Penelope’s first official duty as Queen was to preside over a royal press conference. It hadn’t even started yet, and she was already twitchy, shifting in her seat—a comfy couch, not nearly as stiff and intimidating as she imagined the throne would be—and twisting at her bracelets. At least Simon was with her, though. The new King was solid as a rock at her side, completely focused on the assistant who’d been assigned to prep them. Pen tried to draw strength from his fortitude rather than focusing on how she’d be greeting her people for the first time ever in a few minutes.

The assistant flipped a page on her clipboard. “There are a few more issues you’ll need to be prepped for that are less about the actual… well, issues—and more about the public perception of you two since your wedding yesterday. First up is Simon’s lips.”

Pen blinked. The public was interested in her husband’s lips? She gave him a sideways glance. To be fair, they were pretty damn excellent lips. She could still remember the feel of them on hers last night, how they’d been soft and yet so deliciously demanding, full and biteable. Not that she’d had the chance to bite them. Yet.

“What about my lips?” Simon asked, sounding adorably befuddled. He’d put on his reading glasses to look over the list the assistant had given him, making him look more like Clark Kent than ever.

“They have a Twitter account,” the assistant answered dryly. “TheKingsKisser. Apparently the females of the world are obsessed.”

Delighted and suddenly feeling more than a little mischievous, Pen whipped out her phone before the assistant could continue. She couldn’t stop herself from giggling when she found the account. The profile picture was a close-up of Simon’s puckered lips, which could only have been taken during a speech but was made to look like he’d been caught in the act of a bad-boy pout. “Twenty thousand followers already!” she crowed, scrolling through the pictures on the timeline. They’d caught his lips from every angle, in every light. This was too good.

“Let me see,” Simon urged, but she ducked away before he could grab the phone from her hands. The assistant looked on, straight-faced while she waited for them to regain propriety, but with a twinkle in her eye.

“‘They’re so kissable I’m going to die,’” Pen quoted a reply to one of the pictures. “Ha! Apparently there’s a downside to having the best lips in the kingdom. You’re killing your subjects, Simon.”

He made another grab for the phone, and she dodged again. She tried to think of more downsides. “Ooh, and you know what, it must be hard for you to eat too. Those luscious lips have to get in the way. It’s a wonder you haven’t bitten them clean off by now.”

He crossed his arms and huffed, stern-faced, but he was trying hard to contain a smile, which as far as she was concerned felt like a challenge.

Feigning thoughtfulness, she tapped a finger on her own lips. “Hmm, I bet they could think of a better handle though. Maybe RoyalSmoochers? Deathbylips? StrictIsSexy?”

One side of that delicious mouth curled up in a tiny half-grin. Victory! And now she was feeling better too—much readier to face her people for the first time ever, with this man at her side.

The assistant cleared her throat and shuffled her papers, regaining control of the pre-conference meeting. “They may also ask about some upcoming political issues,” she went on as if the interruption hadn’t happened. “The House of Lords has been seeing a bit of drama lately, so I hope you’re both up to date on that. Then there have also been some grumblings about Your Majesty marrying someone from outside the country. It would be a good idea to focus on the way this union strengthens Escona’s bonds with our allies and starts off your reign with more stability. Lastly, there’s the issue of Penelope’s looks.”

Simon glanced up from his papers. “Her looks?”

Penelope’s stomach twisted. The assistant’s tone was faintly apologetic, which could only mean bad news. “What about my looks?”

“Well, the focus groups really liked how you’re more ‘traditional looking,’ with those beautiful dark eyes and hair. However, they wish you wouldn’t wear… um, ‘tablecloths,’ is the way several members of the groups phrased it.”

Penelope felt like someone had kicked her in the gut. All her newfound confidence dissipated like mist on the wind. She loved her Bohemian dresses. They felt like her, part of her identity. Her team had tried to convince her to wear some stiff-looking high-necked monstrosity this morning and had traded looks when she’d chosen a dress she’d felt more comfortable in. Now she understood what those looks had meant. “Oh,” she managed.

“Also,” the assistant went on, her tone still apologetic, “the Castle’s PR department isn’t convinced that your lipstick shades are the best suited for a Queen. Your makeup artist will have some alternative suggestions for you tomorrow.”

Because, of course, it was already too late to change for today. Pen would have to face the press for the first time ever knowing that many of them thought she looked like some sort of style-deprived tramp. She shrunk in her seat. “Right. Okay.”

“I don’t think—” Simon started, his voice official and a touch cold, but he was interrupted when the door connecting to the throne room opened.

“We’re ready,” said a man in a suit, motioning them out.

The assistant nodded and turned back to the King and Queen. “Show time!” she said, her voice back to cheerful as if the last few minutes hadn’t even happened. “You’re gonna do great, Your Majesty,” she assured Penelope. “Most of the people see you as a very romantic figure, a people’s queen, someone with a good head on her shoulders. You’re already off to a good start. Keep things under control and soon the press will be eating out of your hand.”

Pen took a deep breath and stood, steeling herself. Simon touched her arm, lending her his support. “Okay,” she said. “Showtime.”

The throne room was a disconcerting mixture of traditional and cutting-edge modern. The thrones were high-backed cherrywood chairs inset with jewels and draped in Esconian purple, but they looked out over Hollywood-grade stage lights, teleprompters, and rows and rows of journalist seating. Pen sat straight in her throne, hardly daring to let her spine touch its back, self-conscious in her tablecloth dress. She felt a bit like a little girl borrowing her mother’s clothes and pretending she was royalty. What right did she have to be here, in this centuries-old chair, in front of all these people who called her “Your Majesty” and “Your Royal Highness”? Especially while wearing her tablecloth dress and slut lipstick. She had to make an effort to keep her shoulders square instead of shrinking into herself the way she wanted to.

“The King and Queen will now take questions,” said someone from the PR department, and chose one of the journalists to ask the first one.

“Your Majesty, could you tell us what your first undertaking as Queen will be?” the woman asked.

Pen blew out a breath in relief. This, she could handle. “Absolutely,” she said, making sure to project her voice the way she’d been told. The little mic hidden in her neckline would pick up her words regardless, but a queen mustn’t mutter, or so the PR people kept reminding her. “The first thing I want to do is work on some legislation to add more required play time back into the Esconian school system. Research shows that the move to a stronger focus on academics, especially in primary school, has actually had a negative impact on children’s self-esteem, creativity, and social skills.” She cited more research like a pro, the passion coming through in her voice as she spoke. This was why she’d taken the throne, why she was willing to let herself be judged by so many people—to help the children of her country.

The next question was for Simon. “Your Highness, what do you think about the perceived gap between the quality of Escona’s school lunches versus that of the surrounding nations?”

Caught off guard—this wasn’t a topic he’d be as familiar with as Pen—he drummed his fingers against his knee as he tried to formulate an answer. Without thinking, she reached out to cover his hand with hers, steadying him. She addressed the journalist in his place, redirecting the question toward a subject Simon would be able to answer more confidently. “I believe His Highness is focused on the root problem of bringing the Royal Treasury up to date and closing the gap with the national deficit. After all, a lack of funding for the schools is the reason their lunches aren’t as good as they should be.”

Simon shot her a quick look of gratitude and curled his fingers around hers for a moment before she pulled her hand back. He cleared his throat and clarified his ideas for his pet project of renovating the treasury system, and then it was on to the next question.

The press conference lasted another half-hour, and while Pen stammered a few times and went completely blank once, the PR person in charge was good at redirecting problem questions and giving the queen time to gather herself. It wasn’t nearly the disaster she’d thought it might be, and when it was over she retreated to the adjacent prep room feeling like she might eventually get the hang of this.

Until the PR person leaned over to address her in a low voice. “Your Majesty, it would be best to avoid the handholding and those covert looks between you and King Simon. I recommend toning those down to fall in line with the modesty expectations of the Castle.”

Pen raised an eyebrow, amused. She wasn’t supposed to hold hands with her husband in public? What a load of bullshit. Earlier she’d been a “romantic figure” and the PR department liked that, but apparently she couldn’t look too romantic with her husband or it was deemed immodest. It wasn’t like she’d been dry humping him on national television or anything, for crying out loud.

But Simon was nodding along, his expression serious enough for the both of them. “Of course, we’ll work on that,” he said.

Pen sighed but didn’t say anything. Of course Strict Simon would think they’d need to keep to Victorian standards of chastity in public even though they were technically on their honeymoon.

But as he guided her from the prep room, she couldn’t help but notice his hand drifted a little too low on her back for propriety. She shot him another ‘covert look,’ thinking about all the things she wanted to do to him, and the things she wanted him to do to her, once they were finally alone again. He didn’t return the look, but his eyes did that almost-smiling thing again, and it gave her hope that maybe he hadn’t been as serious about the whole modesty thing as he’d seemed.