still seated with two stylists bent over her head.

“They wouldn’t even start her until the bluebloods left. She, ah, encouraged me to go get some air. With you.”

Two long strides caught him up. And then he did a double take. Kelsey had definitely been made over into Her Royal Highness Princess Kelsey. Her hair was…fancier. Shinier. Bigger. Almost identical to Genevieve’s. As was her makeup.

“You look very regal.” And then he took another look. All the layers of powder and lipstick couldn’t disguise the turmoil tightening her features. He didn’t dare touch her, what with footmen every twenty steps and maids and under-butlers crossing their path. “Your Highness, what’s wrong?”

She paused, right in front of a footman, who scrambled to open the door for her. However, Elias knew it was the door to the security division, so he shook his head to stall the man.

Head swiveling left then right, Kelsey threw up her arms and asked, “Which one of these six hundred doors leads outside?”

“Many, but it’s raining. Do you want to walk off whatever’s bothering you, or do you want to talk about it?”

“I’d prefer to do six shots of tequila.”

“Problem solved.” He led her up two flights of the carpeted stairs. As they walked silently along the thickly carpeted hall, Elias had a fleeting thought of how much fun it might be to sit around and get buzzed with this beautiful, witty woman. But this clearly was not the right time or circumstance for any fun to be had. Not from the clench of her jaw and the way her hands stayed fisted as they swung at her sides.

They entered the snooker room. It had the green-felted table, of course. A highly polished wooden bar carved—so legend went—from a single enormous tree at the top of Mount Siljikan under which friars brewed up the very first ale in the land.

Total bullshit, of course, but it was a beautifully ornate piece that deserved a good story. As he slipped behind the bar and collected glasses, Elias said, “We’re guaranteed privacy. Nobody comes in here but Christian, and he’s at an event overnight in Rome.”

“Hanging with the pope?”

“The Italian prime minister, actually. Along with the mayors of Rome, Naples, and Venice.”

Kelsey’s jaw dropped. “Oh God. I was kidding. For a second there, I forgot I’ve got a family now that might hang out with the pope for real.”

“Pope Linus II isn’t so much about hangouts. Christian and his father did dinner with him at the Vatican about five years ago. King Julian made up an excuse to leave as soon as dessert was served. And the king never, ever cuts short an official duty.”

She traced the outline of a peacock on the edge of the bar. “What was wrong?”

“Apparently, His Holiness is both boring and pompous. I guess some people take being a direct conduit to God as license to think they’re better than everyone.” There. A wan smile lifted the corners of Kelsey’s mouth. He’d have to say an extra novena at Mass tomorrow, but the blasphemy was worth it to lift her spirits.

Kelsey moved to stand in front of the fireplace. She craned her neck to look up at the painting above it of a castle with regiments of men marching away, battle flags unfurled in the stiff wind. “What’s this?”

“Castle Navarro. From the seventeenth century. Depicting the last time our troops rode off to war. The palace curator moved it in here to commemorate the four hundredth anniversary. They’ll cycle it out before the fireplace gets lit again in the fall. It’s too old to risk any smoke damage.”

“Does the castle still exist?”

“Yes. Not the best place to vacation. A few bathrooms have been added, but no air conditioning or heat. It’s mostly a tourist attraction that helps fund other restoration efforts throughout the kingdom.” Elias joined her, because he’d let her stall long enough. “Do you really want to talk about artwork?”

“No. I mean, yes, I do. It’s beautiful and fascinating to discover that almost all the paintings have a history. My family’s history.” She wrinkled her nose at the dark liquid in the small, fluted crystal glass he held out. “What’s that?”

“A measure of port. This will take the edge off. Your requested six shots of tequila would leave you in no state for the formal portrait session in an hour.”

“You’re always looking out for me, aren’t you?”

“It is both my job and my privilege.” Elias didn’t dare risk touching the photo-ready hair and makeup, so he curved his hand around her shoulder. “Let me help you now. Please, Kelsey. Trust that you can reveal any problem to me, and I’ll do everything in my power to fix it.”

“Ah.” With a cynical smile—something he’d never before seen on her—she shook a finger in his face. “You wisely hedged your bets with that ‘in my power’ phrase, because it turns out you can’t fix this. You can’t fix the bone-deep sadness weighing me down at discovering that my mother committed suicide.”

Ah, indeed.

Maybe it was a bad cliché, but weren’t beauty salons supposed to be full of gossip and fashion chit-chat? How on earth had two hours with her sister, aunt, and grandmother turned into a revelation about the darkest moment in their family’s recent history?

God, he hoped it hadn’t been the grand duchess filling in the details. Her distinct lack of warmth would’ve made a bad situation unbearable.

This was definitely far, far out of his scope to fix. But Elias could sympathize. He set down his drink on the carved wooden mantel and gripped her other shoulder, too. “It is a horrible knowledge to carry, but Queen Serena was very, very sick. I’m told that many tried to help her. Much like an advanced cancer, her depression was simply too great to be treated.”

“I get that.” She crossed her arm over her chest to squeeze his hand.

“It truly had nothing to do with you, Kelsey.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not casting blame—or taking it on myself.” Her tone was resolute, but not laced with any guilt, which was a relief. “I understand the basics of mental illness. Raised by medical professionals, remember?”

Elias noted her word choice. Was she being cautious in not calling the Wishners her parents inside Alcarsa Palace? Or simply trying to delineate in her mind between those who nurtured her, and those who wished they’d had that chance?

“I wish there was something more I could tell you. Some way of easing the shock and pain.”

Her lashes drifted down to lay on her cheeks. “I’m just so sad that she gave up, that she threw away the chance to experience everyday joys. Not only watching Christian and Genevieve grow up, but walking at sunset with her husband. Eating a perfectly ripe peach. Being there for a friend when they have a bad day.”

Perhaps he could help, a little, thanks to the basic education that every citizen of Moncriano now received in school about noting and dealing with mental illness. King Julian had insisted on adding it to all health curriculum the same year his wife died.

“I don’t think she was giving up. She sought an escape from pain. If it helps, Queen Serena’s death prompted an overhaul in the kingdom’s mental-health practices. We now have the lowest incidence of post-partum suicides in all of Europe. Doctors no longer take a wait-and-see approach after birth. They’re extremely proactive in treatment.”

“Well, that’s a good thing.” Kelsey threw back the entire contents of her glass. Then she stared down into the dregs of the syrupy liquid for a few long, quiet moments. “I’d like to do something about it, in honor of the queen. My mother. Something to help others, to ease their suffering.”

There was that giant heart of hers, pushing past her own grief to think of others. This woman was truly born to be a princess, taking care of a nation, even if she didn’t realize it. Elias was so proud of her. “That’s a noble sentiment.”

She looked up, her violet eyes wide and beseeching. “I don’t know what I could do, though. Maybe volunteer an hour of babysitting once a week so that they can go to therapy?”

Elias bit back a laugh. Her heart might act like a princess’s, but her head still needed training. “Perhaps that’d be a bit too hands-on. It could spiral out of control quite quickly. And you wouldn’t be able to help very many. You could hold a fund-raiser.”

“Tiaras and long-winded toasts?” Her nose wrinkled. “I’d like to be more hands-on than that.”

His hands slid down to stroke up and down the thin cotton sweater covering her upper arms. “What about a visit to a mental-health clinic specializing in post-partum?”

“Shaking hands? Smiling? What actual good will that do?”

And they were back to the same argument. Him trying to impress upon Kelsey how very important she was to the country. Although it seemed impossible, it had only been nine days, not enough time to absorb even a tenth of her role and what it meant.

Nine days also shouldn’t have been enough time for him to grow to care so damned much about her…

“It will give tremendous hope. Pride. Your visit would be the equivalent of a course of penicillin. I know you don’t believe it yet, but I think you will once you do your first walkabout, and see the enormous reaction that ensues.”

Her brow smoothed out. Determination squared her shoulders. “Okay, but not on September fourteenth. That’d be too sad. At least this year.”

“Why not that date?”

“Because that’s my birthday. The day she killed herself.”

“Ah no.” Fuck. “The queen took her life on your—Princess Valentina’s—birthday. August seventh.”

Kelsey stared at him, then she grabbed his glass off the mantel and tossed it back like a shot. Kicking off her shoes, she took a fast circle of the perimeter of the room. She stopped behind a pair of maroon leather-wing chairs.

“My birthday isn’t even right? Are you freaking kidding me, Elias?”

What the hell was she getting schooled in all day, every day? How had nobody gone over the basics of her original life with her yet?

He crossed the room in three long strides. Then Elias drew her around the chair, sat, and pulled her onto his lap. “Look, that isn’t bad news. There’s an obvious silver lining. Now you get two birthdays.”

It was the weakest of attempts to comfort her. Kelsey wasn’t a child, to be distracted with the promise of twice as much cake and presents. But if there was a guidebook that told the right way to handle this constant barrage of strange upheavals that was her reality now, then nobody had damn well shared it with him.

“But I don’t know which one is real. Which me is real?”

Elias didn’t have the answer, and he wasn’t sure what to hope that she’d discover. Because whether she returned to America or stayed at the palace, Kelsey wouldn’t be allowed to stay with him.