Free The Royal Treatment by MaryJanice Davidson Page A

Horrance.”
    “Let me just show you a few things,” he coaxed.
    “You’re a brave man, Horrance,” Prince David commented.
    “Thank you, Highness. How about this?”
    “Why would you want me to look like a Rockette? Look at all those feathers! No, thanks.”
    “Nor do I want to pretend to be Humphrey Bogart.”
    “Or the Cat in the Hat.”
    “No hats,” Horrance surrendered, slapping the book shut. “I think we can postpone our jewelry discussion for another day?”
    “I’ll take care of that,” Prince David said.
    “Oh, yeah?” Christina said, raising her eyebrows.
    “I do have some talents besides acute knowledge of flightless waterfowl.”
    “It’s nice to find out unexpected things about future husbands,” she said cheerfully. “Which reminds me, what are you going to wear?”
    “All the men in the royal family will be in standard tuxedos,” Edmund announced.
    “Oh, yes!” Horrance said, clapping enthusiastically. “You’ll all look so dashing!”
    “Ugh,” the bride commented. “Penguins.”
    “Nothing wrong with looking like a penguin,” David said, sneaking a peek at his watch.
    “Says the obsessed! Look, do you really want to be mixed up with the waiters at our reception?”
    Horrance giggled. David glared. Christina just raised her eyebrows and waited for an answer.
    “Ah—my lady, Your Highness—tell me what you think of this.” Horrance extended yet another sketchbook, and Christina and David looked down at it. It was a double-breasted tuxedo, but while the jacket and pants were deepest black, the waistcoat was a cheerful herringbone, and the tie was deep gray. “We could match the ties to the bridesmaids’ gowns,” he suggested.
    “Actually, it’s great the way it is. That whole matching thing—I never got it. What are we, in a parade? I think this looks great.”
    “I do, too. Nice work, Horrance.”
    “Next?”
    A plump, matronly woman with brutally short, salt-and-pepper hair and an intriguing eggplant-colored pantsuit stepped forward, cheeks bulging with chewable antacid.
    “This is Marge Sims,” Edmund said into her ear, nearly making her leap out of her chair. “What she doesn’t know about flowers isn’t worth knowing, so for God’s sake, go easy on her.”
    “Okay, okay! You’re acting like this is fun for me. And leggo.” Christina wriggled until Edmund’s skeletal fingers fell away from her shoulder. “Got news—this is about as much fun as commercial fishing. In fact, I would rather be commercial fishing.”
    The florist swallowed and, when she spoke, her breath was redolent of Tums. “Margie Sims, m’lady.”
    “Hi, there. Nice to meet you. Well, let’s get to it, Margie m’girl.”
    “Yes, my lady,” Margie said, slumping across from Christina as if going to her doom. “I’ve brought several photos of my past—what’s that noise?”
    “The king fell asleep,” Prince David whispered. “Again.”
    “Oh.” Marge lowered her voice. “If any of these catches your fancy, Lady Christina, we can—uh—perhaps if you looked a little more carefully, you might find…um…”
    Flip. Flip. Flip. “No—tulips will cost a friggin’ fortune that time of year.”
    “You mean spring?” David asked doubtfully.
    “You hush. This is pretty, but it’s too delicate for me—has it escaped anyone’s noticed that I’m a blond hulk?”
    “Now, my lady, that’s just not so,” Marge said kindly. “You’re slender and quite lovely. But you are of striking height and coloring, and you’re quite right, no one would see such a diminutive violet bouquet.”
    “Hear that, Eds?” Christina said triumphantly. “Marge says I’m right! Eh? No, these are all too small. And this is too Thanksgiving-ish. Oooh, now this I like!” It was a large cluster of old-fashioned roses in a rainbow of pastels. “Except for the colors. Oooh, this is nice, too!” Again, a cluster of roses. “Except it’s in a heart-shape—hello, cliché, anyone? You know