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Royal Marriage Market

Page 4

by Heather Lyons


  We enter into a large medieval yet Roman feeling room surrounded with wooden choir stalls. A woman in a sharp navy skirt and jacket bearing a nametag steps forward. “May I be the first to officially welcome you to Hearst Castle,” she says to us. “My name is Nicole, and I’m one of the Castle guides. I’m to take you on a brief tour of the grounds, show you to your room, and answer any questions you might have about your stay here at La Cuesta Encantada for the coming week.”

  A ridiculous question mentally surfaces for a princess nearing her third decade of life—does she perhaps know whom I am to be set up with?

  “Thank you, Nicole.” I tuck my bitterness away until a later time. “We are most pleased at the opportunity to visit such a beautiful, historic location in California.”

  Bittner excuses himself to meet up with our father, informing us to contact him immediately if there is anything we need.

  Despite yearning to go to whatever bedroom we have been assigned and hide from the inevitable, Isabelle and I follow Nicole for the next half hour as she tours us through the main house, the three guest cottages, sumptuous coastal gardens, stunning patios that overlook the ocean and mountains, and two magnificent pools that leave both Isabelle and I rather envious they are not our own. By the time we reach our room, a smallish affair with one double-sized bed, a writing desk, several chairs, and a fold-a-bed propped in the corner, I grudgingly admit Hearst Castle has officially charmed me.

  It is a terrible omen.

  The tour guide ensures our luggage had safely arrived in the room and was unpacked. “As I’m sure you noted on our tour, the dining hall, while spacious, isn’t large enough to accommodate a full dinner with everyone here. Breakfast, tea, and lunches will be served buffet style in there, but dinners will be held on various patios throughout the grounds. Tonight’s will be hosted at the Neptune Pool.” There’s pride in her smile. “It’s a striking sight at sunset.”

  “Is that the outdoor pool?” Isabelle is ridiculously dreamy eyed for a woman who’s on the verge of having to marry someone who is not her fiancé. “The one that has the Roman temple at the front? Because I think I’d really rather steal it from you all and take it home.”

  Nicole laughs gently, as if this is something she hears all the time. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Planning on sunbathing while we’re here?” I ask wryly after the guide shuts the door behind her exit.

  “Perhaps.” My sister drops down into one of the stuffed chairs in the room. She motions to a packet Nicole brought to my attention that includes my weekly itinerary. “I did a lot of thinking on the plane ride over.” Her head leans back against the cushion, dark curls drifting over one shoulder. “Let us at least attempt to make the best out of a bad situation. We’re both pale as death. If we must suffer through the RMM, let us come away with golden, California tans.”

  I glance out the window. A number of other royals are wandering around with their guides. “I wish I could join you, but I will be at meetings.”

  “Father is asking for more and more of your input lately. At least there lies a silver lining for you.”

  A rueful puff of annoyance passes from between my lips. “I was handed a dossier filled with talking points yesterday. His Serene Highness is no more interested in my opinions toward Vattenguldia and the world at large than he is with what we’re to wear tonight. I am to parrot his viewpoints the entire week.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  I angle away from the window as she offers this quiet question.

  “I am,” she offers flatly. Sadly.

  I come to perch on the edge of the bed. “If you revealed your relationship with Alfons, this would not be an issue for you.”

  She pulls in a sharp breath before shaking her head.

  “Isabelle, you are already engaged.”

  Her words are quiet yet firm. “I cannot talk about it.”

  My eyebrows lift upward. Since when does my sister not want to wax poetic about her fiancé?

  She leans forward, her voice lowering even further. “It does not matter anyway. Our parents called me into Father’s office before we left and laid down the law. Nothing you or I say would mean anything at this point of time. There is no swaying them from what they believe will be best for the country. So, please . . .” Her fingers curve around mine and squeeze. “I am asking you to respect my privacy while we are here.”

  I jerk back as if she slapped me. “You think Father finding out you are engaged would have no bearing?”

  “Elsa!” My name is shrill and angry from her lips. “Shut it!”

  And then she blanches, knowing she crossed the line. I stand up, feeling the blood leech from my own face in quiet fury. “Sister or no, you don’t get to bark at me like that.”

  “I apologize. It’s just—”

  “There is no need to explain anything to me.” I step away before I utter something I might regret. “I’m going to take a walk. Ensure my dress for dinner is hung out and pressed.”

  She bites her lip but nods. And then I am out the door.

  chapter 6

  Christian

  Lukas mutters under his breath, “Fuck this,” before stalking away.

  The She-Wolf slithers closer to where I stand. “Get your brother under control. I will not tolerate him embarrassing us.”

  The thought of controlling my brother is laughable. For as much as he respects and looks up to me, there’s nothing I can say which would convince Lukas that any part of this trip is acceptable. Shite, his only purpose for attending the Summit is to be a pawn for our mother and look attractive to prospective father-in-laws. Me? I can at least claim that I’m here partially for business. According to Parker, I have a full itinerary of meetings scheduled.

  The She-Wolf waves across the gardens, toward the Queen of England and her heir. “Ensure you both are impeccably dressed tonight for dinner.”

  The words, “Go to hell,” are so bloody hard to hold back.

  The British monarch makes a beeline toward us. My mother turns to me, her hands coming to my shoulders as she smooths imaginary wrinkles out of my shirt. And then she leans forward, pressing matte pink lips against my cheek. “Be a good boy and go and make yourself desirable. I’ll see you and your brother at dinner.” Thankfully, her focus leaves me so she can call out her friend’s name.

  Propriety dictates I stay and pay my respects, but the She-Wolf has basically just told me to get the hell away. For once, I’m more than happy to do as ordered, so I depart without another word.

  Once I head up the steps, toward the house, I tug out a handkerchief and wipe the lipstick off my cheek. I’m unsuccessful at repressing the shudder of disgust rolling through me, though. Jesus. She’s my mother, and I owe her my life, but any touch of so-called affection from her makes my skin crawl.

  Goddamn, do I need a drink. Maybe even several to prepare for the horrors awaiting me tonight. I text Parker and tell him to meet me up in my room. If I’m going to get pissed, I might as well have somebody present to ensure I don’t make a giant jackass of myself. And then I climb up a winding, tight staircase until I reach the second floor, hoping I can remember exactly where the duplex suite I’m staying in is.

  A message from Parker sounds, telling me he’s on his way. Before I shove my phone into my pocket, I smack into a woman in the hallway.

  “Watch it!” she snaps in accented English.

  I jerk back a step, ready to apologize for not paying better attention to where I was going, but then I get a good look at her.

  Holy shite.

  chapter 7

  Elsa

  We’re in a stalemate, this man and I, where I’m eyeing him warily and he me in return, both deer caught in crossing headlights after nearly colliding in this narrow hallway.

  For Christ’s sake, he’s too handsome. Too everything, really. His eyes are too hypnotizing—vivid, bright amber ringed in mahogany and speckled with freckles that are
too appealing. His hair is too wavy, too beautifully brown, like the espresso beans that gift me morning ecstasy. Despite a mild five o’clock shadow, his skin is too flawless. His clothes are too nice, and his stylish leather shoes too tasteful.

  Physically, he’s just too much too.

  I wrack my mind to match the face in front of me to the name. Ah. There it is. This is a fellow heir to yet another tiny country in the European Union. This is the Hereditary Grand Duke of Aioboland, Prince Christian.

  It is tacky to be so judgmental, especially without hearing his voice or knowing anything other than what the gossip rags say about him, but I want nothing to do with this man. Which is funny, because when I was younger, I secretly yearned to meet him. Close to my age and a fellow Scandinavian, his country isn’t too far away from mine. There was a childish hope he might even be some kind of kindred spirit, that he knew what the weight of a crown and kingdom (or a principality or a Grand Duchy) could do to a young heir. Before we ever stepped foot in a room together, let alone the same country, though, his mother shipped him off to boarding school in some foreign country (maybe the UK?) and I’d been sent to Switzerland, leaving anything and everything I was to learn about Prince Christian from the press. All of the assumptions about us being kindred souls were nothing more than rubbish. This prince isn’t a kindred spirit. He and I . . . we are nothing but fellow minor royals in a big world filled with more powerful, influential countries.

  It is best not to even speak to him—or any of the princes present, at least voluntarily. The RMM is legendary for the amount of one-night stands which occur between heirs.

  For a split moment, hot eyes bore into me, blatantly taking me in like he’d never seen another woman before. The hairs on the back of my neck bristle in indignation, but then he blinks, and the look is gone.

  Before I turn on my heel, though, he offers what technically can be called a smile that in actuality is too breathtaking to fully describe, with blindingly too white teeth that leave me wondering if they’re capped.

  “My apologies,” he says to me in English, with a too crisp British lilt bearing no hint of our Scandinavian heritage. It makes me simultaneously want to grind my teeth together and sigh in happiness because his voice and accent are way too sexy and fit perfectly with his appearance. And then, just when I think I can’t stand properly any longer, he bows to me too perfectly—sharp, from the waist, with an arm crossing his chest, like he’s had a lifetime practicing just such a move so the ladies around him would swoon. “I’m—”

  No. He cannot be allowed to sweet talk me. Or look at me in such a way. Does he think I’m one of the spares trolling these tiny hallways for a stud? Or that the moment I arrived, I was on the hunt for someone to take my mind off of the RMM?

  I hold up a hand and slash it through the air; unbelievably, he silences immediately. Jesus almighty. He’s got too perfect manners. Will he stop it already?

  I can’t believe I’ve been here for all of an hour or so, and I’m already having to set men straight. Defense mechanisms I didn’t even know I had kick into gear. “Look. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but no matter what you may think, I’m not some easy get. Save your propositions or proposal for someone else.” My back straightens, tight as a rod, as manners beat into me by my mother fight to regain control. “I’m not here for that.”

  No matter what my parents believe or insist upon.

  It’s a relief to say it, to get it out even though I know I’m swimming against the current. Maybe, just maybe, if behind closed doors I manage to make myself undesirable, these princes will dig their heels in and refuse to even entertain the notion of aligning themselves with The Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia.

  In the heat of my words, Christian’s mouth drops open, his eyes widening significantly. His cheeks blaze scarlet, like I slapped him smartly for impertinence. Which maybe I should have. Except, this embarrassment is way too disarming on him.

  I must get out of this tiny hallway already.

  His words are slow-motion confusion. “I’m sorry?”

  “I am here for . . .” He knows why I’m here. It is why he’s here, too. But I snap, “Work and nothing else. Understand?”

  He continues to stare at me as if he cannot believe I cut him down so tidily in public. And perhaps he cannot, since even I admit it’s nearly unfathomable that anyone would ever reject such a fine specimen of princehood. Except, I am not just anyone. And I’m sure as hell not up for the highest bidder, even if he’s as shiny as this one.

  Without another word, I drop into a polite curtsey. Just because I am rebuffing his princely charms, I do have some manners. And then I force myself to push past him in the narrow hallway in order to retreat to my bedroom.

  As my shoulder brushes up against his arm, his smell curls around me. It’s faint, but damn him. He even smells too delicious.

  Once out of his eyesight, I break into a vigorous pace. And then I find myself a nice little corner where I attempt to calm my racing heartbeat.

  The horrors of this week have already sunk their claws into me.

  chapter 8

  Christian

  What just happened?

  All I wanted five minutes ago was to go somewhere, anywhere that didn’t include spreadsheets or mothers or fathers desperate to fob their precious heirs off to neighboring kingdoms. Preferably somewhere with alcoholic beverages. As I’m trapped on this hilltop for the next week, I figured the next best thing to Sven’s Pig & Roast Pub was my room and the small wet bar my mother insisted upon.

  And then the Hereditary Princess Elsa of Vattenguldia appeared.

  For a moment, I felt . . . not stunned, because that would make me sound like a fucking idiot, but something like it. There was a Norse Valkyrie in front of me here at Hearst Castle, and she was all fire and righteousness and inhumanly lovely, which made sense since she had to be a figment of my imagination. Except, then she spat out her…refusal of a proposal never uttered—

  Holy. SHITE. She thought I was proposing to her!?

  “Your Highness?”

  Parker stands before me, stacks of folders in his hands, regarding me as if he fears I had a stroke in the midst of the hallway. Which, I might have, considering what just happened. Women do not randomly go about yelling refusals of proposals never uttered to strangers. Not even at the RMM.

  Do they?

  “Chris?”

  My feet are forced to uproot. “Yeah. Yes.” I shake my head; so many crisscrossing cobwebs block rational thought. And then I run directly into a tassel hanging down from one of the lights. Bloody hell, I’m a right mess.

  “Are you all right?”

  Some Valkyrie just came along, sheared off my balls, and slung them over her shoulder as she rode away, victorious in her mysterious efforts to confuse the living hell out of me. So, no. I am not all right.

  But men do not tell each other this. “I’m fine.” Why am I so shaken? This is asinine. She’s not a Valkyrie. She’s clearly a fucking harpy.

  And maybe, just maybe she left my balls somewhere here in the hallway. I have a discreet glance around.

  “Are you su—”

  “Fine.”

  He holds out a hand and ushers me toward the hellhole I share with my mother and brother. “Might I inquire why you’re out in the wide open rather than in your room?” More quietly, as no one else is around, he murmurs wickedly, “Unless you’d prefer to go back downstairs?”

  Is he insane? “God, no.” Because there is no way I’m going back to hobnob with my mother. No. Bloody. Way. Before the horror of the gardens, I was stuck for two hours of meetings with the She-Wolf sitting right next to me, reeking of dead roses dipped in the world’s worst perfume, all the while shoving notes about girls present. It was worse than hell, leaving me positive that in some former life, I was a truly shitty person to deserve such a fate.

  “Then, by all means, let’s go get you a cocktail.”

/>   “Who says cocktail?”

  He motions around us. “Frank Sinatra.”

  “Sinatra was more 50s and 60s than 30s and 40s, which was”—I mimic him by motioning around us—“this place’s heyday.”

  Parker’s chuckles rumble from beneath his breath. “You read what I sent you after all.”

  “I always read what you send me.” His eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, so I add, “Also, I feel like Sinatra would have called it booze.”

  At this, his humor grows louder. “Fine. Let’s go get you some booze, Chris. Are you happy now?”

  The corners of my lips tick upward. “I’ll be quite happy with some booze, thank you.” I’m also pleased he’s loosening up a bit, too. After years of friendship, far too much formality has crept between us since he took on the position of my personal secretary. When I offered the job, I thought it was a brilliant idea—I could trust one of my best mates, and it would be fantastic to have him around. But then he went and insisted upon a formal distance between us, as if we were no longer mates but simply prince and employee.

  But here he is, sounding much like the Parker I’ve known the majority of my life.

  Back in the dual-level room I share with my family, Parker pours us two glasses of cognac. Personally, I find the liqueur disgusting, but as Her Royal Highness often reminds Lukas and me, “Cognac is what my sire drank before me, and his sire before him. Our family imbibes in cognac.”

  If only my mother saw the merit of whiskey. Or, hell, stout. What I wouldn’t do for a good, strong stout right now. But I sip the warm piss anyway as I settle upon the portable bed I’ve been provided. I’ll be damned if I’m the weak link in a line of cognac drinkers. “What do you know of Elsa Vasa?”

 

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