It had been a busy week at the palace. The festivities leading up to the Christmas period had kept me busy, but now, as servants dashed around in the great hall, I began to feel as if my plans were finally coming together. As a child, I had always dreamed of being entrusted with the Yule ball. It was the traditional job of the princesses at Blenheim, and as my sisters had grown older, married, and left our family home, it was now my turn.
My musings were interrupted by our housekeeper, Ms Dashwood. Attempting to balance several holly wreathes simultaneously, she rambled away, until I interrupted her by swooping one out of her grasp. "There is a woman outside for you," She managed to stutter, swaying slightly under the weight of the decorations, "She's here to help with the food."
That's strange, I thought. The catering team was supposed to be arriving late this afternoon.
"I see. Will I find her at the gate?"
Nodding, Ms Dashwood bounded off, leaving me to smooth down my dress in front of the wall-length mirror. I regarded myself for a moment.
Reaching to my face, I pushed back a lock of dark hair which had escaped from my ponytail. My neck seemed suddenly so exposed, without the usual cover of my wild hair. Drawing up the collar of my turtle neck towards my jawline, I turned on my heel, and swept out of the hall. The English cold blasted tiny daggers in my cheeks as I crossed the grand old courtyard and I soon found myself in the palace gardens. There, at the West gate, I spotted a woman I had never seen before. My visitor had donned a dark trench coat, strikingly outlining her figure against the snowy backdrop of the palace's grounds. Her gloved hands were folded across her front, delicate and yet somehow menacing.
"I see the festivities have begun," She remarked, gesturing towards my hands. I glanced down, bleary-eyed, and then saw that I was still grasping one of Ms Dashwood's holly wreaths.
"Yes, quite." I reply tightly, glancing over her face. She certainly cut a striking figure. Her rounded cheeks which plunged into a tight jawline made her face seem heart-shaped, cherub-like even, especially paired with her full lips. My grip around the wreath tightened.
"I can't stay long, my driver is waiting."
"Oh," I felt myself say. There was a pause. I looked around, confusedly. "I was expecting news on the catering for this evening?"
"Ah yes," the woman replied, and she clicked her fingers sharply, feigning remembrance. "The food, how could I forget."
She strode over to me, crossing the space between us with an unexpected alacrity. Becoming suddenly close, I felt her eyes rove over my face, sucking the breath from me.
"I have some very specific tastes which I would like you to fulfil." With her whisper, she gently took my arm. Fingering my wrist for a second, she travelled to my fingers and uncurled their grip around the holly wreath to reach for my palm. There, once exposed, she placed what looked like a Polaroid photo into my hand, face down. Drawing back, and looking into my eyes, she softly continued:
"I'll see you this evening."
I watched her turn on her heel, and saunter back to her car. Tearing my eyes away from her, I looked down at my hands. As I turned over the photograph, I let out a small yelp.
The photograph was me.
I don't know how I managed to find my way back to my rooms but I suddenly found myself resting on the end of my bed. Staring down at the photo clutched in my hands, I squinted at the image.
Well, it was certainly me.
The photo was shot from the perspective of someone directly above me. I was lying down on my back, in a bed I did not recognise. Admittedly this was not all that surprising, as I was blindfolded in the picture. My hair was sprawled across the pillow perched beneath my head. I followed one of the wavy strands until I found its end, circling my wrists, which were tied in a single knot above my head, the taught material cutting into my skin. My lips were parted, and I could see a gasp emerging from them, almost hear it, even.
Even in the panicked state that my mysterious visitor had left me in, as I studied the photograph, a part of me couldn't help but notice that I looked good. Was she going to blackmail me for being hot? I mean, for god's sake, so a member of the royal family likes to get tied up and fucked every so often, would that be such a big deal? I considered it for a second... this photo on the front page of Tattler Magazine. Yes, actually it probably was best this did not get out.
I ran my mind furiously through the possible contenders who could have supplied the photograph. I had had my share of dalliances whilst at university in St Andrews, even some serious girlfriends, and looking back there were more than enough opportunities for them to take a photo akin to this nature. But surely none of them would release it to the highest bidder like this? The timing wouldn't make sense either, why now? Not to mention the legal ramifications that my family lawyer had made plain to them if they spoke out. At this point, practically the sight of a Non-Disclosure-Agreement made me wet. It was simply standard foreplay.
Gazing down again, I studied the image more closely. The picture didn't necessarily reveal that the person dominating me was even a woman (or person(s), in all fairness, my final year had been quite a liberating time). Studying further, my eyes were drawn to the left corner, just past the end of my bare stomach. My mouth went suddenly dry.
"Oh fuck." I softly whispered.
Just there, in the corner, barely perceptible but certainly present, was the beginning of a thigh, wrapped around my waist. My photographer had been straddling me when they took the shot. They had been careful to not catch themselves in its lens, but despite their best efforts, I could glimpse the beginning of a small tattoo, etched on their upper thigh. I knew who those legs belonged to. A thrill of panic crept up my spine. This was bad. Oh my god, this was very, very bad.
My panic was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Jolting upwards, I managed to squeak out a sound that hopefully resembled a 'Come in' to my visitor. To my relief, it was Ms Dashwood, who rushed in immediately, her mind evidently still racing through the plans for the ball.
"I have your dress for this evening Miss" she began brightly, laying the garment out on the bed. As she smoothed out the fabric, I felt her eyes fall on my face, in a look filled with pity and apprehension. I couldn't blame her for her concern. I must have looked a mess, which she might have attributed to the weighty connotations of the stylish cargo she had just delivered to me.
The dress had been picked out for me by my stepmother, who picked out all of my clothes for public gatherings, especially for ones as public as tonight. I knew how Ms Dashwood must perceive this gesture of control. I mean, a young princess tragically loses her mother, evil stepmother steals away her widower father, and then imposes her reign of tyranny on his vulnerable offspring? It was the perfect Grimm's fairy tale, and I always appreciated her concern for me.
"Thank you, that will be all." I attempted a smile, waiting for her to leave the room before I moved towards the dress. It was, as always, a beautiful gown. The midnight blue velvet rippled in my fingers as I traced the material. Holding it up against my body in the floor-length mirror, I imagined slipping into it this evening, visualising how the silky fabric would cling to the hourglass of my waist, the curve of my thighs. How it would clasp at the dip, in my lower back.
I hung the dress against my mahogany wardrobe and left my quarters. There was too much still to be done for that evening to wallow any further. I was simply too busy for a stationary breakdown. Busing myself in the great hall, directing food in one place, drinks in another, decorations over there, I desperately racked myself to address this new problem. Should I just abdicate now? Flee to the Bahamas? They are technically still in the commonwealth. Amongst these thoughts, I realised that despite my panic, that cherub face, and its snowy backdrop, kept swimming back into my mind. I chuckled. If I was going to be blackmailed, at least there was eye candy.
Finally, the evening came, and I began to welcome my guests. I was dressed in my instructed gown, and felt all eyes on me as I traversed through the dance hall, greeting everyone. I had paired the dress with a pearl necklace, one of my mother's old treasures, and a pair of sapphire earrings, the exact shade of its material. As I was greeting the prince and princess of Saxe-Coburg, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Ms Dashwood, who, unless my eyes deceived me, seemed to have helped herself to a large sum of the palace's sherry.
"It's that woman again, Miss. The one about the food." Oh shit.
"Ah yes," I flashed her a smile. Extending a polite, "Would you please excuse me" to my guests, I followed Ms Dashwood to a darkened corner of the hall. Sure enough, there she was, in the same black trench coat as that morning, although I could not help noticing that she had her hair down this time. I enjoyed how the dark ringlets surrounded her face. She must have caught me staring, because as I approached she smirked, and raised her eyebrows slightly in surprise. God, what weird, sexy Stockholm syndrome was this?
"Has somebody got you a drink?" I asked her immediately, sending 'fuck off' eyes to Ms Dashwood who scurried away. I sip my own glass, hoping my question has thrown my blackmailer off her game slightly. This was my ball after all.
"No." She replied smoothly "I won't be staying long."
Relief overtakes me. But, am I also kind of, disappointed? She certainly has me intrigued.
