“The bride's sleek dark hair was smoothed into an unusually restrained knot, but she'd stuck to her guns with the heavy black eyeliner. Her lacy black dress was a little funereal, but clearly a compromise between her own preference for Victoriana and the palace's idea of appropriate styling for a photo shoot that would make the history books. The groom was wearing a pink shirt, and his curls were fluffy.
It was like a grown-up Emily the Strange marrying Bertie Wooster.
The smiles were natural, the body language extremely affectionate, but their knuckles were white. Nerves or tension?
Sylvie studied the cover shot for a few more seconds, then scrolled down to the article. The journalist would have had a lot of the copy sitting ready to go. This had been on the rumor mill since their first joint public appearance. The union between the king's eldest granddaughter and the youngest son of a baronet, who, according to this tabloid, had inherited neither land nor brain cells from his parents.
The overgrown Goth princess and a stuttering social climber with all the poise and sophistication of a golden retriever.
Charming.”