H.R.H.

“Because I want you here with me. I would miss you far too much, if you went away for six months.” There was suddenly a spark of mischief in her father's eyes. He had been at his best when her mother was alive, and had led a life of responsibility and family ever since. There was no woman in his life, and hadn't been since Christianna's mother died, though many had tried. He had devoted himself entirely to his family and his work. His was truly a life of sacrifice, infinitely more than hers. But she also knew that he expected as much from her. “In your brother's case”—he smiled at his daughter—“it's a great relief at times to have him away. You know how outrageous he is.” Christianna laughed out loud. Freddy had a way of getting into mischief, and then being caught by the press. Their press attaché had had a full-time job covering for him since Freddy's Oxford days. At thirty-three, he had been a hot item in the press for the past fifteen years. Christianna only appeared in the press at state occasions with her father, or when opening hospitals or libraries.

There had been only one photograph of her in People magazine during the entire time she'd been in college, taken while she attended a football game with one of her royal British cousins, a handful of photographs in Harper's Bazaar and Vogue, and a lovely one of her in Town and Country, in a ballgown, in an article about young royals. Christianna kept a low profile, which pleased her father. Freddy was entirely another story, but he was a boy, as Prince Hans Josef always pointed out. But he had warned him that when he returned from Asia, there were to be no more supermodel capers or starlet scandals, and if he continued to draw attention to himself, his father would cut off his allowance. Freddy had gotten the point, and had promised to behave when he came home. He was in no hurry to return.

“I'll see you tonight, my dear,” Prince Hans Josef said as he gave her a warm hug, and then left the dining room as the footmen he walked past all bowed low.

Christianna went back to her own apartment on the third floor of the royal palace. She had a large beautiful bedroom, a dressing room, a handsome sitting room, and an office. Her secretary was waiting for her, and Charles was lying on the floor. He had been groomed and coiffed and bathed, and didn't look anything like the dog she had run in the woods with that morning. He looked gravely subdued and somewhat depressed over whatever they had done to clean him up. He hated being bathed. Christianna smiled as she glanced over at him, feeling more in common with the dog than with anyone else in the palace, or maybe the entire country. She disliked being coiffed and groomed and tended to as much as the dog did. She had been much happier running with him that morning, getting soaked and covered with mud. She patted him and sat down on the other side of the desk, as her secretary looked up at her and smiled, and handed Christianna her dreaded schedule. Sylvie de Maréchale was a Swiss woman from Geneva, in her late forties, whose children had grown up and gone. Two were living in the States, one in London, one in Paris, and for the past six years she had handled everything for Christianna. She was enjoying her job much more now that the princess was home. She had a warm, motherly style, and she was someone Christianna could at least talk to, and if necessary, complain to, about the boredom of her life.