Page 82 of The Impossible Princess

He backs away and slides on his aviators. Coupled with his uniform, this is inexpressibly hot. “I’ll see you at the cottage.”

Using all the talent of a big-city driver, I beat him by thirty seconds, enough time to find his spare key and slide it into the lock. We were going to fight until the walls shook, but Max throws the car in park and charges up the path, past the last of our wildflowers nodding against the rock wall. He slides me back into the hall, pulling me into his arms. His foot kicks the door shut with a loud bang.

Our breath mingles, and I know there are words we will say in the coming days and weeks. There is a divide between us that will have to be filled with enough words that we can walk across it and meet in the middle. But now is not the time for talking.

The narrow hall is three times wider than it needs to be and he slides his fingers into my hair. My hands trace the muscles of his back.

Welcome home, sailor.

35

Epilogue

CLARA,ONEYEARLATER

The press spends the week before Queen’s Day speculating on how I will upset conventions for the Violet Presentation. Upset conventions. I smile at the words. The tone of my coverage has shifted since significant improvements at St Leofdag’s have begun to roll out. Headlines are mostly good-natured, even if the odd tabloid columnist wonders idly if I will wear a miniskirt and flash the brass band. (Not today.) Chat boards are running polls about whether Lieutenant Commander Andersen will get down on one knee and propose on national TV.

I don’t let the amusement at that thought show on my face either as I step off the dais in a knee-length skirt and fitted jacket. My mother sent out orders for the surface to be gone over with a fine-toothed comb, checking for looseness and gaps. I am pleased to note that my shoes—block heels in a dashing leopard print—keep me sure-footed.

I lock all thoughts of Max away while I chat briefly with other officers, giving each one my undivided attention.

Well, not quite undivided. The cameras are clicking, hungry for more photos. Reporters have had almost nothing of us since last autumn. They face stiff fines for breaching privacy in the nature preserve and using telephoto lenses to invade private property. Maybe they thought a princess would be above pressing civil charges, but I wasn’t, even if it almost lit Mama’s hair on fire. I would never have won these suits in America, with their first amendment protections, but this is Sondmark, and we do things differently.

Max and I took to conducting our courtship inside the cottage and in other secure locations, not only the grounds of the Summer Palace. A smile flashes briefly over my features as I remember my frequent visits to the Andersen garden allotment and the way the families in each of the nearby garden plots combined to thwart the nosiest paparazzi this spring. Many of them developed amnesia about the Andersen family when asked for directions. The Maagensens proved especially inventive, blocking the paths that lead to our spot with moveable gates woven with surplus grapevine. The tactic kept spitting frustrated photographers back into the parking area.

Lieutenant Commander Andersen (who is so good-looking in his uniform that I want to whistle) steps forward, and I hear the sudden uptick of camera shutters. This is Max as I first knew him, an impossible crush. His face is a rigid mask of control, and I know that my own is. Neither of us wants to give thatflamenbody language expert an extra second of airtime.

I pass him the posy, and Max pushes the violets into his hatband on the first try. We are acing the fine motor skills portion of this test. Nicely done, Team Us. Now for the chat.

“I can’t believe you still won’t tell me what’s in the pork roast recipe.”

He tugs his gloves into order. “Rules are rules, Clara. If you’re not an Andersen, I can’t divulge our secrets.”

I flick a glance at the dais where my family sits. What a year it’s been for each of us. When it all comes out in the papers, the prime minister is going to start complaining about the cost of royal weddings.

“It’s a foolish rule, Max. We’ve been engaged for fifteen whole hours.” Delight takes hold of me. The news belongs to us, and I want to savor it before the press finds out. “We are practically one.”

Bringing up his proposal is a mistake. I want to savor the memory of that, too. The sound of the lake frogs. The sofa that makes a deflating sound if I flop onto it too quickly. His pulse racing under my hand. Fingers touching my hair when he tells me he went to Père and Mama weeks ago. I hardly let him finish.

He’s remembering too, and a light leaps in his eyes, crinkling the edges. It’s a fraction of a movement, but that damned body language expert is going to get booked for days.

“If you want to elope with me, Clara, just say so.”

I bite my lip, resisting the impulse to laugh.

“The second elopement in a year? I don’t think my family could handle it.”