A Thoroughly Modern Princess

  Dedication

  For Mark,

  my own Prince Charming . . .

  For the young heirs to the throne,

  Morgan and Brody . . .

  And for my dear childhood friend,

  the girl next door:

  Shari Gilson Roof

  who is queen of her own castle

  filled with charming princes.

  I also acknowledge with gratitude my editors,

  Carrie Feron and Lucia Macro;

  my agent, Laura Blake Peterson;

  her assistant, Kelly Going;

  and, as promised, Alana Bryant

  at 10 East 53rd, who rescued my cell phone.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  “It’s not every day a man spies a peeping princess hovering overhead,” Granger said. “Perhaps your royal duties include palace surveillance?”

  Emmaline shrugged. “Perhaps they do.”

  “In that case, wouldn’t it be prudent for you to conduct an up close and personal interrogation as well? I’m perfectly willing.”

  Emmaline mused.

  It certainly was an inviting offer.

  And she was feeling a bit naughty.

  What would Remi say if he saw her flirting with another man?

  Well, she wasn’t married to him yet. But she would be, in a matter of weeks. After that, improper conversations with men like Granger Lockwood would be out of the question.

  This might be her last chance for a bit of innocent fun.

  Or not-so-innocent fun . . .

  Prologue

  “. . . followed by a fitting with the royal dressmakers at one-fifteen, a meeting with the royal florist at two, and tea with the English princes at three, that is, if their polo match doesn’t . . . Your Highness?”

  Princess Emmaline sighed, admiring the way the spring sunshine illuminated burnished highlights in Granger Lockwood’s tousled dark hair, three stories below her sitting room window.

  “Your Highness?”

  Was Granger Lockwood aware that Papa—the king—was running late at the charity golf tournament and wasn’t due back at the palace for at least another half hour?

  If he did know, he certainly didn’t seem to care. He looked as though—

  “Your Highness?”

  “Yes! Yes, Fenella, what is it?” Turning away from the window, irritated by the distraction, Emmaline noted that Fenella’s sharp nose, close-set eyes, and thin lips had taken on even sharper, closer, thinner characteristics. The older woman appeared to be quite vexed. Well, imagine that.

  Emmaline’s social secretary possessed precisely two moods. Irritation. And shrill hysteria.

  Aware that shrill hysteria was certainly far more unpleasant than Fenella’s current state of mind, and could be brought on by the slightest change in plans, Emmaline smiled cheerfully and said, “Yes, Fenella, I’m listening. And it all sounds quite agreeable.”

  It didn’t, of course. Fittings, meetings, teas . . .

  All familiar. And not the least bit agreeable on this fine Thursday morning in June.

  No, all that was agreeable at the moment was the view from Emmaline’s window, three stories above the palace rose garden, where Papa’s visitor now lolled on a carved stone bench in the sunshine.

  Emmaline had met Granger Lockwood IV several times in passing.

  Well, twice, to be exact. And she recalled both occasions with far more clarity than a betrothed princess probably should.

  Their first encounter was in the palace drawing room, where he was meeting with Papa. Upon their official introduction, Granger’s gaze had fleetingly locked with Emmaline’s in a more than professional, businesslike way.

  Or had she merely imagined it?

  She certainly hadn’t imagined the quickening of her own heart as she looked into his eyes—or the unusual quiver, low in her belly, a sensation that made her blush.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness,” he had said in flawless French, with a proper bow. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “I’ve heard about you as well,” she had informed him, hoping that he hadn’t noticed her flushed cheeks—and that if he had, he attributed them to the warm, crowded room.

  “Oh? What have you heard about me? All very good, I hope.”

  “Certainly all very . . . interesting,” she had said coyly.

  She knew that he was a scion of Manhattan’s most powerful real estate baron, the elderly Granger Lockwood II.

  She knew about his legendary, self-indulgent appetite for fine wine, for nightclubs, for sporting adventure—and for beautiful women.

  She also knew exactly why the notorious bon vivant was in Verdunia, and it had nothing to do with sating his desire for any of those things. He was purely there on business.

  For years the tiny country had fought to keep the seaside area wild, rugged, untouched. But in the past decade and a half, the fates had conspired against Verdunia. The once-wealthy kingdom was in the throes of a full-blown economic disaster.

  Brilliant, affluent, and opportunistic, the elder Granger Lockwood had come up with a plan to create a tourism industry that could save the country. When, on the eve of his preliminary trip to Verdunia in February, the old man fell from a golf cart in Palm Springs and broke his hip, the grandson had been sent in his place.

  Papa had been reluctantly receptive enough to invite Granger Lockwood IV back several times since to discuss the possibilities.

  Until today, the only other time his path had crossed Emmaline’s was at a black-tie palace reception in April. She had been waltzing with her future husband, Prince Remi of Buiron, and Granger Lockwood had spun past them with a ravishing redhead in his arms. When he caught Emmaline’s eye, he gave a little nod, then quirked a brow at her.

  She had no idea what the gesture implied, but she was instantly seized by that same inexplicable current of . . . well, curiosity was one way to describe it.

  Electricity was another.

  That this foreigner again had her feeling like a weak-kneed schoolgirl was disconcerting.

  So was the fact that he was with another woman, and she was with another man—the man to whom she would, in a matter of weeks, be permanently joined.

  But today Remi was at his royal palace in Buiron, a good fifty miles away from Chimera, Verdunia’s capital city.

  Today Granger Lockwood was alone—at least until Papa finally showed up—and he certainly looked as though he had all the time in the world, Emmaline thought, watching him as her social secretary once again droned on. And on. And on . . .

  A fragrant breeze stirred the imported Belgian lace curtains that framed the windows. Emmaline inhaled deeply, concluding that the prized cultivars in Mama’s rose garden were more intoxicating than the finest French perfume.

  And that brash American Granger Lockwood was—at least for the moment—inexplicably more appealing than . . .

  Well, than any man Emmaline had ever seen.

  Including Prince Remi, she acknowledged guiltily.

  What was it about this Mr. Lockwood that fascinated her?

  She pondered the question.

  Perhaps it wasn’t Mr. Lockwood at all. Perhaps he simply triggered some forbidden longing within her.

  After all, he seemed so . . . car
efree.

  And she was anything but.

  She glanced down at the platinum and diamond bauble on the fourth finger of her left hand. Suddenly it felt overly snug, unwieldy, and . . . and cumbersome.

  Hmm. Was it cutting off her circulation? The heat must be making her fingers swell, she concluded, twisting the ring until it slid over her knuckle. She slipped it into the pocket of her silk robe and glanced at Fenella to see if she had noticed.

  “. . . has requested your presence for photographs,” Fenella droned, oblivious to anything but her pages of notes, “prior to . . .”

  Resting her elbows on the windowsill and her chin in her deliciously liberated left hand, Emmaline leaned her petite frame forward, the better to scrutinize the man below.

  With his long legs sprawled straight out in front of him, Granger defied conventional posture, resting his broad shoulders against the bench. His arms were raised and bent like triangular angel wings framing his upper body, his head resting in his clasped hands. His features—more finely sculpted than a nearby centuries-old marble statue carved by Michelangelo himself—were tilted up to bask in the warm Mediterranean sun. His eyes—blue eyes, she recalled, as blue as the sparkling sea in the distance—were closed.

  Granger Lockwood, Emmaline decided, regardless of his well-cut Italian suit and a tie, was the picture of casual relaxation.

  Yes, Granger Lockwood was the Anti-Fenella.

  The thought made her giggle, thus disrupting the droning flow of the social secretary’s monologue once again.

  “Your Highness . . . ?”

  “Yes?” Emmaline turned to look at Fenella, whose narrow lips were tightly pursed.

  “The charity supper?”

  “Yes, that will be fine, Fenella. It all sounds perfectly fine. Please leave a copy of my finalized itinerary on the desk in my office downstairs. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be left alone for a few moments.”

  Alone to indulge my visual lust for Papa’s unwitting visitor, she thought, quite enjoying her furtive spy game.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” With a quick, respectful curtsy, Fenella left the room, closing the door behind her. Her sensible brown pumps made a tapping noise in the marble hallway, fading quickly into the distance.

  Emmaline turned back to the window, eager to return to her perusal of the unsuspecting man below.

  Granger Lockwood hadn’t moved.

  She watched him intently, wondering what it would be like to . . .

  To have your way with him? Shame on you, Emmaline!

  Yet her thoughts refused to be steered in a more proper direction. On this glorious day, her thoughts preferred to linger on a tantalizingly intimate fantasy.

  Strange . . .

  She never fantasized about Remi this way.

  Shouldn’t a bride-to-be—particularly a virgin bride-to-be—find herself perpetually consumed by lurid daydreams of her wedding night?

  She found little satisfaction in the prospect of Remi making love to her . . . or in the knowledge that no other man ever would. In fact, all at once, Emmaline found the thought of infinite monogamy unbearably dreary.

  A dazzling orange and yellow monarch butterfly fluttered about Granger Lockwood’s head, yet he still didn’t stir.

  Perhaps he was asleep.

  Imagine that. Imagine falling asleep in the palace rose garden while awaiting an appointment with the king of Verdunia. Only a most bold, confident soul would dare allow such a thing.

  Or perhaps only a foolish, disrespectful one.

  Hmm.

  Her fascination enhanced, Emmaline studied the man, looking for evidence of courage—or folly. Kneeling on her padded window seat, Emmaline leaned farther out the window, speculating.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Startled, Emmaline froze.

  The masculine voice seemed to have floated up from below.

  Yet only Granger Lockwood was in sight, and he hadn’t stirred. He hadn’t even opened his eyes, as far as she could tell.

  She darted a glance over her shoulder, half expecting to find that some well-meaning male member of the palace staff had entered her chamber. The room was empty, and—

  “You might fall out of your turret. And then you’d have to walk down the aisle on crutches, at the very least. That would put a damper on the royal wedding, wouldn’t you say?”

  Stunned, Emmaline pulled herself back inside, clasping a startled hand over her mouth.

  Her cheeks were flaming. Her heart was pounding. Of all the—

  She jumped up from the window seat and paced the Persian carpet, her embarrassed befuddlement rapidly giving way to agitation . . . and then fury.

  There was no doubt that it was Granger Lockwood who had spoken—in English, of course, rather than French, the official language of Verdunia. She had recognized a distinctly American accent, and was certain she had seen his lips move. He must have been spying on her through cracks in his eyelids.

  Why . . .

  Why . . .

  Why, she ought to march right downstairs and have the palace security detail remove that insolent man from the premises immediately.

  Yes, she ought to.

  But for some reason, Emmaline wasn’t prone to doing what she ought to do. At least not today.

  She cautiously returned to the window.

  She leaned out once again, though not nearly as far as she had the first time . . . and saw that Granger Lockwood was no longer draped on the bench.

  No, he was now standing directly below her window, looking up, as though he’d been waiting for her.

  His full lips—Anti-Fenella lips—tilted into a lazy grin.

  “You’re back. Don’t worry. If you fall out this time, I’ll catch you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she retorted in her own impeccable English.

  “No?”

  Emmaline shook her head and confided, “No, because I have wings. I keep them concealed from all but my closest confidants, lest the press find out.”

  His grin broadened in pure delight.

  “Wings, hmm?” His blue eyes boldly looked her up and as far down as the windowsill allowed, as though he were searching for evidence. “You’re a fairy princess, then?”

  “Must I show you my wand?”

  “If you do, I’ll show you mine.” He winked.

  Her jaw dropped. She quickly dragged it back up into place.

  He was absolutely, positively, the most dauntless, imprudent . . . no, impudent . . . man she had ever met.

  He spoke to her as though their relationship were casual, or . . . or romantic. Or downright libidinous.

  “So,” he said, rocking back on the heels of his polished Gucci loafers, “how are things in the gilded cage these days?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she shot back. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know, either.”

  “Really? Then it isn’t true that your grandfather is one of the richest men in America?”

  “Oh, that’s perfectly true,” he said easily. “My life might be a little on the gilded side, but the only cages I’ve seen are the ones that house my grand-father’s exotic birds. And yours.”

  “I don’t have exotic birds.”

  “I meant your cage.”

  Of all the . . . !

  “I am not in a cage, gilded or otherwise, Mr. Lockwood,” she said haughtily.

  “Glad to hear it, Your Highness. And in that case, maybe you’re free to come down and continue this conversation face-to-face. The back of my neck is getting sore from looking up at you.”

  Her ringless hand twitched with an errant urge to massage his aching neck muscles.

  “I would dearly love to, Mr. Lockwood, but I’m quite busy at the moment.”

  “Really? Doing what?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “No, it certainly isn’t. But I have to admit, I’m curious. It’s not every day a man spies a peeping princess hovering overhe
ad. Perhaps your royal duties include palace surveillance?”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps they do.”

  “In that case, wouldn’t it be prudent for you to conduct an up-close and personal interrogation as well? I’m perfectly willing.”

  Emmaline mused.

  It certainly was an inviting offer . . .

  And she was feeling a bit naughty.

  What would Remi say if he saw her flirting with another man?

  Well, she wasn’t married to him yet. But she would be, in a matter of weeks. After that, improper conversations with men like Granger Lockwood would be out of the question.

  This might be her last chance for a bit of innocent fun.

  Or not-so-innocent fun.

  “If you aren’t willing to come down, you could make like Rapunzel and let down your hair so that I can come up,” Granger Lockwood offered.

  “That only works for princes,” she said affably. “And the one in that particular fairy tale found a witch lying in wait, remember?”

  “Only on his second visit. The first time, he got lucky.”

  Emmaline tossed her head, enjoying herself immensely. “Yes, well, as I said, I only let my hair down for princes.”

  “And me without an ounce of royal blood in my veins,” he said, snapping his fingers and shaking his head. “I’d like to see your hair down. Every time I’ve seen you—in person or in pictures—it’s up. Like that.” He regarded her trademark upswept style as though he were tempted to scale the palace wall, pluck the pins out, and send her long, dark tresses tumbling about her shoulders.

  Even more unsettling than the blatant longing in his expression was her own reaction to it.

  She wanted to be closer to him.

  She wanted to be face-to-face . . .

  Closer than that, even.

  Emmaline! What on earth are you thinking?

  She swiftly silenced the prissy inner voice.

  Hmm . . .

  Did she dare venture down to the sun-splashed garden to visit with Granger Lockwood?

  She was seized by an odd sense of urgency—a desperate now-or-never sensation.

  But . . . your schedule. Remember your schedule, Emmaline.

  Oh yes. She was supposed to be getting ready to go out.

  Her hair was already styled, as it was first thing every morning. But she still had to dress for her early luncheon with Mother and Queen Cecile of Buiron, her future mother-in-law. Queen Cecile would be presenting funds to be used to add a new wing to Chimera’s Children’s Hospital.