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The dress we agreed on is perfect. It's a Kate Middleton-inspired satin floor-length gown in Malveauxian blue, paired with sparkly heeled sandals and a silver clutch, the overall effect of which makes me look…well, it makes me look like a princess.
Kind of appropriate, don't you think?
The queen is sent for, and I find myself turning back to my reflection. The girl gazing back at me has got this. She's a bonafide princess, from the top of her head to the tips of her (newly painted) toes.
Now, all I've got to do is start feeling like one.
Chapter 8
Alexander
Good people of Malveaux, I cannot tell you how lucky you are. The Prince of Passion himself is gracing you with his presence for the ball to formally welcome your new princess. All this reporter can say is watch out, Princess Madeline, your heart could be snapped right up if our Prince McHottie has anything to do with it. It would take a strong woman to be able to rebuff his scrumptiousness. Good luck!
#HeartThrobHavoc
#HeartGuardOnDuty
Yours always,
Fabiana Fontaine xx
I grab a couple of drinks from the passing waiter, who bows his head in greeting, and hand one to Amelia. Of course, being a royal event in Malveaux, the only drink on offer is locally made champagne which, along with their allegedly delicious tea—if you think tea that tastes like it was made by someone with a vendetta against its drinkers is delicious—is about the only thing I'm ever offered to drink here.
But, as the Americans say, this isn’t my first rodeo, and I have come prepared to this ball. I pull a hipflask out of my top pocket and unscrew the lid.
“Alex! You can't do that!” Amelia hisses, glancing around in the crowded palace ballroom.
“You sound like Sofia.”
“How deeply insulting of you,” she quips before she thrusts her glass at me. “Is it whisky? Bourbon? Vodka? Oh, say it’s vodka.”
“Sorry to disappoint. It's orange cordial.” I pour some of the liquid into my own glass.
She gives me a puzzled expression. “Why would you smuggle cordial into a ball?”
“You have tasted the champagne here, haven't you?”
“Good point.”
I pour a splash into her glass before I slip the hip flask back into my pocket. “Tell me, do you make it a habit to spike your own drinks with hard liquor?”
“Of course not. I'm so much more sensible than you. You’re the Party Prince with a different woman on your arm every night of the week, remember? Whereas all they say about me is that I'm blossoming into a lovely young lady.”
I frown. The Party Prince moniker has proven to be one that's been hard to shake, even though I've hardly been the life and soul of the party for some time. I suppose being The Sensible Prince Who Gets Home by 11 doesn't have quite the same alliterative appeal.
“I’ve given all that up,” I tell her.
“What? Womanizing?”
“You make it sound so sordid.”
“Serial dating. Is that better?”
I chortle. “Not really.”
“What do you mean you’ve given it up?” She takes a sip of her drink. “Much better with the cordial.”
“I haven’t been involved with anyone for at least a year.”
