Once Upon A Tiara: Once Upon A Tiara / Henry Ever After. Carrie Alexander
The RN looked with reverence at the pencil in his hand, the one he’d used on the royal tongue. “Mind if I keep this?” He put it in his shirt pocket. “For a souvenir.”
“Help yourself.” Simon thanked Edward again, then closed the door behind him and turned back to Princess Lili. She sat on the couch placed against the paneled wall of his office, her head thrown back against the cushions as Mrs. Grundy applied the ice-chip pack to her open mouth. It was already melting. Droplets of water leaked onto her white lace collar, spreading in a large wet patch. There had to be a better way.
He got a paper cup and plastic spoon from over by the coffee machine in the reception area. Lili was pushing the ice pack away when he returned. “Maw howe mowf—”
“Your whole mouth is frozen,” Simon said, sitting beside her. “Let’s try this.” He scooped some of the melting ice chips into the cup and fed Lili a spoonful.
She opened her lips as obediently as a baby bird, looking at him with glistening eyes. “Thank ooh.”
“You’re welcome. Hold the ice against your tongue until it melts. Is the sting still painful?”
“Naw so much.”
“Will you be able to return to the reception, Princess?” Mrs. Grundy asked. “There are a hundred guests waiting to be greeted.”
Lili nodded dutifully.
“Give her fifteen minutes,” Simon said. He looked at the older woman, nudging her along with a head bob. “Maybe you could go and report to the mayor? I’m sure Cornelia can delay the program for another fifteen minutes.”
Mrs. Grundy glanced from one to the other, squinting a skeptical eye. “Princess?”
Lili shooed her.
She hesitated. “Rodger’s right outside if you should need his assistance.”
Simon fed Lili another spoonful of ice chips. “I’m a mild-mannered museum wonk. I assure you, the princess is safe with me.” Grundy, mollified, finally left.
Lili looked at him and smiled through the ice melting on her tongue. “They thay ith alwayth the quiet one.”
He waggled his brows, knowing no one with a cowlick and a metallic King Tut tie could ever look dangerous. “You’re talking better. Swelling going down?”
“Yeth.”
“More ice?”
“No, thank you. Already feel like an iceberg.”
“Would that make me the Titanic?”
She blinked. “How?”
“We’ve had one encounter and already you’ve torn off a vital piece of my heart.”
She was quite fetching when she giggled—her eyes slitted, her cheeks plumped, her wide smile infectious. “Is that a line that works on American girls?”
“I wouldn’t know, being a museum wonk.” He’d never tried an idiotic line like that on a girl in his life. When it came to hitting on women, his batting average was too dismal to account. He’d even come to the conclusion that associating with the female gender was dangerous to his welfare. Too bad about the biological urges he was having more and more trouble supressing. Thoughts of swollen body parts and how they meshed kept popping into his head. Definitely not on the how-to-treat-a-princess list.
“Then you’re not married?”
He managed to cover his surprise, telling himself that she was polite, not interested. “Only to my work. The sarcophaguses—sarcophagi?—would get jealous otherwise.”
She smiled as he fed her more ice. “You’re very amusing.”
“I practiced my act special for you.”
“Ooh, I’m all damp,” she said, and for an instant he was nonplussed by the idea of damp swollen body parts, before he realized she was referring to her clothing. She peeled off the pink jacket and reached under her lace jabot to unbutton the blouse. The wet silk had gone transparent, clinging to the curves of her breasts, outlining the plunging neckline of her undergarment.
She kept unbuttoning. He pulled his gaze away, rising from the couch. “Hold on. I’ll step outside.”
“Don’t bother. We Europeans are accustomed to going topless.”
Good God! Simon risked a quick glance and saw that she was taking off her blouse entirely. He spun around, keeping his back to her, every synapse firing. Breasts! Naked! Lucky, lucky man!
Then: Bodyguard! Royal outrage! Scandal! Disgrace!
Worth it!
He clenched his hands. Naked breasts were also surely against Corny’s protocol. “Uh, Princess, I really don’t think this is—”
“Oh, it’s all right, you silly man. I was only joking with you. I’m wearing a camisole.”
He glanced over his shoulder. The camisole was soft, silky, loose-fitting. It covered about as much flesh as a tank top. The fabric tented over her round breasts, held up—rather flimsily—by narrow satin straps. Even at a glance, it was obvious that the princess possessed a nice set of erect nipples. They were properly positioned and everything.
And everything.
He tore his gaze away a second time. It had taken the Titanic hours to go down, and here he was, sunk in mere minutes. “Could you put on your jacket?” he asked the ceiling.
“It’s damp, too. Do you have a hair dryer?”
Self-consciously, he passed a hand over his hair. It was clipped close to his skull despite an excess of forehead and temple. He figured he’d be bald by the time he was forty, so why fight it? “There are hot-air hand dryers in the lavatories.”
“Would you?” she said, holding out her blouse and the pink jacket. “Please?”
He sidled closer, still not sure that he should look directly at her, as if she were the sun. The sun, with breasts that shifted beneath the silk camisole every time she moved. His brain had lost too much blood for him to think straight and maintain willpower, so it would be best if he left the room as quickly as possible.
He reached out a blind hand, hoping she’d put the items of clothing into it.
She’s royal, she’s privileged, she thinks of me as a handy servant, he told himself. A valet. There’s nothing for me to see because in her eyes I barely even count as a person.
Ha! Nice try, but no go. This princess was no snob.
“I’ll do it,” she said, standing at the same time as he reached again for the clothes.
He got a handful of breast instead.
Sliding silk. Plump, firm breast. Taut nipple.
The princess gasped.
“Sorry,” he said, whipping around and pulling his hand away as if it had been burned.
Her face had gone as pink as her tongue. “My fault.”
“No, mine. I’m clumsy.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Shouldn’t a museum wonk be good with his hands and eyes? All that detail work.”
Every detail of her breast was carved into his brain. Sparks were still shooting up his arm. “Clumsy socially,” he clarified. “I’m no good once you take me out of the museum.”
She patted his hand, and he realized it still hung in the air between them. He let it drop.
“You’re doing fine.” She sighed. “I’m the one who’s fouling everything up.”
“You couldn’t have anticipated a bee in the bouquet.”
“Maybe not, but it doesn’t