Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(159)
I squeeze his hand.
“There will be many changes. We will make a better world…for our children.”
“Yes,” I sigh. “Yes, we will. Take me home, my prince.”
“As you wish, Penny.”
Chapter Eleven
It is my wedding day.
I haven’t seen my prince since last night. We did not sleep together, as usual. I took my old room and now I pace back and forth in my gown, wondering how anyone even expects me to walk in this thing. The train is thirty feet long, fanning out behind me like the gossamer wings of an enormous lace butterfly. The bodice is studded with real pearls, a gold chain wraps around my throat, and the high collar is covered in an intricate pattern of fire opals, sapphires, and emeralds.
My mother pulls my veil down and tucks it into place. I clutch the bouquet and try to look like a bride. Mom sighs.
“You look lovely, honey.”
I finally called them before we left New York. They really were in town, but came on their own.
You should have seen the look on my father’s face when my fiancé walked into the pizzeria and introduced himself. After that Kristoff hired a real pizza chef from New York to come to Kosztyla and train people to open a pizzeria here in the capital city.
It wasn’t all sweetness and light. My mom and dad were there…as was his girlfriend. They separated while I was gone and didn’t tell me. He was driving to her house every week to make the phone call and keep up the illusion that I had a happy home, such as it ever was, waiting for me.
As Mom fusses over me, Dad, sans girlfriend, is with my husband-to-be. I’m told they had a wild party last night; I’m rather glad I’m not privy to the details. I can be reasonably confident there were no strippers, so that’s a plus.
I pace around and around the room.
“You’re going to wear out those slippers of yours,” she says.
I sigh. She’s right. They’re silk and have freaking pearls on them. If I pace around much more my toes will be sticking out by the time I get to the great hall.
There’s a knock at the door and my breath catches.
My father, in a finely tailored tuxedo, enters the room as my mother opens the door for him. In contrast to all the years that I remember of their marriage, they actually look happy to see each other. He stands a little taller, and he’s lost weight.
Maybe if I’m lucky Mom will start dating eventually and settle down with somebody more to her liking.
“They’re ready for you,” he says, sighing. “I have to walk you down and all that. Beth, you can go ahead.”
Mom nods to me and walks past him, stopping to kiss him on the cheek. Peace on my wedding day, I should be overjoyed. It’s good luck, I hope.
When we’re alone he says, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes,” I tell him firmly, sighing deeply. “I do, I really do. I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life.”
He offers me his arm, and I take it. It’s a long walk, and the halls are lined with guards carrying heavy pikes, staring straight ahead as we pass. My honor guard, as tradition demands.
I’ve been hearing the phrase “as tradition demands” a lot lately.
The walk feels like it takes hours but it’s really about ten minutes. There’s no chorus of Here Comes the Bride as I walk down the aisle, a long row between benches and benches of guests. Dignitaries, celebrities, people from all over the world, and the press. This is on TV around the globe.
My prince stands at the altar, set up before the throne on the dais. One of his ministers will perform the ceremony.
My soon-to-be husband looks at me reverently, a soft, happy smile on his face. As my father steps away and I come to face him, the music swells and my lip trembles. I can feel tears welling in my eyes.
Come on, Penny, you can handle this.
I steel myself as he lifts the veil and draws it over my shoulders, baring my face to him. He looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, studying every detail of my face with reverence and adoration. I want to kiss him now and the ceremony be damned.
We have to go through all the motions first. The ceremony is in Kosztylan and then repeated in English. I say my vows haltingly in his language, and then he places a ring on my finger, and I one on his.
The ceremony doesn’t stop here. I drop to one knee, bowing my head slightly. From a padded case he lifts a tiara of silver, fine wires braided together with a fire opal in the center. As I draw the veil off my head completely, he tucks the crown into my hair and carefully adjusts it, takes my hands, and pulls me to my feet.
Then he kisses me, to an excited roar of applause. I grin and forget myself, hot tears of joy burning down my cheeks as he pops the clasps holding my train in place, doffs his heavy cloth-of-gold cloak, and throws it over my shoulders. I clutch it like a blanket, maybe hamming it up a bit too much as I sniff at it and wrap it around myself, turning to kiss him again.
The reception is here. The guests stand as an army of servants clear the benches, unfolding huge, cleverly joined oak tables as everything in front of the dais is cleared away and a table carried out in front of us.
I take my seat at his right hand, our… Hell, call them what they are. Our thrones are pushed together so they touch, and I rest my arm on his as the presentation of the wedding gifts begins. It takes two hours for them all to be given, foreign dignitaries and government ministers and locals carrying them up, holding them high so we can see them, then carrying them off to a side table where they quickly pile high.