The next day was surprisingly fun. Marie had been busy, holed up with her father, Mr. Benz, and some other humorless-looking men—Leo had seen them all filing into a room on his way out with Gabby. He supposed this was the cabinet she’d referenced.
Frau Lehman had arranged a snowshoeing excursion, and the two city kids had had a blast tromping along forest paths under the guidance of a guy who had met them at a stable on the palace grounds. He was a groom, Leo supposed, though like “footman,” that was a job title that seemed like it should only exist in fairy tales.
Then he’d taken Gabby to the village, which in the light of day was basically a postcard. There was a central square with an enormous tree decorated in shimmering silver ribbons, and there was a little ice rink adjacent to the square. When Leo saw the latter, he resolved to come back with Marie. But then he thought better of it. Skating with the princess was a bad idea. So was slow dancing in the woods. Having snowball fights. Anything with the princess was a bad idea, basically.
Besides, he didn’t know what her level of fame was here. Could she go skating in public without it being a big production? She’d seemed friendly with the woman who owned the pub, which was a bit of a surprise, but that seemed different from being able to stroll around in what was a bustling village.
Regardless, watching Gabby take in everything with wide eyes and unabashed delight was like a sedative. It made him feel calm. Like he could relax for a while. Logically, all his same worries—about their finances, about Gabby’s well-being—were still there, but being outside his usual routine somehow made those worries feel physically far away. What had Marie called her time in New York? A surprisingly refreshing break from reality. It turned out it worked in reverse, too.
After poking around in a few shops, they settled in at the pub for a late lunch. They’d taken a seat at the bar because there was a giant gingerbread house set up behind it, where Leo guessed the liquor bottles would normally have been. Gabby had gravitated to it like it was her true north, and her effusive monologue had charmed Imogen, who was behind the bar.
“I can’t take all the credit, or even most of it,” she said. “I bake, and my friend Kai does construction.”
“The snow globe guy,” Leo said.
“The snow globe guy, but don’t let him hear you say that. He fancies himself kind of a hard-ass.” She had lowered her voice to a whisper, which seemed odd, but when she turned and said, “Kai! Are your ears burning?” Leo understood.
A big guy in a flannel shirt pulled out a barstool on the other side of Gabby.
“Kai,” Imogen said. “Meet Gabby Ricci. She’s a big fan of your work.” She gestured toward the gingerbread house.
Kai seemed a gruff sort, but only a monster—or a stick-up-his-ass king—could be immune to the admiration of a kid like Gabby. He nodded at her and said, “Thanks.”
“And this is Leo Ricci, Gabby’s brother and a friend of Princess Marie’s. The Riccis are visiting from New York for the holidays.”
Kai nodded at Leo and at Imogen when she set a beer down in front of him unasked.
Imogen, he had learned, was a talker. Like Gabby. As the proprietor of what seemed to be the most popular establishment in the village, she knew stuff. He’d heard her dish and receive gossip since they’d arrived, and she’d made no bones about trying to pump him for information. She was nice about it, but he didn’t blame her. It was kind of weird that someone like him would be here as a guest of someone like Marie.
But Kai was her opposite: silent, self-contained. “What’s the pie today?” he asked.
“Pork and winter greens.” Imogen nodded at Leo. “He’s having it. Ask for a review.”
Kai glanced at Leo’s plate and said, “I’ll have a club sandwich and potato salad.”
Leo did chuckle this time. Kai was a man after his own heart: silent, decisive, and fond of flannel. “So.” Leo nodded at the gingerbread house. “A mansard roof? That’s an interesting choice.”
Kai shrugged. “Lots of the original buildings in the village have that kind of roof.”
“That makes sense. I would have been tempted to go with a gambrel in homage to all the barns I saw on the drive in, but you’re right; mansard is better.”
That got the guy’s attention. He turned on his stool, eyebrows raised.
“Architecture school dropout,” Leo said. “And nearly a decade on residential construction crews.” He took a swig of his beer. “No experience with pastry, though.”
“It’s surprisingly not that different once you get the hang of it.”
“You make the snow globes, too, I think?”
He nodded, and Gabby took over. “You do? The ones here?” When Kai grunted in confirmation, Gabby was off. “Oh my gosh, I love them so much! It’s funny, because I have a snow globe at home of Cinderella’s castle. You know the one from Disney World?” She didn’t wait for an affirmative response. “It’s a castle in the snow, the same as one of yours that I was looking at near the entrance. Right? A castle in the snow? But yours is so much better.”
Imogen, having come back from serving someone else, leaned her elbows on the bar. “Kai’s our resident artist.” The artist in question rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. He did all the built-in cabinetry in Marie’s suite at the palace. After her mom died and Marie took on more royal duties, she moved into a new set of rooms and did a reno.”
“I just did that as a favor because she asked me personally,” Kai said dismissively.
“How do you two know Marie?” Leo asked, belatedly realizing it was kind of a dumb question. She was the princess of the country, after all. But it seemed like they actually knew her.
“We went to school together,” Imogen said.
“You did? Regular public school?” He would have thought she’d have gone to some fancy private school.
“Her mother wanted her to have as normal a childhood as possible. Joséphine was from an old, noble, French family and had gone to posh schools in the States. She rebelled against the idea of Marie being shipped off to grow up away from her family like she had been.”
Huh. That made sense, given what Marie had told him about her mother.
“And the village school is small. There’s only a couple dozen kids in each grade, so all of us know Marie.” She picked up a towel and started drying pint glasses. “We actually used to spend a fair amount of time together.”
“Well, it’s nice to see that she has friends. Normal friends.” Wait. Had that sounded snobby? Maybe the king was rubbing off on him. “No offense. I mean that in the best possible way.”
“None taken,” Imogen said. “But we’re not really friends.”
“Oh.” Leo was more disappointed than he should have been by this piece of news. It was just that he liked the meddling Imogen and the gruff Kai. They seemed like good folks.
She must have sensed his disappointment, because she cocked her head and looked at him without speaking for longer than he was comfortable with. “I wouldn’t say we’re not friends. We just don’t really see each other much anymore.”
“Maybe I’ll bring her in again before I leave town.”
“We would love that.” She tapped the bar in front of Kai. “Wouldn’t we, Kai?”
Kai grunted.
“We would love that,” Imogen said again.
Back at the palace, after Gabby was whisked off by Frau Lehman to help sample some of the recipes for Cocoa Fest—apparently they served some old standbys each year but also invented new, elaborate flavors—Leo was approached by the butler. He was carrying a sealed envelope—on a small, silver tray, for crying out loud.
But Leo’s derision disappeared when the man said, “Her Royal Highness asked me to convey this message to you, Mr. Ricci.”
She’d left a note for him. An actual physical note, which he found oddly charming, given that she could have just texted him.
Leo, if you’re not busy, will you come see me in my suite when you get back?
–M
All that talking about Marie at the pub earlier, combined with the bulk of the day spent without her, made him . . . miss her. Dammit. He couldn’t deny it. And worse, he didn’t even really want to. Denial felt like too much work. That feeling he’d had earlier, of setting aside his cares, of letting the fairy tale of Eldovia take over? He was ready to surrender to it. He was on vacation, after all. So he just let himself be happy to be summoned.
The door to her suite stood ajar, so Leo rapped on it to announce his presence and pushed it open.
And found her in some other guy’s arms.
Wait. No. Other guy implied things that were not true. Implied territory. A claim where there was none. He ordered himself to unclench his fists.
Marie hadn’t heard him because she and the guy—no other, just guy—were dancing. Music was playing, and they were doing some kind of formal thing he suspected was a waltz. At least, it looked like a Cinderella-at-the-ball sort of dance. The man was older. He had graying hair, wore a suit, and was saying something to Marie that Leo could not make out.
Once more, he had to make a point to relax his fists. He cleared his throat.
“Oh!” Marie tripped over her partner’s foot and pitched forward—toward Leo. “Leo!” she exclaimed after he’d grabbed her and set her on her feet. She was pink. He wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or from the dancing.
She was wearing a dress that looked like it was made out of men’s suit material. It was gray and had a subtle checked pattern to it. It was belted around her waist and fitted snugly until it flared out and came to the middle of her calves.
It was a conservative dress.
It should have been a conservative dress.
It was making him crazy.
“Leo,” Marie said, oblivious to the fact that she was driving him batty, “this is Jean-Paul Lavoie. Monsieur Lavoie, this is my friend Leonardo Ricci I was telling you about.” She smiled at Leo. “Monsieur Lavoie has been my dance teacher since I was six. And I am afraid it’s a thankless job. I have him come out every year before the Cocoa Ball to give me a refresher, and I don’t know why he hasn’t quit in a fit of pique. I’m hopeless.”
Dance teacher.
Suddenly Leo’s fists were completely chilled out.
“Nonsense, Your Royal Highness. You’re very . . .”
Marie laughed, even as she raised her eyebrows at the older man.
“. . . diligent,” he finished, his eyes twinkling.
“Monsieur Lavoie cannot tell a lie,” she said. “He’s very honorable.” She patted him on the back. “But at least I keep you in business.”
“You are too kind.”
There seemed to be a friendly familiarity between the two of them—an almost family-like vibe. Clearly, Leo had misinterpreted the scene at first.
Marie shook her head fondly at Monsieur Lavoie before turning to Leo. “So. Mr. Leonardo Ricci of the Bronx. Do you want to learn to dance?”
Marie didn’t expect Leo to agree. Leo was, understandably, sensitive about his background. She didn’t want him to feel like he had to learn the waltz or any of the other traditional Eldovian dances they did at the Cocoa Ball. But if he wanted to learn them, she wanted to help. It was a fine line. She tried to express this sentiment as he walked toward her, bemused.
“There’s absolutely no pressure. Most of the ball will be regular dancing. Like you would see at a wedding.” Well, maybe that wasn’t quite true—did American weddings feature the kind of slow dancing they had done in the woods last night? “But we also do some traditional dances, and some waltzes. Which you can just sit out. If you want. I’m not saying you have to sit them out. But if you want to learn, Monsieur Lavoie can help. But I didn’t bring him here because I thought you needed him. I really do bring him in every year for a refresher.” Oh dear. She was making a hash of this.
“I’m not going to the ball, though.”
“Really?” Marie narrowed her eyes. “I thought you were kidding.”
“Not kidding. Not going.”
“Oh.” Why was that so disappointing? She of all people should understand. She would skip the ball, too, if she could.
“So you don’t have to be worried about your brutish American guest embarrassing you,” Leo said flippantly.
“I wasn’t worried about that!” But she could see how he would interpret her offer of dancing lessons that way. She geared up to apologize, but he was grinning.
“I know you weren’t. I was just teasing.”
Oh. She hadn’t realized, which was too bad, because she enjoyed it when Leo teased her. He was in hitting range, so she swatted his chest. It was . . . disconcertingly hard. A memory arose suddenly, of resting her cheek against that chest last night. The cheek—just the one; her right—grew hot. “See? I didn’t grasp that you were teasing. This is partly what I mean by saying I’m not a natural princess. I’m awkward on the dance floor and in social situations.”
“Do not say such things!” Monsieur Lavoie seemed genuinely hurt by her observation. Poor Monsieur Lavoie. He was such a decent man.
“Listen to Monsieur Lavoie,” Leo said as he jokingly wagged a finger at her and took a step back.
He was going to leave. Something was happening to her—to her whole body now, not just the one cheek. It was restless. Jumpy. Suddenly, remarkably, the idea of dancing didn’t seem so horrible. Of being grounded by strong, sure arms.
When she was dancing, she always felt like she was under a spotlight. Alone under the glare of everyone’s scrutiny, even though of course at balls she always had a partner.
With Leo, her jumpy body somehow knew, in a way that went deeper than her intellect, that she wouldn’t be alone. That he would bolster her.
She wanted that. She wanted those forearms of his wrapped around her.
“Mr. Ricci,” Monsieur Lavoie said to the retreating Leo, “even if you’re not attending the ball, perhaps you would be so kind as to partner with Her Royal Highness? She would benefit from having a practice partner who isn’t me.”
Leo paused in his retreat and looked at Marie like he could see all the way inside her. That was all it took for the restlessness to return. It occurred to her that although she’d been thinking of Leo as the cure for this agitation, he was also the cause of it.
She opened her mouth to demur, to override Monsieur Lavoie and tell Leo to go.
But then she closed it.
Leo, still looking at her, linked his fingers, extended his arms out in front of him, and cracked his knuckles. “All right. Definitely not going to the ball, but let’s do this.”
Something spiked in her belly.
Monsieur Lavoie approached. “Allow me to show you the steps first, Mr. Ricci. I will take the lady’s part.”
Leo’s sudden startled look made Marie smile. He was a good sport, despite the fact that he probably had not expected to end up twirling around the floor with an elderly Frenchman.
“You have a natural rhythm,” Monsieur Lavoie pronounced as the two men came to a halt a few minutes later.
“Piece of cake,” Leo said.
“Monsieur Lavoie is a retired professional ballroom dancer,” Marie said. She had always found it easy to dance with Monsieur Lavoie, both because he counted quietly in her ear and because he took such a strong lead—her body simply had to go where he put it. It was never the same in the wild, though, and of course real dances were often also fraught socially.
“Her Royal Highness is not Her Royal Highness when you are dancing with her,” Monsieur Lavoie informed Leo as he lined them up in front of each other. “She is your dancing partner. You lead. She follows.”
Was that perhaps why her partners’ leads never felt as strong as Monsieur Lavoie’s? Because they were consciously or unconsciously deferring to her?
“Do not be intimidated by her,” Monsieur Lavoie went on, and Leo raised an eyebrow.
If finding someone who would not fuss over her position was critical to the success of the dancing endeavor, Leo was her perfect partner.
Monsieur Lavoie put her right hand in Leo’s left as Leo slid his hand around to her lower back and pulled her close.
And there it was. Those arms. Stepping into them was like lowering herself into a thermal spring in the mountains. Warmth where there had been cold, relief where there had been tension.
He had pulled her too close for a waltz, though, and Monsieur Lavoie wasn’t having it.
“No, my dears, no!” He clapped his hands in two, sharp staccato bursts and stepped in to rearrange them. “Remember your frame.” He put some distance between them and lightly slapped their arms, one at time. “Tension in the frame so that where you lead”—he pointed at Leo—“she goes.”
There was that eyebrow again. Leo was enjoying this way too much.
But he certainly led. He got the hang of it quickly, and aside from a few early missteps, soon he was putting her where she needed to go. Like Monsieur Lavoie.
Except not like Monsieur Lavoie. Monsieur Lavoie’s hands were not as big, or as warm, as Leo’s. Monsieur Lavoie did not stare at her with his eyes burning with an odd mixture of heat and amusement. Monsieur Lavoie did not smell like spicy oranges.
Marie’s stomach fluttered, but she kept moving.
She was lighter on her feet than usual. In addition to the strong lead, Leo was graceful enough for the both of them. He kept tension in his frame, but brought a kind of flow to the proceedings.
He made it feel easier.
Which, now that she thought about it, was true about him in general, whether “it” was a waltz or a meeting at a watch shop. Leo made everything feel easier.
After fifteen minutes, Monsieur Lavoie was showering them with delighted applause. “Shall we move on to the ländler?” Then, to Leo, he added, “It’s a traditional Eldovian dance.”
“It’s hard,” Marie said. “Think Sound of Music.”
“I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead,” Leo said. “I was just telling Marie yesterday that in my book, dancing is swaying. I guess I was wrong.”
“No,” Monsieur Lavoie said, “not wrong.” Marie was shocked. Not once in the eighteen years she’d been working with Monsieur Lavoie had he said anything like that. “Dancing is many things. For someone like the princess, it is a performance. Part of her job. That kind of dancing is highly choreographed. But in other contexts, dancing can be many other things.”
“What do you mean?” Marie asked. “What else can it be?”
“Dancing can be joy. Comfort.” He looked at her as if he’d recently uncovered a delicious secret. “Love.”
“Well, that’s not what’s going on here,” she said quickly. “None of those things.” She was lying, though. Hadn’t she just been comparing Leo’s embrace to a hot mountain spring? Goodness, she sounded like a lovesick teenager.
A laugh bubbled up, like a jet in her imaginary spring. Monsieur Lavoie looked at her quizzically. She patted his arm. “I’m sorry. You know I appreciate you, Monsieur, but if I never had to dance again, I would be a very happy woman.”
Yesterday, that would have been the truth. Today? She glanced at Leo. It was hard to say.