Once upon a Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #4)(41)
Author: Jessica Clare

“Perhaps you should find yourself an American, like my cousin,” Griffin said smoothly.

Heloise froze. She blinked, at a loss of words, and he felt a vindictive stab of spite. If she insulted Americans—as he suspected she would have—she would then be insulting her host’s bridegroom. But if she admitted otherwise, she would probably feel as if she was insulting herself. Heloise simply gave him a brilliant smile and squeezed his arm. “Or perhaps I should find myself a viscount. I hear they’re all the rage.”

And she leaned in and touched his jaw, just as a photographer knelt in front of them and took their photo.

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Griffin waited for Heloise to remove her hand, and then gave her a polite smile. “I’m not looking to marry, Your Highness.”

“It’d be a wonderful political union.”

“I’m not interested in furthering politics, either.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “I’m surprised you’re turning me down, Griff dearest. You know my family’s lineage is immaculate and I’m fourth in line to the throne of Saxe-Gallia.”

As if that was a selling point. “And I’m the one who brings the enormous wallet to the table, yes?”

Her mouth tugged into a forced smile. “Don’t be gauche. That sounds like something you’d hear from—”

And she paused.

Griffin laughed. “Were you going to say ‘an American’?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But there were spots of high color on her flawless cheekbones.

He merely smiled.

***

“There’s just one rule,” Maylee said as she gently touched the neck of Her Royal Highness Crown Princess Alexandra. “You can’t thank me or pay me in any way, or this won’t work.”

The tearstained eyes of the princess nodded into the mirror, and then she winced anew.

“All right, then,” Maylee said, and gently felt the sides of the princess’s neck. They’d called her in from Thomas’s side and asked if she knew anything about first aid. The princess had been burned with a curling iron and asked Maylee for help. She’d volunteered, of course, and the equerry had whisked her to the princess’s dressing rooms.

The private chamber of the princess was in an uproar. Luke held his fiancée’s hand, looking almost as distraught as the teary princess. Nearby, a serving maid sobbed into her hands, and staff moved in and out, not sure what to do. A woman was busy trying to repair the princess’s makeup even as tears spilled down Alex’s pale cheeks, and an older woman held an ice pack to the back of the princess’s neck.

Maylee had immediately swept in. “I can fix this.” She’d taken the ice pack from the woman and realized too late that she’d more or less just elbowed aside the princess’s mother and another royal highness. Nothing she could do about that, though.

And so Maylee had removed the ice pack, put her hands on the sides of the princess’s neck, and began to talk. When someone was hurting, she pitched her voice low and smooth and made the person describe the injury. It seemed that the princess’s hair stylist—who was the woman sobbing in the corner—had been trying to curl a few stray tendrils with a last-minute application of the curling iron. A nervous servant had dropped a tray of wine, breaking a bottle, and the woman had jumped.

When she did, her curling iron ended up flattening on the princess’s neck and burning the tender skin. The mark was long and bright red, and it looked like it would blister. The skin surrounding the burn was hot to the touch, so she stroked her fingers over the good skin next to it and kept the princess talking. Was she excited about her wedding? Did she want to dance at tonight’s party? Was Luke a good dancer?

He was not, the princess admitted, and her admission made Luke laugh. He squeezed her hand even as Maylee continued to urge the princess to talk. Every so often, she’d ask the princess if she wanted to give Maylee the pain. The woman seemed a little skeptical, but agreed every time Maylee prompted it.

If pressed, Maylee didn’t know exactly how her ability worked. Her mama had passed down the skill to her, and it was an old Meriweather tradition. Some families had water-dowsers and people who could predict the weather. Meriweathers were talkers. Maylee touched the burned skin and gently rubbed the inflamed mark one last time. “Now, Miss Alexandra—”

“Your Highness,” her mother stiffly corrected next to Maylee.

She sounded so much like Griffin in that moment that Maylee got distracted. But she recovered and finished her sentence. “Go ahead and give me the rest of the pain.”

Alexandra blinked for a moment, and then a smile crossed her face. “It’s not hurting anymore. How on earth did you do that?”

Maylee lifted her hands. They always felt a little warm and achy after a good talking. “Don’t know. It runs in my family. My mama can talk the warts off anyone, but I’m only good with burns.”

“Warts?” said a horrified woman nearby. “How vulgar.”

“I don’t care,” Alexandra said, smiling into the mirror at Maylee. “I wasn’t quite sure when Griffin told me, but I have to say, I’m impressed. You have my thanks.” The princess waved her makeup attendant forward, and the woman rushed in, cosmetic sponges in hand, to fix the crown princess’s makeup.

“Just be gentle with it,” Maylee cautioned. “Put some aloe vera on it tonight and cover it so you don’t irritate the skin more. The mark will go away in another day or so, but it shouldn’t blister.”

“That’s incredible,” Luke said, a relieved smile on his face. He grinned at the princess again. “You sure you’re okay, baby? Up to this party?”

“It doesn’t matter if I am or not,” Alexandra said, but her smile took the sting out of her words. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready to go downstairs.” She indicated at a chair nearby. “Sit, Maylee. In case we need you again.”

“No more curling irons,” Luke said firmly. “You’re lovely just as you are.”

Alexandra’s smile curved her mouth. “We’ll just pin the rest.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at her hair, and the crying woman wiped her eyes and sprung into action.

Maylee approached the chair designated for her, but she smoothed her dress nervously. “If it’s all right, Miss Alexandra, I’d rather stand. I’m afraid I’d bust a seam or something awful, and then Mr. Griffin would be really unhappy with me.”