If The Ring Fits.... Melissa Mcclone

      Prince Richard cleared his throat.

      The marquess sighed. “Why don’t you ask His Serene Highness?”

      Prince Richard said nothing. Who the hell did he think he was, standing there with an arrogant expression on his face as if she was a low-life serf? She’d cried thinking she’d been the cause of the marquess’s heart attack. Cried. She deserved an answer. Christina planted her hands on her hips. “So, are you going to tell me, Your Serene Highness?”

      Both the marquess and Didier chuckled, earning them a glare from Prince Richard. He glanced toward the ceiling and let loose a tirade in French.

      Pompous ass. As if I wanted to be part of this. She could match his colorful French vocabulary word for word, but she chose to take a calming breath instead. “Your Highness, I did not glue the ring to my finger, nor did I do any of this on purpose. If you have anything to say, please say it to my face in English.”

      Prince Richard studied her. “You speak French?”

      “Fluently,” she said, enjoying the surprise that registered in his eyes. The man had way too much pride. “When I was in college, I studied in Paris.”

      “Any other languages?”

      “Italian.” Christina realized she had the upper hand. And she liked it, liked it a lot. “I also spent two semesters in Florence.”

      “Your Highness,” Didier said, rather bravely, Christina thought, “I believe Miss Armstrong is waiting for her answer about the marquess’s heart attack.”

      “It looks as if you have two champions, Miss Armstrong.” Prince Richard regained his princely composure, but a vein in his neck still throbbed. Not so cool and collected as he wanted people to believe. “You want to know, I shall tell you. Since you so inexcu—”

      Didier coughed. “Excuse me, Your Highness.”

      Good thing looks couldn’t kill or one of her champions would be a goner. Christina could have sworn she saw the prince sending daggers, machetes and a wood block full of Wusthof knives toward Didier.

      Prince Richard continued. “Since you had the misfortune of getting the ring stuck on your finger, I felt it was in our mutual best interest to clear the palace before any gossip could occur. I needed a way to end the party, so I enlisted the aid of my thespian uncle.”

      “I’ve done Shakespeare,” the marquess said, giving a bow.

      A man after her own heart. Christina chuckled.

      “Thanks to his brilliant performance, I can see to…his recovery.”

      See to her was what Prince Richard meant. His ruse. It had worked. Not a bad plan, she had to admit. And she was in favor of doing anything to stop gossip and keep the press at bay. His Serene Highness might not be a knight in shining armor, but he was quick on his feet. Maybe he could figure a way out of this mess.

      “Now that I have answered your question, Miss Armstrong, would you kindly remove the gloves?”

      A knock at the door stopped her. Silence. No one moved. Everyone stared at the door. Another knock.

      Prince Richard nodded at Didier, who moved to the doors and opened one of them slightly before stepping back. “It’s Mr. Armstrong.”

      Her father entered the room with a smile on his face. Oh, no. Christina estimated that in less than sixty seconds his smile would turn upside down. She hid her hands behind her back.

      “Sweetheart.” Her father’s hug took her by surprise. He not only preferred showing his affection with gifts rather than touch, but she expected him to be angry at her, not happy. “Sorry for the delay, Your Highness, but I had to telephone my wife.”

      Mother knew. Christina wrung her hands. “How did she take…I mean…Is she okay?”

      “She’s fine.”

      Fine? Her mother? That wasn’t possible. The only reason her mother hadn’t come to San Montico was because of the discovery of a new wrinkle that warranted an emergency appointment, complete with chartered jet and flight crew, to her plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. Overreaction was Claire Armstrong’s middle name.

      “May I see the ring, Your Highness?” Alan asked.

      Prince Richard nodded. “If Miss Armstrong removes the glove.”

      “Do as the prince says,” her father whispered. “Whatever he says.”

      “Yes, sir.” She removed the glove and held out her left hand.

      “Interesting.” Alan tugged and twisted it. She waited for him to yell at her, to express his disappointment with her yet again. Instead, his smile widened. “It’s not coming off, is it?”

      “No, it’s not, Mr. Armstrong,” Didier said. The marquess echoed him.

      “It will come off.” Prince Richard grimaced. “The ring does not fit.”

      The three other men exchanged a glance making Christina feel like the only one not privy to a secret handshake.

      “I would like Christina to remain at the palace,” Prince Richard said.

      Say no, Daddy. Say no.

      “That’s understandable considering the circumstances,” Alan replied. “I’ll have her luggage packed and sent over. Discreetly, of course.”

      Prince Richard nodded his approval. “You are more than welcome to stay yourself.”

      Please stay, Daddy. Please stay.

      “Thank you, Your Highness, but that isn’t necessary.” Alan glanced at the ring on her finger and chuckled. “I have so much to take care of I doubt I’ll sleep a wink tonight.”

      Finally, he was going to do something. The overwhelming sense of relief made Christina sigh.

      “Don’t worry.” Her father patted her arm. “I’ll take care of everything.”

      Thank goodness. She wasn’t in this alone. But her father was acting so calmly, so unlike his normal disapproving self. “You aren’t mad?”

      “A bit surprised,” he admitted. “But not mad.”

      Now she really felt like the only one excluded from the club. Something was definitely going on.

      “My uncle will see you out,” Prince Richard said.

      Christina wanted her father to stay. She wanted to tell him how much she appreciated his help. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. She said good-night instead.

      “Sleep well.” Alan kissed the top of her head. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

      Christina stared, dumbfounded. She’d waited for years to hear her father say those words. All she ever wanted was to be a good girl and make her parents proud, but things had never worked out that way. She got into trouble without even trying. Getting the ring stuck on her finger was a perfect example. Except for keeping it a secret from the press, how was this any different from the times before?

      Richard would not give up. So much was at stake, but nothing had worked. Not the soap, not the lotion, not the Vaseline. The ring was still stuck. He was running out of ideas.

      And time.

      It was almost two o’clock in the morning. He had kept his mother and the entire palace in the dark about Christina and the ring. He could not keep it hidden forever. Come morning, the dawn would bring the truth about the ring and who wore it to light.

      If the citizens thought the “magic” of the ring had selected Christina to be his bride and Richard married her, they would cling to their silly customs and traditions even more. The legend would not only seal his fate, but that of San Montico. With archaic ideas such as legends and fairy tales part of everyday life, San Montico would never have