You're So Vain: A Royal Haters to Lovers Romance (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Book 4)

by Whitney Dineen

  “Thank you, no,” he answers. “I think I’ll call it a night.”

  As everyone gets up to leave the table, I think about joining my sisters and Lu in the garden. I can’t help but wonder why I’m so interested in a woman who clearly wants nothing to do with me. But darn if I can help it, I am.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sheila

  “Lu was the belle of the ball,” Sheila tells her sister on their way up to their rooms.

  “Sheila …” She hears the warning from her husband who’s walking several steps behind them.

  “Phillipe, you need to leave this to me and Tooty.” Before he can reply, she adds, “I’m not saying Lu has to marry either of them; I’m just hoping she’ll discover all men aren’t scoundrels.”

  “Men from LA are a rare breed of trouble,” Tooty interjects.

  “Your son is a man from LA,” Phillipe reminds his wife.

  “Exactly! I’ve practically given up hope on Romaine. That boy has been engaged twice and it didn’t stick either time. I’ve resigned myself that any grandchildren he gives me will be from groupies.” Her body convulses in a shiver that makes clear her distaste at the idea.

  “We’ll love all of our grandchildren equally,” he replies.

  “Of course, we will. I just want our kids to have the opportunity to co-parent with someone they love. I’m not saying Lu needs to marry one of the princes, but it would be nice for her to realize there are good men in the world.”

  “You won’t push her toward Andrew or Alistair then? Do I have your word?”

  “Please, hon.” Sheila stops and waits for her husband to reach her side. Putting her arm around his waist, she tells him, “I’m here to celebrate Claire and Geoffrey. That’s all.”

  Tooty stops at her door. “Y’all have a good night.”

  As Sheila and Phillipe pass, Sheila gives her sister a wink that clearly states, “You see how it’s done?”

  Tooty flashes her a thumbs up. The sisters learned long ago how to let a man think he got his way without technically giving it to him.

  Lutéce

  “Men are such babies,” Bree announces as the women reach the entry to the rose garden.

  “I can’t remember a time our brothers fought over a woman,” Sophie adds.

  “They weren’t exactly fighting over me,” Lu says.

  A few steps down the dimly lit path, Bree stops and sits on an ornately carved bench. “Oh, they were fighting, all right, which is odd as they normally have very different taste in women.”

  “Except for…” Sophie starts to say, but Bree makes a motion for her to stop talking.

  There appears to be a story there. One they aren’t going to share. “What kind of women do your brothers tend to go for?” I ask as I sit down on the bench.

  “Andrew has been instructed that his wife has to be the perfect future queen,” Sophie answers. “Therefore, he tends toward love interests who are, well, shall we say, tightly wound.”

  “Like you,” Bree tells her sister.

  “It’s true,” Sophie agrees, not sounding the least bit offended. “I’ve always tried to live up to the whole ‘royal expectation’ thing and what has it gotten me? A stuck-up fiancé who tells me he doesn’t plan to be faithful once we are married.”

  “What?” I know this isn’t my business, but Sophie opened the door.

  “I thought I’d done well by falling in love with someone from the aristocracy. Turns out, I’m the only one who felt that way. My intended was more interested in marrying one of the king’s daughters than marrying me.”

  “It’s dreadfully hard out there,” Bree agrees dejectedly.

  “I know what you two are going through,” I tell them. “I can’t seem to find a decent man to date either. They’re either using me to get close to my famous family, or they’re just settling for me until someone better comes along.” I totally forget to ask what kind of woman Alistair normally dates.

  We sit quietly for several moments, when Sophie decides, “There have to be good men out there somewhere.”

  “Obviously there are. I mean, look at Geoffrey, he’s near perfect,” I offer. “The problem seems to be finding more of these perfect men.” I sigh like I’m competing in an Olympic sighing event.

  I’d totally be a gold medal contender.

  “I’ve recently heard about some parties where there might be male guests who aren’t users,” Bree says.

  “I don’t want to meet my future husband at some nightclub.” Sophie’s face scrunches up in distaste.

  “I’d be game,” I volunteer. “I haven’t had any luck in the United States. Maybe the man of my dreams is right here in Malquar.” Alistair’s image pops into my head and I have to force it out. I didn’t mean him.

  That would be ludicrous.

  “Well, if he is, you’re probably not going to meet him in the next few days. You ought to stay on for a while,” Bree says.

  “I wasn’t looking for an invitation.” I explain, “It’s just that I’ve recently been thinking about leaving LA.”

  “Well, if you’re thinking about leaving anyway, you should stay with us. You can continue on in the palace with Sophie and our parents, but I’d love it if you’d bunk with me in my cottage.”

  “Is it big enough?” I ask, wondering if I’m really considering her offer while picturing us both crowded into a one-room quaint cabin like something out of Little House on the Prairie.

  “Five bedrooms, four baths. I think we’ll both fit,” Bree says.

  Huh, what if I did stay? I would be doing exactly what my doctor suggested I do before trying my second attempt at in vitro. I’d be getting away and hopefully relaxing. “I’ll think about it,” I tell her.

  “You could help us plan the bridal shower. We were contemplating having a tea party right here in the rose garden,” Sophie says before adding, “I’m so sick of tea parties I could spit.”

  “Soph,” Bree tells her sister, “you need to come to at least one real party with me, where the only tea served is the kind from Long Island. We’ve got to break you out of your funk.”

  “If I stay, I’ll go too,” I tell her like my presence would be a draw.

  Sophie exhales loudly. “Fine, but only if both of you go. I can’t see us getting in trouble if we all have each other’s back.”

  “Good.” Bree claps her hands together. “I don’t know when the next party will be, but I’ll keep you both posted.”

  “I’m still not sure I’m going to stay on,” I remind them. I wasn’t even looking forward to coming here for the engagement party. How can I seriously be thinking about prolonging my visit?

  “Oh, you’re staying,” Bree tells me. “Sophie and I need you, and as future family, it’s your duty to help us.” Luckily, her tone is teasing, or I might think she’s as pushy as Alistair.

  “What’s Claire and Geoffrey’s wedding going to be like?” I change the subject. “I’ve never been to a royal wedding.”

  “You’ve seen them on television though, haven’t you?” Sophie asks.

  “I saw Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s wedding.” I hope to God Claire’s won’t be like that. I’d probably break out in hives having to stand up in front of so many people.

  Much to my chagrin, Sophie says, “Well, then, you know what it’s going to be like. Five hundred of our closest family and friends witnessing the exchange of vows in the cathedral. Three hundred of those will be invited for a sit-down supper, and then the bride and groom’s closest one hundred will enjoy some less-formal fun.”

  “That sounds like a very long day.” My blood runs as cold as a glacial stream at the very thought.

  “Very long,” Bree agrees. “Because the whole time the guests are celebrating Geoffrey and Claire, they’ll be speculating how long it will be until the next royal wedding.”

  “They’ll also be pitying me,” Sophie says with a hitch in her throat. “Which I can assure you will be excruciating, unless I can find a suitable
date to take as my plus-one.”

  It’s more than a little disconcerting that neither of the princesses sitting next to me has been able to find their mate.

  If they can’t do it with all they have going for them, what chance do I have?

  Chapter Twelve

  Queen Charlotte

  “Did you see how our boys practically came to blows over which one of them would accompany Lutéce for a walk in the garden?”

  “Darling,” King Alfred snuggles closer to his wife in bed, “I don’t think either of our sons are interested in Claire’s sister. You’re seeing something you wish was there.”

  “What?” Charlotte pushes against her husband’s chest. “Of course, they were interested. Although, I don’t think Andrew should pursue anything. He needs to marry a Malquarian woman.”

  “Charlotte, you have weddings on the brain. Leave the boys alone and focus on Geoffrey and Claire. Andrew and Alistair will be tamed in due time.”

  While her husband nibbles a pathway down her neck, the queen distractedly replies, “We’ll see. But just so you know, if I spot a potential romance, I’m not going to take a backseat.”

  “Any romance that may brew will have nothing to do with you, and I assure you that your interest will cause more trouble than good. Now, get over here, woman, and remind me of one of the many reasons I love you so much.”

  Queen Charlotte crawls into her husband’s arms and for the time, anyway, forgets about the possibility of any connection between one of her sons and Lutéce Choate.

  Alistair

  After Lutéce went off with my sisters last night, I reminded myself that I should not get involved with her. Yet, when I woke up this morning, an image of her immediately popped into my mind. Apparently, I can’t tolerate having a woman dislike me. What a baby.

  What I need right now is a good ego boost and the best place to get that is at Shepherd’s Home. Orphanages are no longer common institutions in Malquar, what with an uprise in foster care, but we still have two. One of them is in a small town in the countryside and the other is right here in our capital city. Both are very well-funded and have high adoption rates, especially amongst the younger children.

  After grabbing a quick breakfast, I head over to the one place that brings me more contentment than any other I’ve known. Shepherd’s Home is in a large, two-hundred-year-old facility that used to be a nunnery. The stone abbey currently houses forty-two children between the ages of two months and sixteen years.

  All five feet of Sister Hennepin greets me at the door. “Prince Alistair, we’re delighted you were able to fit us into your busy schedule.” On the surface that may sound like a nice greeting, but I’ve known this nun since I was a child. She’s censuring me for missing my assigned time with the children yesterday.

  “Between you and me,” I lean in to tell her like I’m about to divulge my deepest, darkest secret, “my brother Geoffrey got engaged, and I needed to be present yesterday to show my support.”

  “Hmm,” Sister Hennepin responds with a deadpan expression on her face.

  “My family met my future sister-in-law’s family at the airport. It was on television.” Sister Hennepin was my math tutor when I was a young boy. Our shared history makes it particularly uncomfortable when she’s disappointed in me. The good news is, that discomfort led to my getting excellent marks in school.

  “You know I don’t watch television,” she says curtly. “But regardless of why you didn’t come yesterday, the children are very excited to see you today. They’re in the parlor.”

  Without waiting for my response, she heads down the entryway hall like she’s leading a military coup. As soon as she opens the double doors to the comfortably-equipped living room—large, overstuffed sofas and reading chairs abound—I’m surrounded by children.

  The oldest hang toward the back of the crowd while the youngest throw themselves into my arms, eager for outside attention.

  “You didn’t come yesterday,” eight-year-old Millicent admonishes with her hands on her hips, an obvious sign of her displeasure.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I tell her. “I had official royal duties that I could not get out of.”

  “Be that as it may, my lemon curd does not taste its best on the second day. So, if you don’t like it, you only have yourself to blame.” She sounds like a mini–Sister Hennepin, which makes sense as the nun is the only parental figure she’s had since her parents died four years ago.

  “I take full responsibility.”

  I ruffle a few heads and accept hugs from the smaller children who haven’t learned all the protocols yet. I’d hug them all, but Sister Hennepin is a real stickler for formalities. While she doesn’t seem to hold my royal standing in any regard, she makes sure the children do.

  “I’ve been practicing my stickball, and I can hit the bugger farther than the abbey gate!” Curtis, a red-headed, freckle-faced ten-year-old proudly announces.

  “You can hit what?” Sister Hennepin demands. She’s so forbidding, I feel myself shrink in the face of her displeasure.

  “The ball, Sister,” Curtis tells her as he scurries to the back of the room out of her line of sight.

  “I thought I’d read to you all today,” I announce to my young friends. “How does that sound?”

  “I want to sing!” four-year-old Charity exclaims while dancing around the perimeter of the room. “I want to sing the yodel songs you taught us the last time you were here.”

  The yodel songs, as she calls them, are none other than my father’s favorite Tooty Jackson songs. I briefly wonder if I can entice the lady herself to come to the orphanage and perform for the children. I’m guessing there won’t be time with the many official events that surround the engagement, but it’s worth thinking about.

  “No yodeling today,” Sister Hennepin announces. “No reading, either.” She aims her last comment in my direction. “Today, we’re going to learn how to serve a proper tea. The older girls and boys will do the honors, while the younger children and the prince act as guests.” She claps her hands together as everyone hurries to get into position.

  While the older children leave the room, ostensibly in pursuit of our refreshments, the younger ones scurry to find chairs to sit on. The only two left standing are me and little Beatrice, who I think is five, but I don’t quite remember. She’s a very quiet little girl who doesn’t make enough noise to stand out in a crowd.

  “It looks like it’s just you and me, Miss Beatrice,” I tell her. Then I bow and offer her my hand. “What do you say we find ourselves a spot?” Her face turns red as she slips her tiny hand into mine. She doesn’t say a word.

  Sister Hennepin long ago decreed that the large, comfortable reclining chair next to the fireplace was to be reserved for me. As such, I walk right over to it. After sitting down, I offer Beatrice the choice spot on my lap.

  I spend the next two hours with the children of Shepherd’s Home. The tea is excellent, the service, nearly spot-on—with the small exception of having a bowl of lemon curd dropped on my shoe— and the company is unparalleled.

  I regale my audience with stories of royal teas and catastrophes that took place when my siblings and I were learning the ins and outs of proper etiquette.

  “Tell us about the dances!” Millicent demands. She’s once again on her feet looking fierce.

  “Are you referring to the balls, Miss Millicent?” I ask, knowing full well that she is. Millicent is a renowned lover of fairy tales, and there is nothing so appealing to her as a royal ball.

  “Yes!” She starts to sway to the pretend music in her head. As she leaps over one of the smaller children who’s laying on the floor, she says, “Tell us about the beautiful princesses and their beautiful dresses.”

  With Beatrice sound asleep against my shoulder, I begin, “Once upon a time, there was a woman with hair the color of the setting sun.” The girls sigh in unison as several of the boys groan.

  “Is there a prince in this story?” someone
shouts.

  “As a matter of fact,” I tell her, “there is. And his name is Alistair.” Giggles ensue.

  “Is this a story about you?” Millicent wants to know. But before I can answer, she demands, “What’s the name of the beautiful girl?”

  “Her name is Lutéce, but this isn’t your typical fairy tale with a happy ending,” I warn.

  “Why not?” Curtis demands.

  “Because …” I let the tension build before telling them, “Lutéce doesn’t like the prince.”

  “What?” another of my rapt audience demands. “The beautiful lady always loves the prince. That’s how the story is supposed to go.”

  “Unfortunately for Prince Alistair, that isn’t the case.” I spend the next half-hour painting Lutéce Choate in the most unflattering light. I speak of her surly disposition; I call her haughty and self-absorbed. I might even mention that her feet are so big, she has to wear potato sacks instead of shoes.

  “But is she beautiful?” one of the boys demands.

  “Aside from her monstrous feet, yes,” I answer. “But even a beautiful woman can be considered plain if she isn’t nice.”

  “Alistair,” Sister Hennepin intervenes.

  “Yes, Sister?”

  “I hope this lady you speak of is not real. It would be highly improper for you to say such a thing about a real lady.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t watch television,” I reply.

  “I lied.” She lifts one eyebrow so high it’s nearly absorbed by her hairline.

  “Isn’t lying a sin?” I ask, hoping to distract her.

  “Not if a nun does it.” Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow.

  I look back at the children and wrap up my story. “The moral is that nice people are automatically prettier than mean people.”

  “But what happens with Lutéce? Does she ever fall in love with the prince? Do her feet ever shrink?” Millicent wants to know.