No matter how large the project, however, it always began with a single step. Genevieve’s tutors, whether in languages, politics, or riding, all had impressed that singular notion upon her.
And goodness knew that both she and Kelsey were more than stubborn enough to do whatever they put their minds to.
Lifting her own sparkling water, Genny said, “A ridiculously high goal? Perhaps. But a worthy one.”
“Yes.” Kelsey nodded emphatically. “I’m so grateful that you squeeze me in for these lunches twice a week. Truly.” Then she lunged across the table to take Genny’s hand, snagging the lace runner in the process. The Waterford vase of pale peach roses toppled over.
A footman clearing their plates managed to right it before any water puddled out. Genevieve shot him a look of thanks.
Her sister had a natural, ah, exuberance unlike anyone else in Alcarsa Palace. Or perhaps they’d all started with it until protocol drummed it out. Regardless, Kelsey kept the staff on their toes as she whirlwinded her way through the halls.
On the other hand, Genny appreciated how genuine her responses were to everything. No practiced platitudes, no polite-yet-meaningless nods and plastic smiles.
There were some days she envied her sister.
Not that she’d ever admit it.
“You’re family.” Genny beamed at her, relieved that she meant the grateful smile. It took Kelsey almost being killed by an assassin a few weeks ago for them to get past Genevieve’s initial…wariness. Okay, bitchiness. “I’d happily put off the prime minister to have lunch with you.”
“That’s because none of you like the snooty-ass prime minister.”
“No, that’d merely be the added bonus.” So true, though.
Sitting back down, Kelsey straightened the runner and gave an apologetic finger wave at the footman. “Sorry, Ivan.”
Amazing. She’d barely learned more than how to count to twenty—and how to swear—in the Moncriano language, but Kelsey made a point of learning the names of every servant, driver, and bodyguard in the royal service.
That, that was the mark of a true princess of the House of Villani. That bone-deep caring for their subjects.
Genny was so proud of her.
Leaning back to allow Ivan to serve the lime sorbet, Genny asked, “So the story of your first dance does not end well. Did things improve at the next one?”
Kelsey snorted. “No fair. It’s your turn. We’ll save my disastrous prom episode for another lunch. Who was your first real dance with?”
“Besides my dancing instructor?” It took a long stare out the arched window at the marble peacock fountain in the courtyard before the memory solidified. “I was twelve. It was the Harvest Ball, and I wanted the first dance to be with Papa.”
“Aww, there’s nothing cuter than a father-daughter dance.”
“Cute” wasn’t exactly the aim of the presentational dance of the royal family. “Tradition, however, meant that Papa had to lead off the dancing with the duchess of our biggest farming duchy. Christian was stuck with their fully-grown daughter, who’d just had her fiancé break their engagement so he could run after a princess of Luxembourg.”
Oh, the memory was flooding back now. Genevieve set down her spoon so she could prop her chin on her hands to properly dish the dirt. “Christian’s partner regaled my fourteen-year-old brother with a bitter diatribe about how all men were evil, cheating bastards.”
The woman hadn’t been invited back to the palace for five years.
Wincing, Kelsey said, “I get that she was bitter, but…what a rotten thing to unload on a teenager. Is it okay to decide right now not to like her? Or does she foster guide dogs now?”
Ah, such bone-deep loyalty to the brother she barely knew. Yet more proof that Kelsey’s inner princess had all the right instincts.
Allowing a tiny, barely there smirk to form, Genevieve said, “Lucia’s fortune-hunting down a third husband in Monaco.”
“Sounds like karma took care of her.” Kelsey rolled her hand in a circle. “Get back to your story.”
“I had the distinct non-pleasure of waltzing with the Minister of the Treasury.”
“Really? No dashing foreign prince? No dreamy school friend?”
She’d asked to send an invite to a boy she’d been crushing on—but received the standard lecture about Duty over Pleasure. “No other children were at the ball. The minister was chosen because he was so unfortunately short. In other words, the perfect height to pair with me.”
“Ouch. That must’ve been a letdown.”
Indeed. Genny spooned up sorbet to help palate-cleanse the memory. “He smelled of black licorice. He quizzed me on economics for the entire dance.”
Violet eyes wide with sympathy, Kelsey said, “Oh God. I think that might be worse than my puke-covered pumps.”
“But I got to wear a yellow Givenchy couture gown and pearls that the grand duchess let me choose from the Crown jewels. A little boring conversation was balanced out by the spectacular outfit. Something you’ll come to appreciate as a princess, I guarantee.”
A brisk knock on the door barely preceded the rushed entrance by her private secretary, Sir Stefano.
That didn’t bode well. He was a stickler for protocol, just like Genevieve. Unflappable, too, just like Genevieve. And yet a strand of salt-and-pepper hair drooped over his forehead.
“Is something wrong?”
“Your Highness.” He bobbed his head at each of them while he hustled across the parquet floor. Polished loafers slid to a squeaky stop at the edge of the table. “Pardon the interruption, but this couldn’t wait. It’s a missive from the royal auditors.”
There was a royal just-about-everything, from milliners to saddlers to cartographers. But… Genevieve raised an eyebrow. “That’s a new one. Did somebody’s great-great-nephew need a job?”
“This isn’t a joke, Princess.” Stefano brandished the papers he’d clutched to his gray-striped vest. “This is, in fact, a quite serious threat.”
“A bean counter?” Kelsey rolled her eyes. “They’re a pain in the ass, but hardly serious. Unless you count the serious time-suck of doing your taxes once a year. Oh. You probably don’t do your own taxes, do you?”
A few months ago, Genevieve would’ve snarked back with something, yes, cutting and bitchy about how the royals don’t trim their own hedges, either. Now? She had more empathy for the enormity of the life shift Kelsey was trying to wrap her head around.
So she’d help explain, not just snap out a response. “No. The royal family doesn’t pay taxes. That is, we didn’t. We’re going to start next year, so that we follow the same rules as our people.”