Read Online Killer Queens by Rebecca Chance - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Chance
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She has taken so much to you, she thinks you have all the qualities required to be a wonderful queen . . .’
As they re-entered the terrace room, the quartet shifted smoothly to the last movement of the Borodin, the Vivace. It provided a fittingly joyous note on which Joachim could lead his bride-to-be back inside; unbeknownst to Lori, the exit onto the terrace had been the staff’s signal to clear the sorbet dishes and dessert wine glasses, and Lori and Joachim were greeted by a footman carrying a silver tray bearing two champagne coupes.
‘Let us toast, my dear,’ Joachim said, handing one to Lori.
‘How did they
know
?’ she whispered to him as she took it, taken aback by the fact that the staff were so aware of the situation.
He smiled, a genuinely amused smile, and stroked the hand that was resting on his sleeve.
‘Ah, this is something you will have to become used to, Lori,’ he said gently. ‘You are no longer a private person. You belong now to us, to this little country. We will honour you, treasure you, look after you. Anticipate your needs, treat you like the queen you are.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Lori blurted out as Joachim toasted her, clinking his glass against hers, the cut-glass crystal ringing pure and clear for a moment.
‘You have said yes, and that’s all I needed to hear,’ he said, smiling fondly at her as he sipped his champagne. ‘My very dear and sweet Lori.’
But I never actually
said
yes
, Lori realized now as she stood on the dressmaker’s stool. The women had finished pinning the hem, and were stepping back to coo at her in a stream of Herzoslovakian: Lori was studying the language, but couldn’t have got close to making out what they were saying. Still, it was indubitably positive. Their hands were clasped at their breasts, their heads cocked to the side, their faces wreathed in sentimental smiles.
‘Come!’ the head seamstress said, holding out her hand to Lori and nodding imperatively. ‘You come!’
Taking her hand, Lori stepped off the stool. Clicks of the tongue, hisses and gestures from the little women, indicated that she should walk slowly, as the dress was bristling with pins. This was the first time that she was wearing the actual wedding dress; previously, as per couture tradition, Lori had had fittings for the
toile
, a test-run dress of heavy unbleached cotton, made so that the design and fit could be perfected for the seamstresses to reproduce in satin and lace.
Lori glided across the marble floor of the Green Drawing Room to the enormous, gilt-framed cheval mirror which had been wheeled in for the purposes of the fitting. She watched herself approaching, a long, slim white figure in heavy duchesse satin, a notoriously demanding fabric that only a perfect figure and equally skilled tailoring could carry off. Her bob-length blonde hair had been pinned up on the crown of her head with kirby grips as best she could manage, showing off the length of her neck; her blue eyes were wide with disbelief as she came to a halt, taking in her transformation from all-American girl to Herzoslovakian Queen-to-be.
The seamstresses flocked around her, sighing with appreciation, clapping their hands, the smiles almost splitting their old lined faces as they saw how well the dress moved and how regally Lori carried it off. The design had been kept very simple, it had been explained to her, in order to set off the extraordinary Herzoslovakian crown jewels which she would be wearing; it was a sheath of bias-cut satin which followed the lines of her slim figure in a way that would have been overly sexual if Lori’s body had not been so elegant, with its flat stomach, small breasts and narrow athletic hips. Priceless ivory antique lace was draped at the bodice in overlapping panels that formed a boat neck, skimming Lori’s collarbones, falling into cap sleeves that covered her shoulders. At the neckline was pinned a wide strip of exquisitely soft, silky ermine:
As they re-entered the terrace room, the quartet shifted smoothly to the last movement of the Borodin, the Vivace. It provided a fittingly joyous note on which Joachim could lead his bride-to-be back inside; unbeknownst to Lori, the exit onto the terrace had been the staff’s signal to clear the sorbet dishes and dessert wine glasses, and Lori and Joachim were greeted by a footman carrying a silver tray bearing two champagne coupes.
‘Let us toast, my dear,’ Joachim said, handing one to Lori.
‘How did they
know
?’ she whispered to him as she took it, taken aback by the fact that the staff were so aware of the situation.
He smiled, a genuinely amused smile, and stroked the hand that was resting on his sleeve.
‘Ah, this is something you will have to become used to, Lori,’ he said gently. ‘You are no longer a private person. You belong now to us, to this little country. We will honour you, treasure you, look after you. Anticipate your needs, treat you like the queen you are.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Lori blurted out as Joachim toasted her, clinking his glass against hers, the cut-glass crystal ringing pure and clear for a moment.
‘You have said yes, and that’s all I needed to hear,’ he said, smiling fondly at her as he sipped his champagne. ‘My very dear and sweet Lori.’
But I never actually
said
yes
, Lori realized now as she stood on the dressmaker’s stool. The women had finished pinning the hem, and were stepping back to coo at her in a stream of Herzoslovakian: Lori was studying the language, but couldn’t have got close to making out what they were saying. Still, it was indubitably positive. Their hands were clasped at their breasts, their heads cocked to the side, their faces wreathed in sentimental smiles.
‘Come!’ the head seamstress said, holding out her hand to Lori and nodding imperatively. ‘You come!’
Taking her hand, Lori stepped off the stool. Clicks of the tongue, hisses and gestures from the little women, indicated that she should walk slowly, as the dress was bristling with pins. This was the first time that she was wearing the actual wedding dress; previously, as per couture tradition, Lori had had fittings for the
toile
, a test-run dress of heavy unbleached cotton, made so that the design and fit could be perfected for the seamstresses to reproduce in satin and lace.
Lori glided across the marble floor of the Green Drawing Room to the enormous, gilt-framed cheval mirror which had been wheeled in for the purposes of the fitting. She watched herself approaching, a long, slim white figure in heavy duchesse satin, a notoriously demanding fabric that only a perfect figure and equally skilled tailoring could carry off. Her bob-length blonde hair had been pinned up on the crown of her head with kirby grips as best she could manage, showing off the length of her neck; her blue eyes were wide with disbelief as she came to a halt, taking in her transformation from all-American girl to Herzoslovakian Queen-to-be.
The seamstresses flocked around her, sighing with appreciation, clapping their hands, the smiles almost splitting their old lined faces as they saw how well the dress moved and how regally Lori carried it off. The design had been kept very simple, it had been explained to her, in order to set off the extraordinary Herzoslovakian crown jewels which she would be wearing; it was a sheath of bias-cut satin which followed the lines of her slim figure in a way that would have been overly sexual if Lori’s body had not been so elegant, with its flat stomach, small breasts and narrow athletic hips. Priceless ivory antique lace was draped at the bodice in overlapping panels that formed a boat neck, skimming Lori’s collarbones, falling into cap sleeves that covered her shoulders. At the neckline was pinned a wide strip of exquisitely soft, silky ermine:
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