Royal Wedding

“Maybe the next wedding we go to,” I said, reaching up to adjust Michael’s pale gray tie, “will be Tina’s to Boris.”

He considered this. “Maybe . . . I think it’s more likely to be your dad’s to your mom.”

“Another royal wedding?” I tried to raise my arms over my head in a dramatic gesture to show my frustration, but doing so caused the bodice of my wedding gown to slip, exposing more of my cleavage than I intended.

That’s when Michael stood up and began removing his jacket.

“Excuse me,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Making myself more comfortable,” he replied. “Aren’t I supposed to wear something different tonight, anyway?”

“Yes. A tux. But that’s in like four hours.”

“This isn’t a tux?”

“No. It’s a morning suit.”

He shook his head. “I’m never going to get used to this royal thing. So many rules. Too many . . . that’s what your sister says.”

“When did she say that?”

“Earlier, when your grandmother told her to be less liberal in her throwing of the flower petals from her basket.”

I groaned some more. “She wasn’t even supposed to be a flower girl! She’s too old. She was supposed to be a bridesmaid.”

“It doesn’t matter. I think she was really happy today,” he said, draping his jacket over the back of a chair. “She told me just now that she loves her new school. She’s taking art lessons.”

“Well, that’s good.”

I’m the only one who isn’t wild about the Royal Academy, and that’s because Madame Alain, from the consulate, is the headmistress, which is totally my own fault. I’m the one who asked for her to be transferred back to Genovia.

How was I supposed to know it was going to be as headmistress of the school my long-lost little sister was going to be attending?

Now I still have to see Madame Alain all the time, like whenever Olivia has a school concert or horse-riding competition.

But whatever. Olivia’s happy, and that’s what matters.

Michael began stripping off his tie, and then his shirt.

“Michael,” I said curiously, leaning up on my elbows. “What are you doing?”

“Joining you.” Once he was down to his boxer briefs, he bounded onto the bed beside me, greatly disturbing Fat Louie, who gave him an offended stare and retreated to the opposite side of the mattress. “If you have to rest, so will I.”

“But, Michael—you’ll miss the party.”

“No, I won’t,” he said, lifting my left hand and kissing the new ring on my wedding finger—this one having once graced the finger of my royal ancestress Princess Mathilda. “The actual reception doesn’t start for four hours. You just told me that. And the only real party is wherever you are, anyway.”

“Aw, Michael,” I said, my eyes filling with tears at his sweetness.

But then of course nearly everything makes me cry these days, even commercials for Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches, and of course when all those sweet little Qalifi children held that tea party for me on the deck of their cruise ship, to say thank you for finding their families a home (even if it’s only a temporary one, until we can locate housing for them on dry land) and also to wish me luck as both a bride and the new reigning monarch of Genovia.

Even Paolo made me cry earlier, when he did my hair before the wedding, and leaned down to ask, “So how those diamond shoes fitting today? Still too tight?”

I’d lifted my skirt to show him. “Swarovski crystals,” I said, smiling. “But they’re feeling pretty good, thanks for asking.”

Michael dropped his lips to my shoulder, which happened to be bare, as the bodice of my dress kept dipping lower and lower every time I gestured, which I happen to do a lot.

“Isn’t there some royal rule that the bride and groom have to show proof that they’ve consummated the marriage?”

“Michael,” I said, my voice slightly muffled, as he’d lowered his lips to my mouth. “That’s not necessary. First of all, it’s the twenty-first century. And second of all, I’m already pregnant.”

“Oh.” He looked down at me, his adorable dark eyebrows furrowed with disappointment. “Well, I think we should do it anyway, just to be on the safe side.”

“Oh, you do?”

“Yes, I do.”

I grinned at him. “Who do you think you are, anyway, bossing me around like that, a prince, or something?”

“Why, yes, Mrs. Moscovitz,” he said, and kissed me. “I do.”