“Yes, it is,” she agreed.
With slow, deliberate movements, Amelia unbuckled her seat belt and then took the hand Carrington offered to help her to her feet. She tried not to think of how that hand had felt the other night, stroking her flesh. Bringing her pleasure that she had never, in her wildest dreams, imagined existed.
Madeline popped up, flashed a smile and whispered, “It’s going to be all right.” Amelia returned the smile, in her heart knowing that it wouldn’t be. Not while she had to be Reginald’s wife.
Turning on his heel, Russell led the way to the plane’s door. The steward preceded him, opening it for them before stepping back.
Russell looked at Amelia. “The people will expect to see you emerging first, Princess,” he told her.
“Then we can’t disappoint them, can we?” she responded gamely.
With Madeline directly behind her, Amelia stepped out onto the steps that had been brought directly before the opened door. Standing there for a moment, she raised her hand and waved to the people who had all gathered there. They didn’t look unlike her own people she had left in Gastonia.
A cheer rose, enveloping her like a warm blanket as the crowd greeted her. For a moment, she remained where she was, waving, absorbing the upturned faces. There were all manner of people within the crowd. Old, young, men, women and children, they were all waving at her. All cheering for this princess they were determined to welcome into their hearts.
Waving and smiling was second nature to her. It had been required of her for as far back as Amelia could remember. It was, she thought, the meaningless side of who and what she was. The meaningful part came from lending her support, her name and her efforts to charitable foundations, to actually accomplishing things. But because of the state of turmoil that her mind was in, she welcomed this distraction. It allowed her to go on automatic pilot.
And not to dwell on the fact that Carrington was standing much too close to her, causing her body to hum. Causing her to remember the other night, when she had been alive for the very first time.
“There’s King Weston.” Madeline said the words against her ear as she gestured toward the monarch standing proudly with his back to the crowd as he watched Carrington and the others disembark. “But where’s the prince?”
Madeline’s question echoed in Amelia’s brain as she scanned the area around King Weston. The tall ruler had some of his key people assembled with him. But the prince was noticeably absent.
This was entirely unacceptable, Amelia thought. It was not only thoughtless and rude, it was beyond insulting. Was he deliberately absent in order to publicly embarrass her? Was this a sign of the things that were to come? Or was he just out to show her how superior he was to her?
Amelia looked over toward Russell, her eyes reiterating Madeline’s question. If anyone would know of the prince’s whereabouts, it was Carrington. But she saw the duke move his head from side to side, silently telling her that he was just as much in the dark about Reginald as she was.
This was not good, Amelia thought. None of the princesses in the fairy tales she had grown up reading were ever stranded by their prince.
Maybe because he’s not really your prince.
The band began to play. Amelia shut the voice in her head out. She carefully came down the narrow metal steps. Despite the din of the crowd, she could swear she heard the click of her heels as she made contact with the metal over and over again. And with each step she took, she heard the same tattoo being struck.
Run. Run. Run.
Except that there was nowhere to run to.
The king and his entourage approached, meeting her halfway. Stepping forward, Weston embraced her, then kissed her soundly first on one cheek and then the other. Finished, he stood back and beamed at her.
“Welcome, Princess.”
There was warmth in the monarch’s eyes, but there was something more there, she realized. There was just a hint of discomfort.
The king was embarrassed that Reginald wasn’t here, Amelia thought. He was embarrassed for her and for the realm. She took heart in that.
In his mid-sixties, King Weston appeared to be in the prime of his life. Distinguished, he looked like a man at least ten years his junior. Six feet one inch tall, with a strong build, he had a full head of silver-gray hair and kind blue-gray eyes. Amelia had always liked him. She fervently wished she could have felt the same way about his son.
Stepping to the side, he gestured, presenting her to his people. “Welcome to your new home.”
After a push from her mother, a little girl of no more than six approached with a huge bouquet of flowers. The little girl held it up as high as she could, offering the bouquet to her. There were carnations, perfect specimens of pink and white, mixed with several other delicate flowers that Amelia knew were native to Silvershire.
When Amelia accepted the bouquet, the little girl curtsied, then stepped back and buried her face in her mother’s skirt, suddenly shy.
Amelia bent down to her level and said, “Thank you.”
The little girl half turned her head toward her again and offered a small, hesitant smile.
Rising to her feet, Amelia looked at the throng that had gathered to see her. “Thank you all for coming,” she said, raising her voice in order to be heard. “I’m very happy to be here.”
In response, the crowd cheered and clapped. All except for a cluster of people over on the side. There was almost a militant appearance about them, even though they were all wearing civilian clothes. There was a dark-haired young man dressed in black, standing in the center. He seemed to be the rallying point around whom the others gathered. Behind him was a banner that loudly proclaimed Down With the Monarchy. Seeing it was a shock.
So, she thought, this is not quite the paradise the king wants me to believe it is.
It took her a moment to realize that Madeline was at her elbow. “Didn’t realize you were an actress,” her friend whispered to her, barely moving her lips.
“Every princess is,” Amelia responded in the same low whisper. The smile she’d summoned remained on her lips as she looked out on the crowd. Turning toward the king, she nodded toward the small cluster of dissenters. “Who are they?”
“No one you need concern yourself about,” Weston replied dismissively.
“That’s the Union for Democracy,” Russell told her. “Nikolas Donovan is their leader. He would be the one you see in front.”
All she could see was Russell. But she was a princess and knew she had to conduct herself as one—as if nothing was crossing her mind but the information he was telling her, as if her pulse was not accelerating, even now. “Are they dangerous?” she wanted to know.
“Peaceful,” he countered.
She nodded. “I hope they stay that way.”
“I won’t have them ruining this occasion,” the king told her firmly. He extended his arm to her. “If you’ll permit me, Princess?”
Amelia slipped her arm through his. “Of course.” As he led her to the long, sleek, black limousine that was to take them back to the palace, she inclined her head toward his and asked the question she could no longer keep back. “Where is the prince?”
She felt the king stiffen, saw the smile on his lips grow just a little brittle around the edges. Clearly this was a sore point. And then she understood that by not being here, Reginald was not only insulting her, but the king, as well. He paused as they came to the limousine. “No one knows.”
The driver hurriedly opened the door for them, then stood back.
“I see,” she murmured, slipping into the limousine first.
The