All is fair in love- and court.

laceandcogs

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All is fair in love- and court. ((CLOSED to myself and saedo))

Though Margaret had been in the American court only a few months, she had become intimately familiar with the library. It was an expansive, expensive ramble of literary treasures, arrayed in that uniquely self-conscious American way- pretending not to care for the money spent, while commissioning neon signs to advertise the precise dollar amount they didn't care about. In her home court, Margaret could while away days thrown crosswise over couches, letting the warmth of the all-too-shy British sun sap her strength until she melted into a doze. Here, even the loveseats conspired to poke and pinch with starkly modern angles, defying the queen's desperate pleas that Margaret "make herself at home".

If only that stiff, stretched, tanned-and-bleached-and-botoxed miracle of surgical science knew how badly Margaret wanted to be home! She hadn't even wanted to come, and no matter how Poppa joked that she was "bringing civilization to the colonies, two hundred and thirty five years too late", she was miserable. The princess was a twit with thighs that parted like they were spring-loaded, and rarely had a thought in her head large enough to do justice to a "tweet". The queen fought valiantly to repair the gaping cracks in the plaster facade of her breeding, but every so often that Miss Arkansas 1992 accent would creep through and she'd bark at a scullery maid like she was calling a cow home to the barn.

Perhaps the king and the prince could offer some hope. They'd been touring Europe for months now- and, if they were a fair match to their female family, had seen little more than Amsterdam's red light district and Harrod's- but were due home tonight. Between the shrill shrieks of the queen and the hurried to-and-fro of the servants, Margaret fancied she was in Hell- a sloppily choreographed Hell that was beginning to smell a great deal like ham.

Ham. That's the kind of "royalty" they'd bred in America. Ham. King Washington must spin in his grave- he was a wayward and traitorous subject, but even he would have known better than ham.

And so, with a heaved sigh of relief and a pocket stuffed with apples, Margaret hid herself away in the library. She'd have to dress for dinner (which the queen had told her nine times since breakfast, would be served promptly at seven- seven! That's when children eat!), but she had hours till then, and this gown was her favorite for reading. It was rich, thick velvet, a midnight shade that brought out her eyes as well as the nearly-blue tones to her ultrapale skin, and it had beautifully embroidered pockets and a voluminous skirt. Further, since her tits were in no danger of falling out of the neckline, the princess had no interest in borrowing it.

Not that the princess could have jammed herself in Margaret's gown with a shoehorn and six attendants! If she had only the queen and princess to judge by, Margaret would be forced to deduce that silicon breasts, diamonds, and pale blue eye shadow were the country's chief exports. Charitably described as "boldly sexual" (and, uncharitably, as "cheap"), the style of the American court made Margaret look like a nun. Her court had not yet surrendered the luxury of layered skirts, of delicate lace, of stockings and garters and pearls and modesty panels and thousand-dollar handkerchiefs. If Margaret had her way- and, as the future queen, she would- they would dress like this forever.

Running her fingers along the edge of a shelf, Princess Margaret took her time selecting a volume. Nothing too serious- she'd need to store up levity today like a squirrel stocks acorns for the long, cold winter. Ah, here- An Ideal Husband. Wilde would never let her down.

Margaret stretched out on the couch, her head of blue-black curls tumbling over the arm, and flung her delicate, slippered feet over the other arm. Stretching like a well-warmed cat, she flipped the book open and held it in one hand, the other fetching forth the first apple from her pocket. A crisp, juicy bite made her close her eyes and think her first kind thought about America:

These hillbillies knew produce.
 
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David was glad for the interruption when the pilot's voice came out of the loudspeaker and informed everyone that the plane would be landing in 20 minutes.* He'd been feigning interest in the King's words for the better part of an hour and was running short on patience.* He'd heard the same themes in countless lectures before - duty, honor, self-control, yada, yada, yada.* His Royal Highness had some very definite opinions about how his son's life should be conducted.

At the heart of it was King Robert's fear that David was too closely emulating the late King William. Personally, David saw a lot to like in his uncle. Much of King William's reign was a constant party. Musicians, actors, authors, artists, athletes - everybody who was anybody stopped by King William's White House to hang out. And if you happened to be hot and female, there was a good chance you spent some time in King William's bed, as well. "Uncle Bill", as he'd always directed David to address him as, had believed heartily that the greatest pleasures in life were wine, women, and song, and he indulged those unrepentantly till the day he died. David revered him for that.

King Robert, however, regarded his older brother largely with regret. King William was always on the verge of some scandal thanks to his adventurous escapades. He wrecked a dozen sports cars. Topless guests were common at his parties and King William (and his not inconsiderable gut) cavorting with them, but it made national news when it turned a pair of 16-year-olds wound up drunk and half-naked in the hot tub. The lead guitarist for Motley Crue was ferried away from the White House by ambulance when he was found barely alive after injecting a near-lethal amount of heroin. William never married himself despite bedding every female within range. He also had numerous affairs with married women, including the wives of some very powerful politicians and CEOs. That in turn led Congress to publicly censure him for "lecherous immorality". The talk of forcing his abdication or even abolishing the monarchy altogether had risen to a fever pitch on Capitol Hill and was probably only narrowly avoided by his unexpected heart attack.

Consequently, the reputation of the American royal family had been in much disarray when King Robert took the throne. Granted, much of King William's behavior was not far out of line compared to the behavior of some of the more riotous rulers from prior centuries, but back then the press had generally sought to cover up such transgressions rather than actively seek to discover them. So it was with some relief amongst the political elite that King Robert, William's meek younger brother, succeeded him.

Robert was a good choice for the role. A widower (David's mother had died from an aggressive cancer when he was a toddler) with a young son, Robert immediately elicited the nation's sympathy when he meekly assumed power. He lived life simply and quietly, a vast contrast to his elder brother.

Unfortunately, he was a bit too simple and quiet. Robert preferred plants to people and hated large gatherings, so after the intial fascination with the new monarch wore off, he was on his way to becoming "King Robert the Dour". The powers behind the throne therefore began steering His Royal Highness towards re-marriage.

Enter Queen Tamara. Technically it was Tammy, though the only one who dared call her that was her mother, who at 83 had ceased to give a damn what anyone thought. A beauty queen in her youth, she'd parlayed that into a modeling career, followed by a blessedly brief stint in movies, before transforming herself into a socialite attached to all the best charities. Beautiful, charming, and respectable, it didn't take her long to coax her way into a marriage proposal.

Seven months later, enter Princess Britney, David's half sister. On paper, it looked quite nice. A blended family with the respectable father, the lovely wife, and two cute kids. Put up a picket fence and it was picture perfect. And for a time, it nearly had been.

But things had gotten rockier as David had gotten older. He'd done well at college and taken his team to the Rose Bowl his senior year. He followed this up with the expected two-year stint in the military wherein he'd managed to earn a medal for valor. (Admittedly, he'd just gotten bored waiting for the enemy to attack, so had charged the hill for the thrill of it.) But once he mustered out, he'd taken a page from Uncle Bill and indulged himself on wine, women, and song.

Naturally, this set King Robert's teeth on edge to see his only son trending in the direction of "William, the Fray Boy King". But David was nothing compared to his half sister, Princess Britney. David had the good sense to pursue his debauchery in private, whereas Britney whored herself for all to see. She'd inherited her mother's beauty, but not her feral cunning. The finest tutors in all the country couldn't overcome the fact that Britney was dumb as a box of rocks and her willingness to demonstrate this via Twitter was driving her parents up the wall. Toss in her penchant for eschewing underwear while wearing too-skimpy outfits and you had a new favorite for the paparazzi.

David knew that was in large part what had prompted this "European vacation". King Robert was looking for a suitable replacement and finding both of his children lacking. Apparently he thought David's international playboy ways would be best tamed by marriage, so he'd been shopping David around in hopes of landing a wife. And not just any cute young thing, but one bringing a respectable heritage. His Royal Highness thought the sheen on American royalty had gotten grubby from misuse and that an injection of Old World culture was needed to class things up.

David was less than enthused. He was far from being done with sowing his wild oats, so the thought of being chained down at 29 rankled him. Moreover, the candidates he'd met were unexciting. The cute ones tended to be as moronic as Princess Britney, though admittedly they sounded more intelligent speaking with an accent. Some were complete snobs who would make snide comments behind his back about his backwater country, never mind the billions in military aid they gladly took from the "rednecks across the pond." (The one bold Bavarian prince who made such a comment to David's face spent the next 6 weeks drinking all his meals through a straw after David had "demanded satisfaction".) The rest tended to be stick-in-the-mud dull or plain-Jane unattractive. Granted, he'd banged those all the same, but the idea of being compelled to sleep with them - he shuddered to think.

Queen Tamara, meanwhile, hadn't given up hope on Britney. An inveterate apologist for the blonde bimbo's many, many public missteps, Tamara had spent the last several months trying to class up her clueless daughter's image. Apparently she thought that if David continued to path towards King William's wild bachelorhood, then Britney might seem a choicer alternative.

She'd even brought in a "friend" for Britney to emulate, one Princess Margaret from Great Britain. No doubt she was as pale as cottage cheese and half as interesting, judging by the other British royals he'd encountered. Of course, she probably had never had her naked crotch photographed getting out of a car, so Britney could probably learn a thing or two from her.
 
Margaret heard the hoof-like clatter of platform heels steered by a drunken bint, and knew two things: one, Princess Britney had begun the day as she had ended the night, and two, she was not going to get to finish this book.

So, in an attempt to emulate the behavior her father would wish to see, and Queen Tamara hoped desperately to staple onto her own offsprin, Margaret closed her eyes, offered a quick prayer for patience, and neatly bookmarked her book- just in time.

"Ohmigawwwwd, I didn't even know we HAD this room! It is like, so Masterpiece Theater and stuff! What are you doing in here- we're supposed to go shopping!"

Ah, yes. Her memory jogged by the dulcet tones, Margaret remembered her duty for the day- she and Princess Britney were to go buy new gowns for dinner. Though Margaret had been nearly paralyzed by the oddity of simply purchasing a dress out of a store- likely directly off a hanger- she thought that a brief and firm lesson in appropriate hemlines might not be so terrible.

"Of course, Britney. I was rather waiting for you to wake up. Were you out late last evening?" Having the misfortune of sleeping in the next suite, Margaret was -painfully- aware just how late Britney was out, and who she came home with, and what precisely they did- the princess was one for pillow talk, but not one for imaginative metaphor.

"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeahhhhhhhhhhhhh...and so was Bryan." The sloppily executed wink that palsied the Princess' face was probably a fledgling attempt at subtlety, and so, with renewed hope in her heart, Margaret offered her own conspiratorial smile.

"Then please, Britney, do let us be on our way. I'll wait for you to dress and call the limo." Margaret straightened, trying to think positive thoughts. They would make a trip to that place Queen Tamara was always on about...the mall? the maw? something...and be home for lunch, without tiresome fittings and with, hopefully, two modest yet fashionable pieces.

"I am, like, totally already dressed?" Margaret winced as the Princess' voice trailed up in the manner meant to suggest a question but more likely to summon the nearest dog. Attempting a sympathetic eye, Margaret surveyed Princess Britney's clothing- a pair of sleepshorts with "luscious" written across the flank in pink glitter, and a tank top with severely compromised structural integrity. Her mouth twitched as she resisted the first half dozen verbal lashings that came to mind, as well as the uncharitable thought that she certainly looked good in comparison.

One trial a day is enough. "Excellent. Please do lead the way."
 

Just shy of an hour later, David at last boarded the limousine from the airport back to the House. Technically they could've taken a helicopter straight there, but landing on the back lawn drove the dogs into a frenzy and King Robert disliked making a scene. (David also suspected that his father generally preferred the uncomplicated company of canines to the complexities of people; given his own experience, David couldn't fault his logic.)

His father spent most of the ride checking in with his chief of staff. The simple fact that Robert needed a small squadron of aides to manage his schedule made David all the more eager to forestall having to adopt his father's mantle. The demands of protocol seemed to tie Robert down like Gulliver in Lilliput.

Robert put his hand over the speaker for a moment. "David, the Queen has arranged a little dinner in honor of our return and to introduce us to Princess Margaret. Have your valet lay out your formal attire."

David repressed a groan. Most of the last few months had consisted of nothing but formal attire. Suit and tie during the day followed by banquets and balls in tuxedos at night. He was fiercely tired of it all and longed to switch to T-shirt and jeans.

"Yes, Dad," he mumbled. David knew this wasn't worth making a fuss over. Though he bore it well, his father was clearly as exhausted of it all as was David. But Queen Tamara was a powerful force once motivated and Robert clearly was in no mood for disruption. Far easier for David to go along with the Queen's latest whim than to force the issue.

David only hoped that Tamara was off her raw foods fad. His stepmother was an unrepentant trend-follower, so whatever the rich people in L.A. or New York started doing, she had to as well. Food, clothes, furniture, charities, travel destinations - whatever was "in", Tamara had to be a part of it. And typically that meant everyone else in the White House, too.

"Princess Britney and Princess Margaret have stepped out to do a bit of shopping, so we'll do formal introductions at dinner," continued King Robert. "Britney and Margaret apparently are getting along quite well."

David was tempted to snort but resisted. The idea that a little culture and refinement might rub off on his brassy half-sister deeply pleased his father. Robert still held out hope that the past seven years of drunken carousing and poor decision-making were mere merely a phase and that Britney would soon blossom into a proper princess.

David thought the idea ridiculous. Britney had learned long ago that being pretty, royal, and female meant that anything requiring effort was largely unnecessary, such as manners or thinking. It'd take something akin to dynamite to blast her into adulthood.

As for the Britney being friends with Princess Margaret, he had his doubts. He hadn't seen her in person since he was a kid and she barely out of diapers, but he had met her father more recently. If he was any indication, she was probably just like the rest of the European snobs who took great pleasure in looking down their long noses at America. (Hypocritical bastards; as if their own ancestry was as pure as driven snow.) Unless Margaret secretly contained a redneck twit dying to get out, he couldn't imagine more of an odd couple.

He sighed. He'd at least have time for a short nap before dinner. Maybe a quick blowjob first. It'd been a couple days since his last sexual encounter, so his cock was feeling a bit overdue for some exercise.

Perhaps Teresa would be working today. While nothing special to look at, the plump Dominican maid had a mouth like the Grand Canyon and could readily deep-throat the Prince's girth. Moreover, she enjoyed sucking him off, so he had but to ask in order to have her on her knees. Granted, he could probably talk one of the hotter members of the female staff into his bed with not much more (wealth, power, and looks made for a potent aphrodisiac), but right now he wanted quick satisfaction. Yes, Teresa would be just the thing.

 
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If Margaret had known that a limo ride could take this long, she would have walked to the mall. It had been an interminable forty-five minutes trapped with Princess Britney, four poker-faced security men, and not so much as a People magazine to hide behind. It certainly didn't help that Princess Britney had chosen this very time to begin harping on Margaret.

"Seriously, it's like you think you're, like, better than me and stuff just because you are like, really royal and I'm only kind of? You're always sticking your stupid face in a big stupid book and ignoring me and you're supposed to be playing with me. Mom brought you here, like, to be my friend, and that means entertain me and junk. And you're like never coming to the parties, and you scare off all the cute guys with your total ice-queen dried-up supervirginity and you are like, so completely fucking lame I swear I am going to tell Mom to send you -home-."

That. Was quite. Enough. With the frozen-moment clarity of action that Margaret experienced under extreme duress, she recapped her bottle of water, leaned ever so slightly forward, and locked gazes with Princess Britney.

"Listen to me, you silicone-puffed little egomaniac. I don't have to play with you, I don't have to like you, and I certainly don't have to listen to you run on at the mouth like a disappointed baby. I -do- think I am better than you, but not because you're royal by marriage. I think I'm better than you because you're a smug, ungrateful little whore who can't exit a simple car without flashing her twat and making the magazine rack at the grocer's look like a gynecologist's exam room."

Silence. Perfect and total. It was so beautifully refreshing that Margaret hated to break it, but she wasn't quite done. "Now close your silly mouth. You're quite horse-faced enough without gaping your jaw all the damned time."

"You're not stupid, Britney. You're just lazy. You know more than well enough that you were made by your mother's marriage and you need to be sustained by your own. You know, as well, that if you continue to make messes all over the nation's parlor carpet stepdaddy is going to become bored with you and marry you off to some third-rate French duke just to make you someone else's public relations nightmare. If you don't want that to happen, and you -do- want to continue the lifestyle of minimal responsibility to which you have become accustomed, you will listen to me."

Britney's mouth snapped closed, and, miracle of miracles, so did her mobile. Even Margaret was impressed by this- she'd begun to think that Britney was on the bleeding edge of medical science and had actually had her fingertips grafted to the keyboard. "So... like... you could teach me how to... you know, look better without -being- better?"

Margaret's smile was beatific. The strumpet was not entirely past hope after all. Conspiratorially, Margaret leaned forward and put her hand on Britney's arm, much like an older sister imparting some hard-earned wisdom.

"Princess Britney, I can teach you the fine art of not getting caught. You won't like it, at first- for example, I'm going to insist on things like proper undergarments and banishing the word 'like' from your vocabulary. However, I promise, if you agree to stick to the lessons, do as I say even if you don't entirely understand why, and give me total control of your twitter account, I will turn you into a proper Princess. One who gets to marry whomever she wants, and, maybe, if we are -very- good, one who gets back their own credit card instead of having to whinge it out of daddy's valet."

A smile that could only be called vulpine seized little Britney's mouth, and she bounced with glee. "Oh, I am so totally sorry I called you an ice queen!"

"Don't be, dear Britney. You were entirely correct."

* * * * * *

Four hours later, the Princesses stood before Britney's floor-to-ceiling mirror. They'd made a successful and mercifully short trip of the mall, returning with tasteful, fashionable gowns into which they had just finished changing. Britney had allowed Margaret's ladies-in-waiting to do her hair and makeup. Meanwhile, Margaret herself wrote a believably slang-riddled blog entry on Britney's website, espousing her recent religious awakening, realization that she had strayed far from the path her Lord and her People would wish for her, and declaration that, from this day forward, the American constituency would have the Princess they deserved. It was, currently, the subject of the Princess's latest "tweet", and, at last count had been recirculated nearly fifty thousand times.

Margaret allowed her smile to reflect both her pleasure with her own appearance and her pride in the change she'd been able to create. With a sudden turn and rustle of skirt, Margaret returned to her jewel chest and selected a small, delicate antique tiara. It was a familial piece passed down from her mother, but no state jewel- it would be inappropriate to lend one of her People's pieces. With a wicked little grin, Margaret fixed it into Britney's hair.

"Now look at the two of us, Britney. We are Princesses." Indeed, the picture was exquisite- Britney in a floor-length, short-sleeved cream number that practically screamed 'born-again virgin bride', her regrettably dyed hair softly styled and topped, now, with a true crown. Margaret wore a sapphire silk origami-styled sheath that terminated just below her knees and pinned her halfway between future queen and former catwalk model. It was sensual, bold, and incredibly sexy without being racy- a look she could get away with, having been exquisitely behaved her entire life.

"I am, l-....I am really and truly stoked, Margaret." Princess Britney seemed half unable to believe the image she presented, and actually touched the tiara in childlike wonder. "Do you think dad is gonna believe the whole blog thing, though?"

Taking her new friend's arm, Margaret led the way to the stairs, planning to make their grand- and extensively photographed- entrance arm-in-arm. "No, Britney. He won't believe it for an instant. But he will -want- to believe it, and that will make all the incredulity tolerable. Just keep following my lead."
 
David tilted his head in the mirror. As always, the collar felt too tight, but Queen Tamara's most recent fashion fixation had favored a rather severe, militaristic look. Comfort was a low priority. Granted, it wasn't as bad as when Scotland was all the rage (thank you Mel Gibson) and she'd insisted he wear a kilt.

Still, he had to admit he looked good in his formal wear. He maintained a regular exercise regimen (running gave him an excuse to get away from occasional insanity of royal life). Combined with his naturally broad shoulders, he had a nice V-shape to his profile that women seemed to enjoy.

Of course, women seemed to like him in general. They found that subtle curve in his nose (remnants of a broken nose from high school) cute. (If it worked for Tom Cruise . . . .) They thought the white scar over his left ribs from where that hunk of shrapnel penetrated his Kevlar vest made him manly. David regarded such things as proof that he tended to be too slow to duck. Still, if it made them more predisposed to sharing his bed, he wasn't going to question it.

He'd let his hair grow since his military days. His former crew cut had been replaced by hair almost down to his shoulders. This was actually fairly typical among men in the royal family. After all, if a ponytail had been good enough for the Founding Fathers, why not one of their descendants? He picked out a dark silk ribbon and used a simple knot to tie his sandy blond locks together.

He left his quarters and headed towards the designated ballroom for dinner. King Robert and he had attended two or three formal events each week on their trip, so the prospect of yet another had him in a grim mood. Fortunately this was to be fairly minor event by royal standards, with probably less than 100 guests in attendance.

The session with Teresa had also helped. While it couldn’t compare to plowing into some nubile young thing, Teresa's oral skills provided a tolerable alternative when time was short. He'd say that she ought to give lessons, but he was fairly sure that Princess Britney had sought out the maid for instructions on that very subject.

Speaking of which, he was curious to see what his half-sister was up to. There was a growing buzz about her latest blog post. She’d made a mea culpa about how poorly she had conducted herself and that she was turning a new chapter in her life.

Anyone who knew Britney could tell that she had never written it. Her written words, while eschewing traditional rules of proper grammar and punctuation, did have a certain consistency in their disregard for proper sentence construction. This blog post read more as someone who knew how to write but was purposefully trying to sound dumber. Clearly someone unfamiliar with Britney’s lingo was trying to emulate her.

Only question was who. Ordinarily such posts in Britney’s name were crafted by the Office of Protocol or the lawyers, usually to offer some apology for her latest transgression. But he couldn’t imagine those prim and proper types willingly drafting a message that didn’t incorporate their usual gobbledygook and doublespeak.

David's money was on Queen Tamara. Trying to upgrade her daughter’s image had been a abiding concern of hers since Britney’s antics graduated from the usual juvenile misdeeds into more serious violations of public laws and morals.

Looking back, Britney’s trajectory hadn’t been all that surprising. She’d been absolutely adorable as little girl. Granted, he’d generally regarded her as annoying at the time, but such was a time-honored tradition amongst brothers and sisters. But with the perspective of time, he could see why the nation fawned over the blonde princess with the big smile.

Downside was that early on Britney learned she could get away with most anything by being cute. Being royalty meant that most folks treated her with kid gloves as a matter of course, but King Robert and Queen Tamara doted on her. Any mistake or misdeed she committed would result in little more than a gentle scolding.

By contrast, Robert hewed to the ethos that “the King is still a man” that his father had instilled in him and offered no such mercies to David. When the Prince transgressed, he’d invariably wind up spending a few hours assigned to Groundskeeper Carl, who would put him to work mucking out the stables, scraping pigeon droppings off the statutes, or any of a few dozen unpleasant chores around the White House. So while David spent his childhood learning the virtues of discipline and respect, Britney learned that being cute excused pretty much everything.

Things only got worse when Britney hit puberty. She went from being a cute girl to a very pretty teenager and soon discovered feminine wiles. (Queen Tamara was no doubt a good teacher; she’d snagged a King using hers.) With her cute smile now backed up by a nice rack (later to become massive once she discovered plastic surgery) and a bouncy ass, there was little she couldn’t accomplish with most men (and some women). By the time the King and Queen realized what was going on, she had the momentum of a freight train, so mere threats to ground her did little to slow her down. Once she hit 18, she went supernova and churned out one public relations scandal after another for the next few years.

Still, it had been quiet recently. She was still churning through her endless parade of lovers (the fact that she’d gone down on pretty much everything but the Titanic didn’t seem to bother any of her “paramours of the week”) and making the occasional drunken Twitter post, but so far hadn’t made the national news for awhile. Perhaps the Queen had seized upon this lull and convinced Britney to try behaving herself.

That suggested that tonight's dinner might also be intended as a tentative first step towards redeeming the public reputation of Princess Britney. David shrugged. Perhaps there would be entertainment to look forward to after all.
 
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Princess Margaret never failed to be amazed by the audacity of American paparazzi. She understood from Britney that they were omnipresent and morally bankrupt, and she understood from Queen Tamara that those allowed access to the White House were on their best behavior (and very short chains). Still, they were so damned persistent! It took an entire lifetime in the glare of flashbulbs to remain poised and smiling as she and Britney strolled arm-in-arm down the carpet toward the ballroom.

Still, if she ever figured out which of the little weasels dared attempt to catch her attention by calling her "Mags", she'd have him drawn, quartered, and his head mounted on a pike aside the Bridge as an example to others. It was good enough for her great-great-great-great-grandmother, and by God if it wouldn't still satisfy.

Tilting her head in a friendly, conspiratorial gesture, Margaret whispered to Britney. "Do you remember the line we rehearsed before dinner? You're going to introduce me to your father when we walk in. Now, laugh like I just told you a joke." A pleasingly honest-sounding giggle issued forth from Princess Britney's lips, and Margaret followed suit, shaking her head and composing herself from the falsified mirth as they came to the threshold.

Princess Britney waited for the stillness that always preceded her entrance- half respect, half the audience not wanting to miss a single faux-pas. Then, with a nearly floating grace absent her normal wanton hip-swinging, she approached her stepfather, seated, as appropriate, at the head of the table.

"Your Majesty Dad," she began, politely waiting for the good-natured chuckle at her re-use of a childhood phrase now woven into the royal history, "It is my most sincere pleasure to present to you Her Royal Highness Princess Margaret of Britain."

King Robert stood, of course, but all eyes moved to the new spectacle. Though all his people were pleased to see King Robert safely home, the human eye always hungers for the new. Margaret knew this, and it was with her most practiced "carefree grace" that she entered the room.

Though she was a small girl, taking after her mother's side in both build and height, Margaret moved with the self-certainty and presence of someone twice her size. Five foot four and one-hundred-fourteen pounds (rendered, as thematically appropriate, in the bizarre and highly irregular Imperial), the Princess nonetheless managed to fully own the space she occupied. The fact that her eight ladies in waiting moved in perfect choreography, fanned behind her like a flight of geese, did quite a bit to add to the impact of her entrance. And, with well-practiced subtlety, these same ladies seemed to melt away into the wings as Margaret approached, dropping off in pairs until she stood, three feet before the King, alone.

The elaborate motion of a curtsey, as executed by a woman whose breeding and blood are beyond accurate measure, is a fascinating affair. One hand plucked daintily a pinch of skirt, swinging it gently up, to the side, and behind her thighs. The other rested just above her sternum, as though she were to "bestill her beating heart"- in fact, it was a clever and coy motion added in recent history to prevent an indelicate flash of cleavage. Left foot crossed before right, pointed on its toe. With a sweeping, slow, none-too-deep plie (after all, King Robert was an equal, not a superior), Margaret bestowed the ancient gesture of respect and humility upon her host.

"Your Majesty. I bear my father's gratitude and best wishes alongside my own. How lovely to once again greet you, and this time in your own Court."

Straightening, Margaret did not let her sweet, subtle half-smile falter- even as she noted King Robert's pleasant surprise at her... growth. He hadn't seen her in almost two decades, the last time they were physically in each others' presence having seen him in a brand-new crown and she in ankle-socks. Though her compact, natural curves were far smaller than the Queen's, they were also much more realistic- and taut with youth's perfection. Further, her blue-white skin and dark curls were the polar opposite of Tamara's golden tan and bright blonde blowout, and for just a moment, Margaret fancied that perhaps King Robert was reconsidering his preferences.

Then, her cornflower blues locked with his own slightly darker gaze...and she -knew- that such was the case.

"Your Highness, it's been far too long. I am deeply thankful that you grace my Court with your visit." King Robert's bow was -almost- flawless, his air-kiss to the back of Margaret's hand -almost- appropriately short. An outside observer, not privy to the motion of King Robert's eyes, or to the heat and speed of his breath against her hand, the clamminess of his palm on hers, would have thought nothing, felt nothing. From her much closer vantage point, Margaret recognized a King's lust. Fascinating, Margaret thought, what a little silk and eighteen years can do to a man's opinions...

"As, I am sure, is my son. Please, grant me singular joy of presenting you to Prince David."
 

King Robert turned and beckoned David over. David had spent the last quarter hour feigning interest in the King's Chancellor. Robert clearly wanted to more closely involve his son in affairs of state in preparation for David's ascent to the throne judging by the Chancellor's choice of conversation. Contemplating that fate made David itch for escape.

He quickly scanned Princess Margaret as he stepped to his father's side. Her outfit had been tailored well for its intended effect. It had sufficient flare and formality that, when combined with her posture and reserve, clearly signaled her royal status. No one could mistake her for just some elegantly dressed starlet on the red carpet. She was clearly of noble birth and upbringing.

At the same time, she offered just enough hint of her sexuality to arouse the senses of any red-blooded male (plus the Duchess of Norfolk, who was known to be bi-curious). Just a bit of well-formed calf, a slight bit of cleavage, a nod towards the narrowness of her waist. Nothing overt, but enough to suggest the tender flesh that lurked beneath.

David was better situated than most to appreciate the craft behind such an ensemble. After well over a decade of parting well-dressed women from their evening wear, he had considerable experience at predicting what he would find beneath all that satin and silk. Most such outfits were designed to highlight a particular woman's aesthetic strengths while deflecting attention from her weaknesses. In his estimation, Princess Margaret was significantly underplaying her entire physique. Her breasts, while certainly nowhere near the size of Britney's pneumatically enhanced knockers, were full and round, her waist delightfully narrow, her butt perky and tight, her legs slender and firm. Fully unclothed, he suspected Margaret would rank among the most beautiful women of her generation, yet her dress openly displayed only a sliver of that truth. It was a credit to her tailor that the dress actively concealed so much without appearing to make any effort to do so.

The same could not be said of Princess Britney, who had escorted Margaret to the King. Britney's dress was blatantly taking great pains to hide her sexuality. Admittedly, with breasts that size, subtlety of any sort was a stretch, but her outfit was not merely trying to distract the eye from a well-endowed chest. Rather it was unabashedly attempting to conceal as much of her femininity as possible.

David found it rather amusing given his personal insight into Britney. One of the great unanswered questions for many was why Britney had sought such large implants. Prior to her physical enhancement, his half-sister had what most would consider a fairly reasonable bosom.Despite this, she had sought out not a modest gain, but a major expansion, the likes of which usually only acquired by women seeking employment as strippers. Most folks couldn't fathom why, though of course no one had been so bold to put the question to Britney directly.

David suspected he knew the reason. He recalled that Britney had always been a great fan of the queens and princesses of the early 19th century, many of whom were typically displayed with acres of cleavage welling up from the bodices in their portraits. David suspected that in Britney's mind, that is what a proper princess looked like.

The hitch was that those ancestors lived in an era where whalebone corsets were all the rage, so painfully crushing your ribcage and restricting your ability to breathe were considered a small price to pay for having boobs up to your chin. Since modern fashion had long ago discarded such extreme undergarments, Britney couldn't achieve that same "my bodice runneth over" effect with just a good bra and her natural endowment. But with several hundred CCs of silicone added in, Britney could spill out of any top she wanted.

Given that, David would normally have found Britney's outfit's attempts to downplay her surging bosom highly unusual. But given her earlier blog post, his suspicions about a new PR campaign looked to be confirmed.

"David, let me introduce Her Royal Highness, Princess Margaret of Britain. Princess Margaret, this is my son, Prince David of the United States."

Margaret curtseyed slightly before him and David bent at the waist in a modest bow. Bowing had fallen out of favor in the Western nations, but given Margaret's status, he figured that she warranted more than a mere head nod. Besides, the extra angle in combination with his 6'1" frame allowed him a fleeting glimpse down her cleavage, further confirming that her dress was expertly concealing the true extent of her curves.

David was naturally attracted to such beauty and his interest was all the more heightened by the intelligence reflected in her choice of outfit. Despite libelous claims to the contrary, he appreciated women for more than what lay between their thighs. Vapid beauty was sexual candy at most - sweet, but unfilling. Margaret looked to be a much more substantial.

Still, he would need to tread carefully. The British royals were immensely popular, even in America, so Margaret was very high profile. David generally avoided anything bringing his bedroom activities near the public spotlight, so managing that with Margaret would be a challenge. Still, what is life without risk?

For now, he would bide his time. Too many prying eyes were watching this first encounter, including King Robert's.

"A pleasure to meet you again, Princess, " David began, his voice a half octave lower after his long afternoon nap. "I can still dimly remember meeting you at my father's coronation. If I recall, you wore a green dress and carried a stuffed rabbit. I remember being childishly jealous because my governess had made me leave my teddy bear Stuffy back in my room. 'Not proper for the crown prince, ' she said. "

David chuckled at the memory. "Hard to believe that it's been nearly two decades since. So much has changed. " He resisted the urge to break eye contact and let his eyes sweep over her well-dressed form to admire those many changes. His mental snapshot of tonight's outfit would have to suffice for now.

"So what have you and Princess Britney been up to while Father and I were abroad? Have you been enjoying your time in America? "

 
If one lies prettily enough, and carefully enough, one has achieved diplomacy. "I have had a simply unforgettable stay thus far, Prince David. Your sister, Princess Britney, has been a delightful companion, and I have been both pleased and honored to watch her mature into a truly graceful and humble lady of state."

The thousand-watt smile she delivered was the spoonful of sugar to that medicinal whopper. Margaret caught Britney's slightly anxious eyes and offered a quick, reassuring nod involving, somehow, only her eyes and eyebrows. With a remarkably well-acted sincerity, Britney performed the part she had so quickly memorized. "I'm really glad that you're back," the American Princess offered, squeezing her father's hand with genuine affection- and crocodile humility. "I've really started a new chapter, dad, and I want to tell you all about everything I've learned. Princess Margaret has been, like, a super good role model."

Well played, Margaret thought, though her smile did not falter an inch. This girl can play any hand she's dealt. I've either created a future Queen, or a monster.

Margaret turned subtly, letting Britney draw her father off into a quiet, truly beautifully composed personal conversation. Though she was far too well-bred to eavesdrop, Margaret could be certain that it would strike just the right tones- humbled, inspired, newly dedicated to her People, and both awestruck and intimidated by her freshly realized responsibilities- because she had composed it, written it neatly on index cards, made Britney recite it forwards, backwards, and inside out. She'd then burned the flashcards, and advised Britney once again of the grave stakes of doing this right. Now, all she could do was hope.

And, perhaps, get to know the Prince a bit better. What a gorgeous sight he made- so handsome, but so obviously a complete rapscallion. Even if Margaret hadn't heard the stories and rumors- which, of course, she had, the Princess Consort of Bavaria had the skills of a whore and the mouth of a sailor- she would need only one look into those wryly amused eyes, just one glance of that rakish single dimple when he smiled, a solitary brush of his hand over the small of her back to know that he was, tip to toe, a womanizer.

Only after her internalized rant had subsided did Margaret realize that the Prince had certainly -not- touched her, let alone at that delicate arch where slender back flared into compact, rounded hip. Imagining such improprieties after a bow and a shared childhood memory? Damn, he was -good-. Perhaps some womanizers need but the right woman to... ize.

With a casual twist of her shoulders and a single step, Margaret began the choreography of drawing a man into a private conversation. Yet she would give the gossip columnists no fodder- at least not tonight. Her head tilted ever so slightly to the right as she pretended to scrutinize the Prince's face, a mock study of searching for the boy she met that day. "Yes, I do believe I recall you... you wore a very small suit and were quite cross, and you stuck your tongue out at me from across the dinner table. I cried behind my mother's skirt over your wanton cruelty." Her smile was warm, yet reserved, and she allowed a faux gravity to creep into the deep nod she offered.

"For diplomatic stability, I am willing to forgive such brashness, if you will forgive the affront I offered in waltzing around with Babbit, oblivious to your own deprivation."
 
"Your sister, Princess Britney, has been a delightful companion, and I have been both pleased and honored to watch her mature into a truly graceful and humble lady of state."

David couldn't restrain a mild arch of his right eyebrow at this. That Margaret could find Britney to be a delightful companion seemed unlikely, but still possible. Despite Margaret's reputation for cool reserve, Britney's unflagging enthusiasm could be difficult to resist. . In David's experience, most of the quiet and uptight secretly yearned to let their hair down and have fun without regard to the consequences. Since Britney lived much of her life in that manner, perhaps Margaret had joined the ranks of other prim and proper types seduced by Britney's carefree approach.

However, the idea that Britney had undergone a transformation into grace and humility smacked of puffery of the highest degree. It was just last month that King Robert had learned from the White House Exchequer that Britney had nearly spent tens of thousands on diamond-encrusted mobile phone. Always on guard against the anti-monarchy forces within the U.S. Congress, Robert had her credit cards all suspended before his daughter's profligacy with the public purse prompted another financial inquiry into the Crown's finances.

The month before that, she'd caused a minor social flap when in praising Justin Bieber via Twitter, she had suggested she liked his music so much, she might "orally reward" him. Given that Britney was in her early 20s and Justin was just 16, the media erupted with discussions of the moral propriety of her sexual speculations about an underage boy.

Yet Princess Margaret was telling David that in a matter of weeks, Britney had discovered grace and humility? One did not get a leopard to change its spots that quickly.

Clearly Princess Margaret was complicit in Britney's PR campaign. He paused. Or perhaps more than that. He doubted not Margaret's intelligence and appreciation for subtlety; he could tell that much from just within moments of meeting her. He had suspected Queen Tamara as the architect, but surely this would not be beyond the British noble's skills. Given that Margaret and not Tamara had escorted Britney into tonight's soiree, perhaps he had misjudged the situation.

What he could not fathom was Margaret's motivation for participating in the scheme. Tamara obviously want to have her daughter's public reputation viewed in a kinder light. What would Margaret have to gain? Had she really become as much Britney's friend as she professed? Did Britney have some leverage on her? He gave a mental shrug. Just something more to intrigue him about Margaret.

Her posture signaled she wished to draw him away from King Robert and Princess Britney. Content to see where she wished to bring things, he shifted his weight slightly. Though Margaret was no further from the American royals than she had been a moment before, David's broad shoulders projected an imaginary barrier effectively closed the two of them off in a private conversation.

"Yes, I do believe I recall you... you wore a very small suit and were quite cross, and you stuck your tongue out at me from across the dinner table. I cried behind my mother's skirt over your wanton cruelty." Her tone was deadpan and accompanied by only the subtlest of smiles, but her blue eyes glittered with merriment. "For diplomatic stability, I am willing to forgive such brashness, if you will forgive the affront I offered in waltzing around with Babbit, oblivious to your own deprivation."

David chuckled, a deep rumble emerging from his chest. Even without her great beauty, he found himself liking Margaret already. It'd been quite sometime since he'd encountered a such a mind and it came as a welcome surprise.

He'd learned to appreciate such intellect rather early on in his sexual history. Though he'd had a string of encounters with a dozen women throughout his teens, he conisdered his first true lover to Baroness Olivia of Venice. Spending his 18th summer abroad in the courts of Europe, the baroness had spotted him at a banquet and decided to seduce him. It didn't take much; despite over two decades gap in age, the slender baroness was still quite lovely and David, 18 and full of raging testosterone, was quite horny. But impressed by the potential he showed (and his impressive stamina), the baroness had taken him under her wing. He'd learned much about the arts of seduction and love-making from her in those few months.

He could see he would be relying on those lessons with Margaret. With some women, he barely had to do more than smile and introduce himself to guarantee that within a couple hours he'd have them pinned against a wall, pounding his cock into them. Margaret did not seem the type to be so readily conquered. But if he'd learned anything from Baroness Olivia, it was patience. He would bide his time.

David inclined his head. "I salute Your Royal Highness for the wisdom and grace You demonstrate in proposing such a magnanimous solution to our troubled history. In the interests our peoples, I most humbly accept."
He let a trace of a smile creep in on his right side and was rewarded by another slight smile in return.

"In light of this breakthrough in relations, I suggest we pursue our talks further. Who knows what new grounds of comity we might yet discover?" He nodded towards the open bar. "Perhaps I could interest you in a drink while you detail your adventures as a stranger in a strange land?"

 
Margaret was not naturally giving to smiling. It wasn't that she was a dull or humorless girl- she found almost everything amusing, in fact, once she had found the right way to look at it. It wasn't the example set by her grandmother, whom, in all of Margaret's memory, had smiled exactly once- at her sister-in-law's funeral. It certainly wasn't that old saw that the British were taciturn and stiff sorts; and, further, Margaret felt that most people who said so were probably just not very funny, and therefore hadn't the pleasure of seeing a Brit enjoy a joke.

It was, really, that Margaret worried. A great deal. She worried about her People, about her father, about her mother, about her gardeners, about her hawks. She worried about the condition of the roses on the country estate and the condition of the roof on the urban homes. She worried about the warmth of her grandmother's winter coat and about the excessive heft of the purse the daft bat insisted on toting everywhere. She worried about the would-be mugger said daft bat had beaten ninety-percent senseless with said excessively heavy purse- though the doctors insisted he would likely make a full recovery, given time and therapy.

She worried, as well, about her image. Not in the same way Britney needed to, of course- Margaret's behavior had always been above reproach, partially because she was a good girl and partially because she was a fantastic liar. Rather, Margaret worried about being taken seriously. She was exceedingly well loved at home and abroad, even in this motley mess of rednecks and expatriots and poseurs and pretenders. She was charming, graceful, dignified, witty, well-educated...and unfortunately beautiful.

"Unfortunately" is only rarely used as an adjective modifying "beautiful", but when it is applicable, it is very accurate. Margaret wasn't the sort of classic, refined, handsome woman that Queens were made of. She wasn't the quirky, fascinating sort of fox that made starlets out of waitresses (and, later, Queens out of starlets). She was... breathtaking. Remarkable. Her eyes expressive and unique in their dark blue shade, conveying her whip-sharp intellect, betraying a decidedly un-royal flare of temper. Her lips, hovering just -so- between portraiture and pornography. Her delicate, sculpted facial structure, equally arresting on a stamp or a billboard for lipstick. For modesty's sake, Margaret declined to reflect on her body entirely.

The point was, really, that hating Margaret was a little too easy for women, and a little too difficult for men. She had to watch every word, every action, scrutinize herself from the outside and five minutes in the future- did she smile too much? Did she not smile enough? Was she perceived as flirtatious? Cold? Diginified? Stuck up? It was, to be fair, a responsibility handsomely rewarded. But like all responsibilities, it could become a chore.

Thus, the question of accepting a drink from the Prince was not as simple as "am I thirsty?" Whether or not she returned that ridiculously gorgeous smile was not as easy as "is he charming?"

And yet, wasn't there something about this place that made everything seem...easier? America had its charms, after all. Underneath all the rough edges and raw seams was a sort of endearing meritocracy, and a readiness to forgive the past and look hopefully into the future. Of course, it was very easy to forgive the past when it was barely an eyeblink of history.

Was it that sense of fresh frontier, that hope, that sweetly goldfish-esque public memory that allowed Margaret to say "I will have whatever you'll be ordering for yourself, Your Highness"? Was it the theme of new beginnings, began so very promisingly with Britney's Oscar-worthy performance? Was it, perhaps, just perhaps, that single deep dimple suggested by Prince David's half-smile?

More likely, it was all of these, and the desire to fortify herself before dinner actually began. "Unless, of course, you'll be ordering one of those appletinis Britney likes. They taste like nothing so much as neon and regret. As for strangers and strange lands, did you know that American girls have managed to combine both pajamas and dungarees in a fashion that takes the drawbacks of both and the charms of neither?"
 
David pivoted in the direction of the bar and walked with Margaret as she discussed the horror of the apple-tini. As he did so, he let his left shoulder ever so slightly slip behind her right, subtly hinting that he was not so much walking beside the Princess. Though a handful of nods and greetings were exchanged with other guests, not one made so bold as to interrupt their forward progress.

He ordered a pair of vodka martinis with a twist. "Stirred, not shaken, " he instructed the bartender. "No offense to your Mr. Fleming," he said, turning his gaze to Margaret, "but vodka distillation has improved greatly in the last half-century, so I presume you would yield tradition to flavor. " He earned another hint of a smile. Given her apparent reticence for broad expression, he estimated he was doing rather well.

David watched her sip lightly at the cold, clear liquid. He had steadfastly avoided looking below her chin since their initial introduction, so admiring her lips glistening with moisture would be the outer bounds for his hungry eyes tonight. (He judged that he was allowed one glance at her cleavage since a woman didn't put it on display hoping no one noticed. But thereafter, don't look and you can't get caught looking.) Fortunately, Margaret had a face well worth long appreciation.

"As for the fashion choices made by women, I have long since decided that I am unqualified to pass judgment. Given that my own preferences favor such avant garde combinations as the plain white T-shirt and blue jeans, my sister has repeatedly assured me that I have no concept of fashion whatsoever. And while I would ordinarily place little faith in the same individual who has extolled the virtues of the apple-tini, Britney's fashion choices do tend to make headlines."

David limited himself to a Margaret-esque half-smile instead of the guffaw his last statement warranted. Britney's headlines were usually the result of "clothing malfunctions", not bold choices. Be it too-short skirts exposing her undies (or lack thereof), fabrics that became translucent under the flash of cameras, or over-reliance on double-sided tape to keep her outfits on, Britney's clothing choices had a less than desirable sort of acclaim.

"Still, I gather Britney must have sincere respect for your sartorial instincts. I sense your hand in her outfit tonight. If so, you've done in a handful of weeks what the King and Queen have been struggling towards for years. I look forward to hearing what wiles you employed to achieve such a profound change. "

At that moment, a steward announced that dinner was now served. Their conversation interrupted for the moment, they filed in with the rest of the guests to the main dining hall.

 
Margaret felt the cool, crisply stinging liquor slide down her throat and into her stomach, where it instantly erupted into a decadent warmth. Prince David knew his drinks, it appeared. Margaret herself had never been much of a drinker- after all, her mother did enough of that for the whole family- precisely because this was a feeling she could become very accustomed to. A slow loosening of her muscles, a gentle, soporific, liquid warmth. It was a bit like a long bath served in a delicately-stemmed glass.

Conscious, now, that she must make this martini last quite some time, Margaret let Prince David lead the way to the table. Her seating was obvious- as the guest, she would be to the King's left, his Queen to his right. This provided two interesting opportunities, and one very fortunate happenstance.

Opportunity one: Margaret could keep a close eye on the King as he spoke to her, and an equally close eye on Tamara's reactions to the conversation, all without having to play that dizzying subtle variation on ocular table-tennis. It would help confirm any edging suspicions that the King had... desires for her, and it would let her know if the good Queen noticed as well. It would not be the first time Princess Margaret had turned a male head in a fashion less-than-beloved by his wife, but this situation included several rogue variables that could add tension.

One of those rogue variables happened to be sitting to her immediate right. Prince David, who, in absence of an esteemed guest, would be in Margaret's seat right now, was probably used to being a source of tension. Granted, the tension he generally created was of a welcome and easily...exorcised sort, which brought Margaret to opportunity two: she would have a close and easily interested conversational target to loop in if King Robert's conversation became too focused on her. While the King was no great lothario, and indeed a pleasant and friendly enough sort of dull, he had lived a life of impeccable behavior- which, Margaret knew quite well enough, purchased undue amounts of leeway if and when one should choose to behave boorishly.

Onto, then, the fortunate happenstance- Princess Britney, seated to Tamara's right, was on a convenient but not obvious line of sight. Should her conversation prove, as well, inappropriate, Margaret could very easily skewer her on a cobalt gaze and signal her onto a more appropriate road. It appeared as though such direction would be needed sooner rather than later- an appallingly forward young waiter was smiling and nodding along with something Britney was saying, the slavering of ill-bred sexual hunger already edging into his features.

A half-hour later, after a pleasantly brief and direct prayer of thanks led by the chaplain and a salad so beautifully fresh that Margaret resolved to import a staff of American gardeners when she returned home, Margaret was having a silent and thoroughly vicious eye-conversation with Britney. Her face remained perfectly pleasant, sweetly composed in that alert and interested quarter-smile she retreated to when not really listening to the conversation at hand, but her eyes were pointed directly at Britney, and they were very clearly disapproving. Noting this, the American Princess blushed sheepishly and straightened her shoulders, attempting to attain a posture more like Margaret's own. Another pointed glance caused an equally sudden cooling in her treatment of the waiter, who came to resemble nothing so much as a crestfallen beagle.

Satisfied that the message had been received, Margaret called herself back to the conversation- well, really, the monologue- of Queen Tamara, who was detailing the affairs of the last several months to her husband. How tragically gauche, Margaret thought. And achingly dull. How important must she believe herself to be to think that we all want to know about the existential angst she experienced choosing new curtains for the oval office?

At least King Robert was busy making the requisite "mms" and "of courses", allowing Margaret a very welcome moment to anticipate her reward for surviving a main course of ham.

Strawberry shortcake. There were going to be strawberries.
 
David endured the meal much as any other. The recipe had historic roots, dating back to Queen Martha's own cookbook. The pineapple slices were likely a modern touch; he doubted the Thirteen Colonies had access to such tropical fare in the 18th century.

His military training had inured him to such meals. When you lived on RDE rations for weeks, a cooked meal using fresh ingredients was paradise by comparison, no matter how overdone the sauce.

David kept tabs on Princess Margaret out of the corner of his eye. Partly he just enjoyed looking at her. Her luscious beauty was already stoking his desire despite Teresa's earlier ministrations. He suspected he would require a more substantial session before he retired.

But partly he found her fascinating. Like the fullness of her body's curves, Margaret kept much of her thoughts and feelings beneath the surface. He could sense her hidden depths, their mystery enticing him to plumb her further.

No doubt that combination was what had King Robert's attention. David had not failed to notice that his father's attention was more than mere politeness. Robert was not like his brother, who was renowned for his partiality towards beautiful women. Robert was rather prudish by royal standards and rarely appeared to even notice that a woman was particularly attractive.

But Robert loved intelligence. Anytime David found King Robert actively engaged in conversation, the other participant was highly likely to be a doctor, professor, or scientist of one discipline or another. That Robert had taken the time to notice Margaret's lovely form spoke rather highly of her mind.

David could not yet discern Margaret's interest in her father. Clearly experienced at playing her cards close to the vest, it was possible she offered slight encouragement to Robert merely as deference to his status. But he could not discount the possibility that her own carnal interests lay in that direction. He had known women who, while taking some pleasure in mounting a young stallion like David, only went truly weak in the knees for men old enough to be their fathers. Perhaps Margaret had a bit of an Electra complex.

He shrugged. If so, then she offered little for him. David had his issues with his father, but none so potent as to motivate him to cuckoldry. Had David been so inclined, he would have bedded the Queen long ago.

He was, however, starting to wonder at Princess Britney. His half-sister was clearly cueing her behavior off Margaret. He hadn't seen Britney so in thrall to anyone since her last fiance. (Britney, though never married, had cornered the market on the 3 day engagement.) Perhaps Margaret had more than the libido of just the Royal men aquiver.

David kept his advances restrained. Despite a well-deserved reputation for nimble fingers, he kept his hands away. Instead he would merely lean in slightly to speak to her, the warmth of his breath brushing her cheek, the sense of his broad shoulders just inches from her own delicate ones. Just a subtle reminder of his presence.

He also decided not to linger long after dessert. He had done what he could for their first encounter. After an appropriate time he leaned in and spoke to her. "With all due apologies, I must take my leave, Princess Margaret. I am still feeling the after-effects from the change in time zones and my body is restless from so many hours sitting down. If I don't get a little exertion in before bed, I shall be of no use to anyone tomorrow. Thank you for your gracious company. I look forward to more of it in the days to come. " He kissed the back of her hand and departed.

Twenty minutes later, David was luxuriating in the simple pleasure of cotton. His sleeveless T-shirt and faded shorts would make no one's best dressed list, but he cared more for comfort than aesthetics at the gym. A light workout would be just the thing to help him sleep tonight. Particularly since Polly was scheduled to be working tonight. The skilled masseuse knew jusjust how to work out his kinks.

 
Margaret, as always, was a faultless guest. She laughed at all the right jokes, made just enough of her own to remain an active part of conversation yet not so many as to dominate it. She ate delicately and sparingly, yet with obvious (and feigned) appreciation. She drank minimally, yet with the careful timing required to keep her wine from dipping low enough to need refilling. She offered her full attention and a pleasant smile to every speaker, whether it was the King himself or the waiter at her elbow asking whether she'd care for salt.

It was something she had learned from her mother and grandmother- never be anything less than kind and gracious with "the help". They are your People as much as any duke or baron, moreso, even, as the sweat of their brows makes your life so very, very comfortable. You are responsible to them and responsible for them, and they should feel cared for individually and as a whole. Even now her grandmother could remember the name, birthday, and family of every nursemaid, gardner, cook, and housekeeper she'd ever had, and was usually more beloved "downstairs" than "up".

Of course, for the servants of the American court, the behavior was a somewhat unnerving change- Queen Tamara's own less-than-impeccable breeding made her anxious to distance herself from the working class, and indulge in that inane points game of social rank. It was, unfortunately, not a uniquely American issue, though Queen Tamara's insecurity made her social flailings just a bit more obvious. Though Margaret's smiles and honest gratitude may endear her to the waitstaff, they were certainly not gaining her any points with the Queen, who seemed intent on balancing Margaret's behavior with her own sharp-tongued unpleasantness.

However, the attention of King Robert was probably the blackest mark on Queen Tamara's scorecard against Margaret. He was a very bright man, a well-learned and highly scientific mind with an unsettlingly rakish smile. That rogue grin, so like a young boy who has just discovered the proverbial cookie jar, was the only similarity Margaret could find between the king and his late brother. Though she knew of King William only through reputation (her father had made very sure of -that-), Margaret believed many of the rumors, and the young part of her heart was just a bit chagrined to have missed out on all the fun. The mature part, of course, made an excellent show of being horrified and saddened by such a misuse of power...and hot tubs...and whipped cream...

Strange how Prince David managed to make his way into her thoughts and presence at this particular juncture of daydream. Margaret forced herself to sit up a little straighter, and accept the Prince's goodnight graciously. Her smile was no more than bright, her eyes no more than attentive, and her mind positively -rampant- as it conjured many helpful suggestions for how he might exert himself before sleep.

Such unruly thoughts were an excellent reason to make her own excuses early. Queen Tamara, for one, seemed rather pleased that Margaret was making an early night of it, and Margaret made sure to lay her compliments on thick- such delicious meals do have a way of making one tired, etc. As she left the dining room, Margaret felt the prickle of three pairs of eyes on her back- the King's admiring, the Queen's glowering, and Princess Britney's rather discomfitingly in-between.

And so it was with great relief that Margaret undressed and prepared for bed. Out of form, she had dismissed her ladies, feigning a headache and assuring a thousand times that she was really quite capable of taking care of her own zippers and buckles and pins. Of course, her motivation was mostly a desire for solitude, though she did enjoy the rare freedom of undressing and readying herself. The unpinning and brushing of her hair, the various lotions and balms caressed into her own skin, the cool whisper of linen over her flesh as she slipped into a nightdress- it was all rather peaceful when self-administered.

In bed, Margaret left peace behind for politics. Playing chessmaster, she deconstructed the evening- scrutinizing her own behavior, replaying conversations, considering the angles of interaction. King Robert was far more intelligent than she'd expected, and unfortunately not nearly as wooden as she'd hoped. Queen Tamara would require extra deference for the time being, and Margaret shuddered inwardly to consider the mental gymnastics required to appear earnest while inquiring the Queen's opinion on anything. Princess Britney was a brilliant actress, and truly interested in what Margaret could teach her- a diversion and a project, perhaps even a future ally. The Prince... well... he was charming. Sharp. Intelligent, even, and with a fine sense of humor. Attractive? Yes, of course, though it hardly mattered. Hardly.

Margaret heard Britney turn in, alone. Though the lack of animalistic screeching and wall-thumping was unusual, it was welcome. Very, very welcome. Sleep came quickly, deep and dreamless.


Perhaps such peaceful sleep was the reason for Margaret's uncharacteristic cheer upon rising. Awash in the clucking, pampering fret of a gaggle of ladies, redoubling their efforts for having been pushed off last night, Margaret allowed herself to be bathed and dressed and readied for breakfast.

In a knee-length dove grey silk with three-quarter sleeves and a bateau neckline, Margaret looked serene, well-rested, and regal. Her pearl-grey patent pumps elongated and slimmed her calves, teaming neatly with the incredibly modest dress to showcase the truly gorgeous "gams". Pleased to find herself the first in the breakfast room, Margaret selected a seat by the window and savored her first cup of tea in the sunshine.

It was the sort of morning America specialized in, a nearly gaudy confection of buttery sunlight and spun-sugar clouds in a pristine sky. Birds trilled, flowers bobbed in the breeze, the lawns looked like velvet. Margaret found herself smiling, and questioned her own suddenly charitable opinion of this ingrateful bastard son of Britain- but not too closely. It was not, after all, a morning for dour scrutiny.

It was a morning for...amusement. Play. Flirtation.
 

David awoke with most of his facilities intact. After so long abroad, he could not hope to fully escape the torment of jet lag. Still, the slight lethargy and mild headache boded well for a fairly mild case.

The prior night's workout had certainly aided. After such a heavy meal, he'd avoided the cardio and focused on some light strength exercises. Just something to tire him out and help him sleep.

Of course, proper praise was also due to Polly. Despite her slender frame, the masseuse had surprisingly powerful fingers. All the better for working over his stiff muscles.

That, of course, had not been the only stiffness she'd worked upon. The willowy brunette had been rather taken with David's muscular form. And when the combination of Polly's fingers digging along his thighs and his recollection of Princess Margaret's scintillating combination of beauty and intellect boldly manifested his arousal beneath the thin towel draped across his crotch, Polly's eyes had grown as large as saucers before she tremulously offered to treat his remaining "stress". Despite her long legs, she'd quite competently balanced atop the narrow massage table, plunging his massive rod into her till both were quite exhausted.

David probably wouldn't have indulged himself had he not been quiet so tired. Or admittedly, his lust quite so piqued by Princess Margaret. He ordinarily refrained from exercising his sexual appetites too frequently upon the staff. While the enlightened sensibilities gained in the last half century generally regarded sleeping with ones subordinates as potential sexual harassment, there still lingered an ancient perception of "royalty is different" within certain segments of the population.

David detested playing into such stereotypes. That a woman might sleep with him because he was handsome, rich, or powerful troubled him not. But it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth to think she might climb atop his cock solely because she harbored some unjustified fear that the castle still retained a black-hooded torturer armed with a cat-o-nine-tails just such incidents of insubordination.

Which was of course not to say that that David did not cavort with the more attractive of the female staff when it suited him. His reputation for restraint was born less of practice than perception, a fact readily contrasted by his half-sister. Britney's idea of "restraint" was doing it behind a closed door, regardless how loudly or how many people might conceivably be on the opposite side of said door.

Many might chalk this up to a lack of a proper upbringing, but in at least this one respect, David felt Queen Tamara was unjustly criticized. The first time she had caught her daughter eagerly sucking on a groomsman's cock, the Queen had gone on an all-out assault on Britney's proclivities. The princess had naturally been disciplined for a series of episodes where she had had been caught in what can rather accurately be described as "sucking face" (Britney's early techniques had been a tad "aggressive"), but the involvement of naked genitals crossed a Rubicon with the Queen.

Her response had been to severely curtail Britney's access to all male staff. (David was mildly amused till he discovered that some of the more aesthetic female employees had to be re-tasked to Britney to make up the gender shortfall.)
Her mother's hope was that given a sufficient lack of temptation and with no opportunity to act upon it, Britney's appetites might be curbed. After foiling some mildly clever (which almost qualified as ingenious for Britney) attempts to escape this blockade, Tamara's plan seemed to be working.

Alas, the truth was a bit more disconcerting. The teenage Britney's libido, lacking any men upon which to exert itself, began tentative steps towards sapphic satisfaction. Seeing the future this lead to, Tamara doubted that the conservative portions of America would tolerate such a "nontraditional" royal so near to the throne. Relenting, she let Britney have access to men once again and it quickly became a forgotten chapter.

Recalling it now, David wondered if perhaps that accounted for Maragaret's apparent hold over his half-sister. Britney had shown no signs of revisting that limited period of experimentation in the many years since, but perhaps she had not exorcised all of that desire. And while Margaret seemed similarly inclined, he had only just met her. A wild theory, but it is never wise to rush to judgment.

With nothing on his schedule this morning, he at last donned his preferred attire - T-shirt and blue jeans. "Say what you will about America," he mused, "but we nailed casual comfort."

He strolled down to breakfast and took the outside path. With the sun barely an hour over the horizon, the cool of the morning had yet to quite burn off. He inhaled deeply of Tamara's flowers (one of the few aesthetic values that they agreed upon) and opened the French doors into the breakfast room.

King Robert was the only other early riser amongst the family, but no doubt he'd been felled by the jet lag that David himself still felt the traces of. His expectation of finding himself alone proved incorrect, however. He could not resist a trace of a smile as he saw Margaret perched on her seat, tea cup in hand.

She was apparently determined to be a vision wherever she went. He chuckled softly. Even to breakfast she looked as if she expected she would first need to walk down a red carpet.

He nodded at her and offered her a warm, "Good morning, Princess Margaret." She returned the gesture in kind as he prepared himself a small plate of fruit and toast. It was a light breakfast for him, but given the lingering traces of jet lag, he thought it best not to push himself. He prepared a cup of tea for himself as well, mixing in generous portions of milk and sugar. He found most of British cuisine reprehensible, but they did manage to have a knack for beverages.

He took a seat opposite Princess Margaret and appraised her over the steaming cup. Where might today lead?

 
"And a good morning to you as well, Your Highness. I hope the day finds you well-rested?" Margaret allowed herself to look across the table at David, though she kept her glances respectfully brief. She turned slightly in her chair so that she presented a profile to him, and considered the world outside. It was simply a screen, a very convenient and pretty excuse to look at things other than the prince. Perhaps, also, a chance for her to present her best side- the delicate line of her facial features, the slender, elongated column of neck, the swell of generous breasts and the whittled curve of waistline. Margaret had quite a bit of experience with the art of being a vision, after all- practice makes perfect.

The Prince himself looked absolutely delightful, if a bit like a Levi's commercial. Margaret had never quite understood the allure of jeans. She felt them to be magnificently unflattering to women and a sign of ill-breeding in men, and rather longed to reset the world back sixty or seventy years to the days where you daren't go to the grocer's without stockings and lipstick. Perhaps there was just something about Prince David that made the offending articles more bearable- maybe a spiritual kinship with that grandfather of all American baddasses, James Dean.

However, his style did manage to make her feel remarkably overdressed. It wasn't a sensation she was used to- and even more troublesome was the fact that she apparently...cared. It bothered her that he might think her stuffy, prematurely aged, snobbish. Reminding herself of the glorious morning's bid to daring, and steeling her courage to match her curiousity, Margaret turned her head to look at David.

Her delicate hands set the teacup neatly down on her saucer, and she placed each palm flat on either side, her movements slow and deliberately dramatic. Raising one slender brow, she leaned ever so slightly forward, drawing an air of secrecy around them.

"I was hoping, Prince David, that you might find the time in your doubtless busy schedule to show me a bit of the capitol. I've been here far too long to be as uninitiated as I am, though your sister has shown great diligence in introducing me to the Mall."
 
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David permitted himself a slightly raised eyebrow at the request, while otherwise concealing his reaction. Such skills in the art of the poker face were literally part of his royal education. "You cannot hope to command a nation if you cannot command your own face," his protocol instructor was fond of saying.

He would need such skills if he were to accede to Princess Margaret's request. Congress was currently in session, so the halls would be filled with all manner of politician. The presence of the firstborn son of the King would not go unnoticed be either ally or enemy (and many who would eagerly count themselves a member of either camp depending on the prevailing political winds). One did not tread lightly into such a viper's den of political intrigue.

Of course, the risk also lent it some appeal. And oh, how he did detest being bored.

Moreover, he couldn't discount the audience making the request. Margaret still favored towards formality in dress, but her elegance still hinted at the lusciousness concealed beneath. The wit and verve she had showed also appealed to his more cerebral side, making her a rarity indeed. A part of himself was already eager to please her, which showed just how potent her feminine wiles were indeed. He wondered if perhaps she might be the one warranting more caution than his family's congressional opposition.

"I should think you might have had enough of American dignitaries by now, Princess Margaret. Yet you'll find little else roaming the marble halls of Congress today. But I suppose if you've been stuck in my sister's company for all this time, perhaps you've grown weary of conversations that invariably begin with 'like'." He winked slyly before continuing. "A tour amongst some of the great orators might seem preferable indeed under the circumstances. If that is your desire, I think I have time this afternoon."
 
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