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‘Madam, may wecome in? His Majesty sent us.’
There was a sharp rap on the door to Annalena’s suite but before she could reach it, the door opened.
She met a familiar, assessing gaze. It was less dismissive today yet she couldn’t see anything akin to respect there. It was the woman who, a bare couple of days before, had tried to evict her from the palace. The woman who hadn’t passed on the news that Annalena was waiting to see the King.
Unless Benedikt was lying and he’d known she was there all along.
It was profitless to ponder that now. In time she’d uncover the truth, when she had more than instinct to guide her. The man’s actions would speak for his character.
‘Madam?’ From the threshold, impatience coloured the woman’s tone. As if she had every right to intrude without invitation.
Annalena spoke into her phone. ‘I’m sorry. The people I was expecting have arrived early. I’ll call back later.’
She ended the call and walked to the door, rather than call across the vast room.
Her visitor looked sleek and self-important, again in a tightly tailored skirt and jacket, another silk shirt and high heels. Making Annalena aware of her jeans and casual shirt.
‘You have the advantage of me. Clearly you know who I am but I don’t know who you are.’
It was time someone taught the woman manners.
Annalena saw her eyes widen then narrow speculatively, and wondered at her attitude. Was she such a favourite she thought she could get by without common courtesy?
Shewasbeautiful with her dark eyes and striking bone structure.
Was she a favourite of Benedikt’s? Could that explain her arrogance?
Annalena tasted bitterness on her tongue.
No, he might be manipulative but surely he wasn’t crass enough to make her deal with his mistress.
‘Ida Becker, madam. I work for His Majesty.’
Did Annalena imagine the woman’s taut expression softened as she mentioned him? She swung her gaze beyond her visitor’s shoulder. ‘Please come in.’
Annalena positioned herself beside the door, greeting the dress designer and her staff who followed, wheeling in rack after tall rack of gowns.
The sight of them filled her with dread. In only a few days she’d attend her first royal ball. At which time her engagement would be proclaimed.
After that there’d be no escape.
She could hear her Oma’s voice in her head, talking about duty.
Her stomach churned, nausea stirring, until she sensed all eyes on her and turned, a serene mask firmly in place.
For the next fifteen minutes the discussion was all about the ball, Annalena’s colouring and dress styles. She found herself saying less and less, which didn’t seem to matter as everyone else had opinions.
The fact was she didn’t know anything about formal ball gowns. Technically she might be a princess and, yes, Oma had insisted she learn to dance gracefully, but she’d never been to a ball. The glamorous events her grandparents hosted had ended with the death of their only child. As for attending regal events in the capital, the family had avoided them from that date.
Annalena knew how to dress well for conferences and civic events in what she thought of as business formal. Or wear traditional clothes for festivals. But a full-length ball gown? She’d never needed one.
For the first time she wished she’d spent less time researching botany and a little time pondering fashion. Could she pull this off and not look like the country bumpkin she suddenly felt? How many would be waiting, after Benedikt made his announcement, to see her fail?
‘How about something like this?’
Ida Becker held out a long dress’s voluminous skirt that seemed to consist of puffy tulle flowers. Annalena thought instantly of an oversized meringue. Worse, while some yellows worked for her, others, like this, would make her look jaundiced.
Annalena surveyed the woman’s blank expression. Did Ida have no eye for colour, or was she trying to sabotage her?