Page 94 of Royally Drawn

“Rick bookended them,” Alexandra laughed. “He got Linny and Manon, and I got Kari and Christophe. She’s obviously his child.”

“She is, yeah. But she’s adorable. Congrats. I am sorry I wasn’t here when you got in. My CO was already pretty enraged with me when I finally made it to Wales.”

“It’s okay. I am glad you stayed around to help. Parker appreciated the male company.”

“That poor man,” I snickered. “We’ve tortured him, I think.”

The baby smacked herself in the face. Keir dropped down and stroked the top of her head. “You mustn’thityourself, Manon.”

“Do you want to hold her?” I asked.

Keir looked over at Alex for the go-ahead.

“Go on, she’s number four. I have three more if you do a terrible job.”

“Sometimes, number four is the best one,” Keir said sweetly.

“I’ll trade you places,” I said, standing up. Keir sat, taking the baby in his arms, and I perched on the overstuffed arm of the chair.

I couldn’t lie. Men holding babies ranked high on my list of “set my ovaries ablaze” activities. It was highly involuntary. As I’d told Keir before, I was in no hurry to pop out babies, but the picture of Manon’s fat little face smushed to his chest was priceless. He smiled down at her, as anyone would with such an adorable baby.

“You have lovely cheeks,” Keir cooed. “You baked long enough.”

“She baked too long—the longest of all of them,” Alexandra said. “I was worried she may never emerge.”

Keir put his finger in Manon’s hand. The baby squeezed her fingers around it. Meanwhile, I melted into a puddle of hormonal tears.

“Manon is an interesting name. Is she named after the opera?”

“No. Our many-times-great grandmother, Queen Manon, was the first to be queen consort after the Belgian Occupation. She married our many-great-grandfather, King Charles. She was educated at Wellesley in America, older, and very outspoken when she met Charles in Paris, so the story goes,” Alexandra said.

“But it was a great case of misidentification,” I said. “This is a legend, but it’s a brilliant meet-cute if you believe it. He rescued her glove, not knowing anything about her or giving away who he was. Later, they were introduced in London. He was staying with the Prince of Wales, and the rest is history.”

“They called her Marie. Great-great-whatever-grandfather fell in love with her, and his mother conceded because she was fluent in two dialects of French—and two, she was Catholic. So, despite being a child of the British aristocracy, she was ideal.”

“How did all that happen?” Keir asked.

“She was born in Canada, where her father served in the army,” Alexandra said. “I find their love story so amusing. Odette was on a kick about family history, and I have always loved the name because of the opera. But Rick and I only wanted to choose family names.”

Keir chuckled. “That is why there are fifteen Keirs, twenty Roberts, and half a dozen versions of Margaret in ours. Well, it’s a very romantic name. Seems a good choice. She’s beautiful, Alex.”

“Thanks. She eats and sleeps well, which is all that matters.”

Rick walked in. “Christophe has taken to shouting ‘whaaaaaat’ loudly whenever he doesn’t want to hear something. It drives me mad, and I worry it will flare up at the wedding.”

“Odette will manage him,” I said. “He will be fine.”

“Oh, Keir made it,” Rick said. Finally, the oestrogen quotient goes down.”

“Yes, I got to meet the latest of the Deschamps girls. She’s delightful. And complain all you might, but this beats the barracks I just fled.”

“I supposed if you had to choose between sharing a room with a random service member or Ingrid, you’d pick Ingrid.”

“Well, it’s no contest,” Keir said. “Except the random pilot would be tidier and not leave his clothes all over the damn floor.”

“Keir!”

“What? You leave a bunch of clothes in your wake everywhere you go. It’s as if you expect someone to pick up after you.”

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