Dot hadn’t mentioned that the foyer was milling with attendants and guards, all of whom were bristling with weapons. They, in fact, lined the stairs, forming a phalanx of stern, dutiful faces so deep she couldn’t see through to the front door.
They parted, however, to let the three ladies down the stairs.
And Dot all but ran downstairs to the kitchen to get the tea.
Delilah and Angelique moved, in a dreamlike state, into their reception room.
Whereupon they found more guards in more red uniforms. A full half dozen of them, to protect the king from the terrifying ladies of The Grand Palace on the Thames.
And there, on the pale pink brocade settee, surrounded by a full dozen or so armed soldiers, sat the King of England.
He was gloriously corpulent; his clothing was achingly beautiful and sorely taxed to hold him inside. The settee was groaning beneath his weight.
TheKing.
Of England!
They were awestruck. Oh, they knew how everyone spoke of him. He was someone who could not have helped the accident of his birth, much like Tristan. Who had indulged his fancies, spent and loved recklessly and profligately, who had no real hope of becoming beloved by his citizens, because once contempt settled in, it became a habit, she knew, and he made it too easy for his subjects to mock him, and oh, did they ever mock him.
His indulgences had beset his health, and he likely now had few truly comfortable moments.
But he was still the King of England. The ultimate monarch, the living symbol of the country they loved. And Delilah thought anyone anywhere would still know it. It radiated from him, his history, and his majesty. She didn’t know how anyone could meet the king and ever have a joke at his expense again.
They curtsied deeply.
“Your majesty,” they both breathed. At once.
“We are humbly honored,” Angelique all but whispered a moment later.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I would imagine you are.”
He was flirting. Ever so slightly.
Polite laughter, clearly expected, rippled around the room.
Delilah and Angelique were far too nervous to laugh or even breathe.
“And you are...” the king prompted.
“I am Delilah Swanpoole, Lady Derring.”
He didn’t say a word about the late Earl of Derring. But the king’s eyes flickered.
“And I am Mrs. Angelique Breedlove.”
He nodded at both of them, his eyes sparkling. “I am enchanted to meet both of you.”
TheKing of Englandwasenchantedto meet both of them!
The radiant smile Delilah bestowed on him wasn’t entirely because he was the King of England. And her eyes were shining with unshed tears, but they weren’t just for him. Tristan had asked her to tell him her wildest dream. He had listened. He had made her dream come true.
Everyone went motionless when the king cleared his throat.
“I heard,” the king said, in stentorian tones that could easily reach out the open windows, “that The Grand Palace on the Thames is an uncommonly comfortable, welcoming place to stay.”
It could not have been more resonant if a herald had blown trumpets.
Perhaps a herald was too much to hope for?