“Isabella Kensington, if your father were alive to see –“

“Don’t,” I say, holding my hand up.  Anger surges through my veins.  “Don’t you dare tell me my father would be appalled, because that’s not true.  He’d want me to be happy.  Don’t you want me to be happy?  Isn’t there some part of you that wants me to fall in love?  I see the way you look at Leo sometimes.  I know that as cynical as you’ve become, there’s part of you that still believes in love.  I know that you love him.  And it’s not fair for you to not want that for me.”

The words pour out of me, more words than I thought I was keeping inside, and I take a deep breath the minute I stop.

My mother looks at me for a long time, standing still, her hands clasped in front of her.  “I loved your father,” she says.  “Madly.  Passionately.  And when he died, I thought it would destroy me.  And I do see the way you look at Albie.  It reminds me of what I had with your father, and that frightens me.  I…”

Her voice trails off, and she blinks, standing still, like she’s afraid to move.  She’s become so practiced at restraint and decorum that it makes me sad for her.

“I thought you wanted me to be miserable,” I say.

“Belle,” she says.  “Of course I want you to be happy.”

“I’m not afraid,” I say.  “I love him.”

She sighs heavily.  “I know,” she says.  “I do know that.”

“Can you be happy for me?”

“I love you,” she says.  "And I can."

It’s not perfect, but it’s enough.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Albie

"It's official," I whisper, her hand in mine as we waltz around the dance floor in the ballroom in sync with the music from the orchestra.  "Now we're related."

Belle glares at me.  "Stop saying that."

I affect an exasperated sigh.  "I hate when my wife tells me what to do."

"You have to stop calling me that," she says, trying to sound disapproving, but I know she's not.  The corners of her mouth turn up.  "The marriage was annulled, remember?"

As if I could forget.  The royal lawyers went ballistic over our drunken Vegas marriage, immediately initiating the annulment, since we'd both admitted publicly that we were intoxicated.

So we're no longer married.

And now our parents are.

"Maybe I'm a little disappointed that you're no longer my wife," I whisper in her ear.  She moves against me with the music, her body suddenly much too close for a waltz, less than appropriate for our parents' wedding.  Especially a royal wedding.

It would be a lot more inappropriate to have a huge hard on while dancing with Belle at the wedding reception.

Belle just laughs.  "I'm sure you'll find a way to manage," she says.

"I can think of a way you might help me manage," I say, my hand sliding up the middle of her back.

Belle moves away from me in tune with the music.  "Nice try," she says laughing, as I pull her back.  "At our parents' wedding?"

"If I recall correctly, the first time I made you come was at our parents' engagement party," I whisper into her ear.  "You should be glad I didn't make you wear a vibrator tonight."

"You can't make me do anything," Belle says, laughing.

"I'll bet I can make you come," I whisper, pulling her close to me again.  "Let's get out of here."

"Everyone will notice," she whispers.

"We've been on national interviews," I say.  "And all over the internet.  I'm pretty sure that everyone already knows we’re together.”

“You’re wicked,” she says, a smile on her lips.

“No, luv,” I say, pulling her close against me as the music shifts to a slower song.  “Wicked would be if I told you what exactly I was thinking of doing to you right now.”

Alex comes into view beside us, slow-dancing with Max.  “Get a room, you two,” she whispers.

“That’s what I’m trying to convince her to do, but she won’t listen,” I say.

Belle slaps me playfully on the arm.  “It’s a breach of etiquette to leave,” she insists.

“There is no end to the number of etiquette rules we’ve broken, luv,” I say, laughing.  “I’m with you. Alex is openly slow-dancing with her bodyguard.  I think etiquette has gone out the window.”

“This family practically deserves a reality show,” she says.

“A Royal Scandal,” I suggest.  “Happily Ever After with the Royal Family.”

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“All of my ideas right now involve you wearing considerably fewer articles of clothing.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And I’m all yours, luv.”

“Lucky me,” she says, sarcastically.

I spin her around, my hand on her back, pulling her tightly against me.  “No,” I say.  “Lucky us.”

“That is the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Belle

One Year Later

I’m standing at the altar in Protrovia’s most historic and lavish church, in front of fifteen hundred people.  There are throngs of people outside in the streets.

I should be practically doubled over now, crippled with panic doing this in front of everyone.

But Albie stands beside me, and I can’t keep my eyes off of him.  He’s wearing full military dress, Navy blue with gold trim, saber at his side.  He’s never looked more like a true royal than right now.

Classy, distinguished, mature.

He squeezes my hand, and leans over to whisper to me.  “I just want you to remember that I love you,” he says.

“What did you do?” I whisper back.

“Quiet,” he says.  “We’re at an important event.”

I glance to the side to see Alex, my maid of honor, smiling.  Then I hear the titters of people in the crowd, white noise that ripples through the church.

I look up.

They’re laughing because Albie has done something totally unprecedented.  I can’t imagine this has ever happened, in the history of royal weddings, around the world.  I don’t know how many people he had to bribe to make it happen.

It’s not the priest standing in front of us right now, the one who was supposed to officiate the ceremony – the one who officially marries members of the royal family, important people.

Nope.

It’s Fake Elvis.

Fake Elvis is standing in the middle of this church, ready to marry Prince Albert and Princess Isabella of Protrovia.

Wearing a white and gold jumpsuit with so much bling it rivals any of the wedding party.

I turn to Albie, my eyes wide.  “You did not get fake Elvis to officiate,” I whisper in disbelief.

King Leopold is probably going to have a coronary.

I try to stifle my giggle, covering my mouth with my hand, but wind up snorting, which makes it worse.  It’s terrible, and awful, and the most ridiculous thing imaginable.

And so incredibly inappropriate.

But it’s somehow just right.

Albie takes my hands, and the murmurs from the crowd begin to quiet.  It’s not even time for the vows, but he speaks.  “I know this is off script,” he says.  “But I’d like to say my vows now, if that’s okay.”

He’s asking permission from Fake Elvis to go off-script at our wedding.

The thought sends a ripple of laughter through me again, and when I try to hold it in, my eyes water.

“I know you’re all shook up by this grand gesture,” Albie says.  And I snort.  Out loud.

I try to glare at him, but find it impossible to be angry.

“On a serious note,” Albie says, clearing his throat.  “People have an idea about how relationships should be.  Boy meets girl, they fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after.  Nothing about our relationship has happened the way it’s supposed to.  We got married first.  And you couldn’t stand me.”