Forbidden Desire(10)

Marie is the sister who is in Yale. Somehow, I don’t think the analogy is apt. Marie Vassar’s clothes are more likely to be haute couture from the best French designers money can buy. Even her room is humungous, consisting of a living room with tasteful ornate furniture and an open door leading to a bedroom. I catch a glimpse of the canopied bed with gold tassels within.

“Wait till you see her closet,” Alex says, striding into the bedroom and flinging open a door that leads to a huge walk-in closet. “And don’t worry. She was here this morning but she had to take a flight back to America for her exams. So she won’t be walking in on us anytime soon.”

That’s right. She has exams. As do I, if I hadn’t run out on college to be with Alex.

I walk into the walk-in closet . . . and stop.

I’m speechless. Rows and rows of cedar wood closets line the walls. Alex opens one, and everything is color coordinated inside – yellows next to oranges. Marie has dozens and dozens of dresses, gowns, suits, everything . . . and those are in that one closet alone!

“It gets better.” He grins as he opens the closet beside it. The reds jump out in stark contrast. “She follows the rainbow spectrum and everything in between. My sister is a hoarder of the worst kind.”

I whirl around, unable to take it all in. How many pieces of clothes are in here? Hundreds? Thousands? How can one woman have so many clothes?

Alex presses a button, and a motorized sound is emitted. The closets in front slide left and the one beside it takes its place. Everything else seems to rotate like a conveyer belt of closets, revealing the ones which were previously behind. I see shoes, hatboxes, winter coats and furs, stacks and stacks of other boxes which may or may not contain lingerie and belts.

I’m still too dazzled to say anything.

He takes pity on me.

“OK, if you can’t choose and seeing as we are in a rush, I’ll choose one for you.”

He picks out an outfit from the yellow rack and hands it to me. My hands are trembling slightly as I take it. The material is cotton of the softest handspun variety.#p#分页标题#e#

He says, “This looks like something she would wear for dinner. I’ll let you dress. I’ll be back soon, I just have to throw on something more decent.”

I find my tongue. “Are you going to leave me alone here?”

The prospect frightens me. Somehow, I feel like a thief in someone else’s room. What if Jasper finds me here? Or the Queen? Would they call palace security?

“My room is just down the corner,” Alex assures me. “I’ll back in a jiffy.”

He throws me a kiss and rushes off.

I get it. We are on a deadline here.

I dress hurriedly. It’s a long-sleeved yellow dress with a boat-shaped neckline. Its variegated hem – of intertwining leaves and flowers – falls modestly to my knees, and there’s a little embellished yellow flower on one side of it, just below the neckline.

Alex has forgotten to select matching shoes for me, and so I reach for a yellow pair of pumps.

Everything surprisingly fits me to a tee. I’m fully aware I’m wearing a princess’s clothes. I pick up an enameled brush with the portrait of a beautiful woman’s face on its back, and comb my hair in the standing mirror at one corner. I have no makeup on, but I see a tube of lipstick on the vanity table and I quickly apply it.

Great. Not only am I wearing Alex’s sister’s clothes, but I’m borrowing her brush and makeup as well. If she ever does find out, some seriously royal shit is going to hit the fan.

Alex comes in again. His long unruly hair is tidied up somewhat, and he has put on a white dinner jacket over a clean shirt.

So much for not requiring dinner jackets.

“Come on,” he says, “I’m starving.”

I’m too frazzled to be hungry.

We rush down another grand staircase, passing oil portraits of somber people wearing tiaras, crowns and state sashes. I reckon these are Alex’s ancestors. We breeze into a dining room where two people are already seated – one at the head of the table and the other by her side.

My stomach contracts.

What do I say to a Queen? Do I curtsey? Alex has not prepared me at all for protocol. My only brush with royalty (aside from Alex, of course, and Alex is so normal and down-to-earth that I find it hard to think of him as royalty) was with Alex’s father, the King, and I was too busy serving canapés to all the guests to remember any protocol aside from being required to blend skillfully into the wallpaper.

Alex senses my discomfiture.

“Relax,” he says in a low voice, “just a handshake would do.”