A Thoroughly Modern Princess: A Royal Romance With America's Sexiest Playboy and Wedding Scandal (Avon Romance) - Softcover

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Wendy Markham is a pseudonym for New York Times bestseller Wendy Corsi Staub, the award-winning author of more than eighty novels, including Hello, It’s Me, the basis for a recent Hallmark movie starring Kellie Martin. She lives in the New York City suburbs with her husband and their two children.

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From Wendy Markham, author of HELLO, IT'S ME, soon to be a Hallmark movie.

Love Can Be A Royal Pain!

A most impetuous princess, Her Highness, Emmaline of Verdunia, would have wed her suitable prince and been done with it—if she hadn't been swept off her feet by Granger Lockwood IV, "America's Sexiest Single Man." Their one brief dalliance was indeed magical—but now her wedding gown is feeling a bit tight in the waist. So Emmaline flees, hurtling across the Atlantic in the private jet of the surprised playboy who ruined her life . . . or, quite possibly, set her free.

Now everyone is looking for Emmaline, from the press and paparazzi to her irate royal family and furious fiancé. And Granger, after pulling off the decade's most daring rescue, now has a pampered princess on his hands who's gone from pomp and circumstance to Big Macs and daytime soaps. Worse still, he's actually falling for this delightfully infuriating blue blood—and he's the last man on Earth she could ever marry!

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Excerpt

Chapter One

"Can somebody please turn on the air-conditioning?"Emmaline asked peevishly,her voice muffled as two seamstresses,aided by Tabitha, her longtime lady-in-waiting,pulled the heavy silk gown over her head.

"I'm afraid the air-conditioning is on already, YourHighness," one of the seamstresses informed her asthe dress settled around her with a deafening rustle.

"Well, can somebody turn it on full-blast?" Emmalineasked, reaching up to wipe a trickle of sweatfrom her hairline.

"It is on full-blast," came the maddening reply.

"I sincerely doubt that." Emmaline brandishedher sweat-streaked fingers.

Tabitha caught hold of Emmaline's hand. "Oh mygoodness, Your Highness, your makeup is running!Quickly, somebody, please ... before it drips ontothe dress!"

A mad bustle erupted in the designer's studio asboth seamstresses and both their assistants rushed fortowels.

Emmaline stood motionless, captive hand in theair, feeling additional beads of sweat popping outon her brow.

They must be lying about the air-conditioning. Itwas so bloody hot in there, and it couldn't beblamed only on the fact that she was swathed in layersof silk, wired undergarments, and petticoats thatwere to give her wedding gown its distinct lines.

Within moments, Emmaline's fingers had beenswiftly cleaned with a damp cloth and her face waswell blotted with a dry one, lest the beige foundationtrickle down and smear on the white confectionshe found herself wearing.

She certainly would have preferred to forgo herusual heavy makeup on this hot and humid latesummer morning, but it would never do to have thephotographers who now followed her everywherecapture the bride-to-be looking anything less thanradiant.

She would also have preferred a much simplerwedding dress than this frou-frou number - completewith a twenty-five-foot train - that had been createdfor her by Porfirio, one of the world's foremostfashion designers, who now hovered fussily at herside, emitting troubled moans at the prospect oftinted perspiration spurting forth from the bride-to-be.

And Emmaline certainly would have preferred afar simpler wedding day than the vast state affairthat had been painstakingly planned for her andRemi, and now loomed less than a week away.

In fact - and here was a novel concept - shewould have preferred to chose her own groom.

But that, of course, was out of the -

"All right, ladies, now the buttons. The buttons,"Porfirio ordered, clapping his hands in a brisk staccato."Quickly, please. We haven't got all day."

As the seamstresses and their assistants began fasteningthe elaborate rows of buttons at her back, Emmaline'sgaze met Porfirio's in the mirror. He flashedher a synthetic smile. She expertly returned it.

What a silly man, she thought, continuing to regardhim as he turned his attention back to the dress. Thatoutfit he had on seemed positively clownish. Werepurple suede gauchos worn with a lime green tanktop and lime green espadrilles really the height ofBuironese fashion?

She had no idea whether Porfirio was his firstname or his last - not that it mattered. It was theonly one he used. Here in Buiron, only the royalsand Porfirio were known by a single name, and thelatter was far more regal and eccentric, if that waspossible, than most members of Remi's family.

Emmaline had hoped to use one of her favoritedesigners in Paris or Milan to create her weddinggown, but Queen Cecile had insisted -

"Ouch!"

"I'm so sorry, Your Highness!" a seamstress saidbehind her. "I was just trying to pull the seam togetherwhile Giselle fastened the button, but it seems to be -"

"Ouch!" Emmaline squealed again, as the seamstressgave another tug and the fabric dug into herwaist.

Another profuse apology ensued, followed by thetimid suggestion that Emmaline hold her breath.

She inhaled, detecting the faint and unpleasantscent of something deep-fried hovering in the air.

The tugging resumed.

She watched herself in the mirror, noting that heralabaster skin appeared paler than usual beneaththe mask of makeup. What she wouldn't give for ahealthy tan. But those carefree days were long gone.For the past few years, Mother - backed by Dr. Estrow,the royal dermatologist - had insisted thatEmmaline coat herself in SPF 45 sunscreen and abrimmed hat every time she ventured into the lightof day.

"You must protect yourself," Mother had said."Skin cancer can kill you. And what about freckles?"

Freckles.

Yes, to the queen's way of thinking, freckles andcancer were equally malignant.

Surveying her reflection, Emmaline noticed that asthe dress came down over her head, a few tendrils oflong dark hair must have escaped her updo and nowdangled about her face and shoulders. She rather liked the look, and for a moment toyed with the ideaof wearing her hair down on her wedding day.

But that, of course, would never do. For one thing,she hadn't appeared in public with her hair flowingin an undignified manner since her mouth was fullof baby teeth. For another, her personal stylist hadalready concluded that her customary topknotwould best suit the diamond-encrusted tiara head-pieceand veil - the icing on the cake, as it were.

Herself being the cake.

After giving herself another head-to-toe once-over,Emmaline scowled into her own wide-setgreen eyes in the mirror.

This was simply too much dress, too much lace, toomuch - everything - for one petite princess. Barelyover five feet tall, even in these heeled satin pumps,she was awash in a cloud of white, yet this getup wasanything but light and airy. It weighed a ton.

Help! she silently begged the diminutive womanin the mirror ...

(Continues...)

Excerpted from A Thoroughly Modern Princessby Staub, Wendy Corsi Excerpted by permission.
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