Royally Pregnant. Barbara McCauley
quickly, “I mean, if I need to speak with you?”
“Star twenty-four will page me.” He swallowed the dryness in his throat. “Star twenty-five will put you through to the private phone in my suite.”
He didn’t give her a chance to answer, just left, nearly closed the doors on his own heels in his hurry to get out before he did or said something he knew he’d regret.
“This chartreuse linen was absolutely made for you, Emily. With your hair and your coloring, you’ll be nothing short of fantastic. Oh, let’s try it on.”
Emily bit the inside of her mouth, swearing if she heard those four little words—let’s try it on—one more time, she might scream. Devonna Demetrius, a short-haired platinum blonde who was the most recent addition to the staff of palace couturieres, had shown up at Emily’s bedside two hours ago, followed by a large, rolling rack of clothes that ranged from sportswear to evening gowns. There were trays underneath overflowing with lingerie and mountains of boxes filled with shoes.
Yesterday, a simple phone call from Dylan had set Operation Wardrobe in motion. Devonna, assistant to Princess Megan’s couturiere, had spent most of the previous day in Emily’s room with a measuring tape in one hand and a color chart in the other. The couturiere had been given free rein with Prince Dylan’s charge, and though Emily had insisted that a few simple items were all she needed, Devonna would hear nothing of it.
If Prince Dylan ordered a new wardrobe for Emily, then Emily—whether she wanted one or not—would have a new wardrobe.
Devonna practically quivered with pleasure over the carte blanche she’d been given. Emily couldn’t help but think that the assistant couturiere was like a wiry terrier who’d been given a meaty bone—Emily herself being the meaty bone.
Dylan had left strict instructions with the staff that his guest was to be taken care of. Emily might have felt as if a hockey team had used her for a puck, but she wasn’t crippled, for heaven’s sake. She was feeling much better today. She didn’t need Sally to draw a bath for her, or warm the towels or wash and blowdry her hair. She didn’t need Nurse Mavis sternly standing watch all day, taking her pulse and blood pressure and asking her how she felt.
And she certainly didn’t need an entire wardrobe, either, she thought, glancing at all the beautiful clothes. She couldn’t keep any of these things. When this was over, she would dress in her own clothes, which had already been cleaned and mended and now hung in the closet, and she would leave.
But Devonna’s determination and enthusiasm had worn Emily down. That, and the fact that it was late in the day and she simply hadn’t the strength or energy to argue with the woman any longer.
“Miss Demetrius—”
“Dee Dee.” Devonna carefully slipped the jacket up Emily’s arms and onto her shoulders, rushed around to examine her creation, then pushed her oversized black-rimmed glasses up her nose. “Omigod, it’s perfect. Will you just look at yourself? Wait, wait, let me get the heels.”
“Dee Dee, I don’t need a linen jacket and skirt.” Still, while the zealous woman dug through a pile of shoe boxes, Emily glanced at the trio of full-length mirrors in the corner of the large dressing room attached to the bathroom.
It was perfect, Emily thought with a sigh. Everything Dee Dee had brought had been wonderful—a variety of conservative and youthful, fun and sophisticated. What woman wouldn’t be thrilled with such an abundance of beautiful, expensive clothes?
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