Lucy Gordon - Princess Dottie

“You can call him on the internal phone. Room 43.”

Dottie dialed and was answered at once by an unfamiliar male voice.

“Mike?” she demanded.

“Mr. Kenton is unavailable at the moment. This is his valet.”

“His valet? Mike? Never mind. Haul him out of the bath. Tell him the love of his life wants to talk to him.”

“Mr. Kenton is not in the bath, Your Highness. He has been invited to drive a Ferrari and will be away for the rest of the day.”

“I guess I can't compete with a Ferrari,” Dottie murmured wryly, hanging up.

“It was only kind to keep him happy while you're occupied with more weighty matters,” Randolph said. He'd recovered his poise now, and could only hope that Dottie hadn't guessed the reason for his edginess.

The arrival of strong tea helped the atmosphere. Dottie offered him some, but he declined with a shudder.

“Since you've disposed of my fiancé, I suppose I'm all yours for the day,” she remarked. “What's the agenda?”

“Your appearance, clothes, hairstyling etc. After a couple of days of intensive preparation there'll be a press conference.”

“What do I say at that?” she asked in alarm.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Pretty pointless press conference, then.”

“Others will do the talking. You will smile and look regal. The point is that you should be seen.”

“Seen and not heard?”

“Exactly.”

“Come to think of it, they'll get a shock when Princess Dottie opens her mouth.”

“Princess Dorothea,” he corrected her. “Dottie makes you sound crazy.”

“Well, I am crazy. Always was.”

“You can't be Princess Dottie!”

“Fiddle!” she said firmly. “I'm Dottie. If they don't like it, they can send me home.”

“We'll address this problem later,” he growled, adding under his breath, “among many others.”

Dottie concentrated on her breakfast, refusing to answer this provocation.

“You also need to meet various persons of the court,” Randolph continued, “including your future ladies in waiting.”

“Must I have ladies in waiting?” Dottie asked plaintively. “After all, I'll be gone soon. You are looking for someone else, aren't you?”

“Diligently,” Randolph said. He'd ordered that no stone should be left unturned, in case she carried out her threat to leave. “But as far as the world knows, you've come to stay.”

She couldn't resist giving him an impish look. “Now there's an unnerving thought!”

He met her gaze. “Quite. I wonder which of us is more appalled by it.”

Her lips twitched. “You probably.”

That came too close to home. He turned away from her sharply, pacing the room. And that was how he noticed Royal Secrets lying open.

It was the copy he himself had given her and it was entirely reasonable for her to read it, but logic was useless against the revulsion that rose in him at the thought of her learning his most painful secrets in this vulgar way. He had to walk away to the window because he couldn't bear to look at her.

In London she'd charmed him, but that had been another world. Here, where she was taking over his birthright, it was hard for him to regard her without hostility.

He turned, meaning to tell her coldly that her humor was inappropriate, but he met her eyes, fixed on him, and saw the small crinkle of bewilderment in her forehead. She looked smaller, more vulnerable than he remembered, and his anger died. It wasn't her fault.

“Eat your breakfast,” he said more gently. “Then Aunt Liz will attend you. She knows all there is to be known about clothes. I suggest you appoint her as your Mistress of Robes, but of course that decision is yours.”

The countess was in an ebullient mood, having spent a hugely enjoyable night making plans for Dottie's appearance. She mourned Dottie's lack of height but praised her dainty build.

“We'll have clothes made to measure, but for your appearance this afternoon we will apply to a boutique, fortunately an extremely exclusive establishment. Once we've purchased the garments, they will withdraw them from their range, of course.”

“Of course,” Dottie murmured. “It'll be interesting to visit some of the shops.”

“What are you thinking of? You can't go to a shop.”

“Well, it won't come to me, will it?”

Aunt Liz was scandalized. “Of course it will.”

Within an hour four young women, trooped in, curtsied and proceeded to display an array of clothes that almost made Dottie weep with ecstasy. She spent two blissful hours trying on, discarding, trying again, changing her mind, going back to the one she'd first thought of. And not once did anyone grow impatient with her.

More young women. Shoes. Underwear. Finally Aunt Liz chose three dresses, “Just to tide you over while your official wardrobe is being made.”

“What about paying for them?” Dottie muttered, conscious of everyone looking at her expectantly.

“These matters are dealt with by your Mistress of Robes.” The countess paused delicately.

“In that case, Aunt Liz, will you do the honors?”

She had made her first appointment.

A hairstylist appeared and transformed Dottie's shortish hair into more sophisticated contours. While she was still in rollers she took a bath, and emerged to find her underwear and hose laid out ready.

The dress was simple, cream silk, with a high waistline. The shoes matched it exactly. About her neck she wore a pearl necklace that, Bertha said, had been a gift from the Tsar of Russia to Queen Dorothea I in the eighteenth century. Dottie gulped.

At last she was ready. Everyone curtsied their way out, leaving her to wait for Randolph, who would escort her to the reception. Now she felt good, full of confidence knowing that she looked terrific. She wondered if Randolph would think so.

She wandered out onto her balcony that overlooked the deer park. There was the lake she'd seen last night, blue and beautiful glinting in the afternoon sun. She could pick out the exact spot where the man and woman had walked.

There was a woman standing there now. She didn't move, but stood, looking down into the water, as though sunk in thought, perhaps dreaming of the man, and the intimate moments they'd shared. Suddenly she began to walk purposefully back toward the palace. As she neared the balcony she stopped and raised her head, looking straight at Dottie. It was a direct, challenging gaze, almost angry, and it revealed her face clearly enough for Dottie to recognize her from the magazine photographs.

This was Sophie Bekendorf, Randolph's fiancé, and perhaps the woman he loved.

Dottie sensed that Sophie was looking her over. She was getting used to that, but there was something disagreeable about this woman's manner, and the slightly scornful smile that touched her mouth before she moved on and vanished from sight.

A moment ago she'd felt full of confidence and courage. Now she saw herself for what she was, an impostor, playing a role that was beyond her, and making herself ridiculous. With a sinking heart she went to survey herself again in the mirror. She even looked different, she thought dismally. Everything was wrong.

Randolph found her in this mood. “It's no use,” she sighed. “I can't be a princess.”

He laid his hands on her shoulders, and spoke gently. “Why ever not?”

“I'm too short.”

He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I'm too short. Princesses should be tall and elegant, looking down their noses at everyone, and I'm…” she made a helpless gesture, “short.”

His lips twitched. He tried to control it but with her wicked little face gazing at him control was impossible.

“What are you laughing at?” she demanded.

“At you, and your scatty way of thinking.”

“Well there you are. If people are going to laugh at me I can't be a princess, can I?”

“I won't let anyone laugh at you,” he promised.

“Except you.”

“Except me.”

“But I'm still too short. You couldn't fix me another six inches, could you?”

“Dottie, I would fix you anything you wanted in the world, but I'm afraid that is beyond me. You'll just have to be a short princess. Now stop fretting. I've brought something to show you.”

He laid out before her a small painting, in the style of the eighteenth century. It showed a woman of about thirty, at the height of her beauty. On the top of her elaborately arranged hair was a diamond tiara. More diamonds hung from her ears and around her throat was a magnificent diamond necklace, the same one that Dottie was wearing now. They were jewels for a queen, and she wasn't surprised to read, at the foot of the portrait this had been Queen Dorothea I. What did astonish her was the woman's face.

“But…that's me,” she gasped.

“It's a family likeness that has carried down through the generations,” Randolph agreed. “There is no doubt that you are her descendant, and it will smooth your path as queen.” When she didn't answer he frowned slightly. “Dottie? Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” she said vaguely, her eyes fixed on the portrait.

Almost in a dream she went to the mirror to look at herself, then back at the picture. It was happening again, the feeling of morphing into somebody else. From a great distance she could hear the voice of Dottie Hebden saying, “I can't do this. Me, a queen? Don't be funny.”

Against that she set her own face looking back at her from the portrait. The lips never moved, and yet it spoke to her in a voice she knew, silently telling her that this was where she belonged.

“Don't try to take it all in,” Randolph advised Dottie in the last few seconds before she met the members of her court. “Just smile at everyone.”

“I can't smile,” she gasped. “My stomach's full of butterflies.”

“Trust me.”

It was too late for her to say anything more. The heavy gilt doors were being pulled open in front of them, and she was staring along the length of a room that seemed to go on forever. Down the center was a long crimson carpet, leading to a dais, at the top of which was a chair upholstered in crimson plush. A crimson canopy, bearing the royal coat of arms, rose high overhead. The room was lined with faces.

Randolph took her hand in his, holding it up, almost to shoulder height. She wondered if he could feel that she was shaking. Strangely it felt as though he too was shaking. She gave him a quick, disbelieving glance, but he was staring straight ahead. “Lead with the left foot,” he murmured. And they were off.

As they walked slowly along the carpet the faces came into focus, so that she could discern bafflement, hostility, but mostly curiosity.

Nearing the dais she murmured to Randolph, “That chair…is it?”

“Yes, it's the throne.”

She gulped. “Blimey!”

Randolph's voice was low and fierce. “Dottie, I beg you not to say 'Blimey!”'

“What can I say?” she asked frantically.

“If you must express surprise, 'Goodness me!' would be appropriate.” There came a suppressed choke of laughter. “Dottie!”

“Well, I can't keep a straight face. I've never said 'Goodness me' in my life.”

“Then start saying it now.”

During this urgent, whispered conversation they had reached the canopied throne. Dottie turned to confront the people who had moved forward to crowd around the base of the steps, and she felt as well as saw their shock as they gained their first clear view of her face. There was a ripple of astonished recognition. Dorothea.

As before, Randolph made a speech presenting her, and signaled for her to take her place on the throne, while he remained standing. One by one her courtiers advanced and bowed or curtsied while Randolph introduced them. As he'd advised, she didn't try to take it all in, but one name stood out. Sophie Bekendorf.

The tall beauty came forward and looked up at Sophie. It was the same look, defiant, scornful, as she'd seen barely an hour before. And now she realized the full splendor of Sophie's looks. Her skin was pale porcelain, without blemish, her eyes large and dark, her features regular and her chestnut hair glossy. But it was her mouth that would draw everyone's attention, Dottie thought. It was petulant, willful and sensual, a mouth to make a man dream of kissing it, and then dream afterward of how the kiss had felt. How could Randolph not be in love with her? How could he ever love anyone else?

Everyone knew the story and was watching the meeting of the two women with interest, waiting for Sophie to curtsy. But she stayed motionless for so long that a thrilled whisper ran around the crowd. At the very last possible moment Sophie dropped the very smallest possible curtsy, and passed on, her head high.