Page 63 of The English Queen

Beth smiled. “You are darling. He has not tamed me. I can’t be tamed, darling.”

Marie announced, “To the next Queen of the Belgians. Thank God you are the one who can manage our dear brother. He is… a challenge to some. You love him without limits. For that, Marta and I are most grateful.”

Marta added, “Also because I love you and would like to keep you.”

“Imagine us losing her,” Veronique pouted.

“And all of us, too,” Rita said. “I wish you many happy years, Bethy. You are full-grown woman. How it happened, I do not know. But you have blossomed, and I cannot wait to see how much more you grow together. May you have many blessed years and as many healthy babies as you would prefer.”

Vanna groaned. “You promised you would not do that.”

“I am sorry, but I do wish them healthy babies. She is a royal bride. It is a given. Also, I believe I wished you many fat cherubic children and you did get them, did you not?”

“I wanted them, Mairead. A truckload.”

“It’s the same!”

“Is it?”

“Do they always fight like this?” Veronique asked Beth in French.

Beth laughed. “Yes. Like sisters.”

“The point being,” Vanna said. “We wish you the absolute best in your new life together. Full stop.”

Toasts made, the girls ate and drank. Well, everyone but Rita who forgoed a corset for the evening. Beth regretted the corset by this point in the evening. Sitting in one was bad enough. Sitting in one and eating was dreadful. Beth knew the minute they returned to the house and she got out of the thing, she was going to shovel snacks in her gob like there was no tomorrow. The fine dining experience was wasted on her. She made a mental note she wanted to have snacks available after her wedding ceremony dress came off, so she could eat something properly while getting into her reception look.

The party arrived at the opera to screams of press. The paparazzi followed them every step this journey. Now, they had a legitimate reason to photograph the procession of princesses, an heiress-cum-fashion-designer, and daughter of a former French President. Notable women in corsets for a charity event was enough to make the press salivate. Beth bet money the photo of her posing along with Vanna and Rebecca alone would run all over the papers the next day. Who didn’t love three busty blondes dressed to the nines in extravagant Rococo garb?

“I do not think Mum is going to approve of this, but I also don’t much care.” Beth giggled as they entered the opera house.

Throngs of people dressed out of a prestige period piece mingled, high on the formality of it. The scene was positively intoxicating for Beth. She grabbed a glass of champagne from a cater waiter and looked around the room.

“Perry is over there,” Meghan said of their male friend, a journalist from Le Monde.

The lot of them had been known as Le Salon while Beth lived in Paris. Things changed since she moved, but Perry was still Perry.

Perry approached to kiss Beth’s cheek. “My darling! You look… my goodness. Please come to the bar with us after. I insist. Queenhood suits you.”

Beth shook her head. “Not yet. It is bad luck. But, yes, I am well. This suits you. The brocade is lovely.”

Perry stepped back, holding Beth’s hands in his and examined her. “Meghan may have helped.”

“Just a bit,” Meghan giggled.

“Hello, Kolibri.” Beth turned to see her ex, Martin, approaching.

Martin was a conductor. There was a time not too long ago when Beth had been his muse. He wrote her a symphony after they ended things for good. It had ended mostly amicably, but it was still hard to see him and not feel nostalgic. He stopped and kissed both her cheeks.

“How on Earth did you recognise me from back there?”

“I would not miss you from a mile away. You have a distinctive way of moving.”

Beth laughed. “You mean I fall upstairs and trip often.”

“Yes, well, it is endearing but not what I meant,” Martin said. “Manon is your favourite. This is why you are in town?”

“Veronique, Meghan, and my sisters-in-law planned a weekend for me. A last hurrah.”

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