Royally Screwed

“You’ve seen The Lion King,” she argues.

“Well, yeah…there’s lions in it. And murder.”

“And kings,” Henry adds. “The title says it all.”

We watch the film, or more to the point, Olivia watches the film, smiling gently the whole way through. I mostly just watch her. Because I’m happy that she’s here. I almost can’t believe it. Every time I let myself, a warm, gushy feeling surges in my chest—like my heart is melting. And I feel…content.

When the music soars and the credits start to roll, Olivia presses her pretty hands to her chest and sighs. “Never gets old—that will always be my favorite Disney movie.”

Henry finishes his fifth brandy. “It was all right, but I prefer The Little Mermaid.”

Olivia raises a black brow. “I thought ‘cocks’ didn’t like princess cartoons?”

“Have you seen Ariel?” Henry asks. “My cock likes her a whole bunch.”

Olivia wrinkles her nose. “Gross. Although I did read a book once that said most guys like Ariel.”

“I should read that book,” Henry declares.

“Fantastic idea, Henry. Why don’t you run along and find the book in the library?” I slip my finger under the strap of Olivia’s flimsy little pajama top, rubbing the soft, smooth skin. I lower my voice. “I’m feeling…beastly at the moment.”

Olivia meets my eyes and smiles. She likes the idea.

Unfortunately, Henry heard me, and he makes a disgusted face.

“Is that supposed to imply doggie-style?”

Since he already heard me loud and clear…

“Yes.”

He throws off the blankets and stumbles for the door. “That position is ruined for me now—and I really liked it. Thanks a lot.”

I lock the door behind him, and Olivia and I act out our own interpretation of Beauty and the Beast for the rest of the night.

IN THE MORNING, Nicholas has Fergus bring us breakfast in bed. I hide in the bathroom when he actually brings it in. Nicholas says I’m being silly, that I have to get used to the fact that Fergus doesn’t give a shit that I’m in his bed or that we had crazy, fantastic, would-make-the-Beast-blush sex last night.

But I can’t help it—I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to servants and the…intimacy…of having them around all the time. Besides, come September, there won’t be anyone bringing me breakfast in bed or hanging my clothes. Maybe it’s best that I don’t get used to it.

After breakfast, Nicholas showers, and I perch myself on a cushioned bench in his huge bathroom to watch him shave—with a straight razor, of course. And there is something so deliciously manly—raw and sexy—about watching him shave that perfect jaw. Shirtless. With nothing but a fluffy towel around his hips.

It makes me want to lick him—over his chest, up his neck—again.

Then he gets dressed, in a navy suit and a burgundy tie, and goes to work—at the offices on the other end of the palace. He said his schedule was “mad” because of his extended stay in New York, but he’d be back to have dinner with me in the Guthrie House dining room. And after, he was taking me to a party.

Speaking of which, Nicholas said I would have a “schedule” of my own today: a stylist and personal dresser would arrive at ten to take care of everything I’ll need.

And that’s where I am now.

In a chair, in the white bedroom, getting facialed and trimmed, polished and buffed, waxed and massaged. I glance in the mirror and realize I look just like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz—getting worked over and beautified—by a gaggle of Emerald City beauticians.

Afterward, my skin feels smoother and softer than I ever thought possible. My muscles are amazingly relaxed; aches and pains that I didn’t even recognize have completely disappeared.

When the last of the beauty brigade zips up her enchanted bag and leaves, I look in the mirror again.

And—wow.

I still look like me—but a shinier, more elegant version of me. My eyebrows are clean and arched, my fingernails are gracefully painted, my skin glows even without a trace of makeup, my hair is gleaming and bouncy without a single speck of split ends.

I look cultured. Sophisticated. Rich.

Yep, that last one’s the bull’s-eye. This is why rich people always look put-together—because they can afford to hire a team that specializes in putting them together.

Just as I caress my cheek one last time, there’s a knock at the door. I open it to find Fergus.

“The personal shopper is here, Miss Hammond.” He kind of snarls, in a way that reminds me of Bosco. “Shall I send her up?”

I automatically look around the room, checking for strewn clothes—out of habit. But the maids who flit by every hour or so would never let that happen.

“Uh…sure, Fergus. Thank you.”

He dips his head and walks down the hall.

A few minutes later, a tiny, chirping, beautiful French woman walks through my bedroom door. She looks young, maybe twenty, and reminds me of Ellie—if my sister had brown hair and spoke French. Her name is Sabine, but in my head I call her French Ellie.

Half a dozen male assistants carry in racks of clothes: dresses and pants and blouses and skirts. Then they go back downstairs and bring up bags of lacy undergarments—bras, panties, garters and stockings. Finally, a tailor’s platform is carried in, I assume for me to stand on. By the time the last assistant leaves, the white bedroom isn’t so white anymore, it’s covered in fabrics of every color.