Royal Marriage Market

by Heather Lyons

  I’m fully aware of what she’s insinuating. Hell, it isn’t even insinuation, not when nearly half of the words out of her mouth to Lukas or myself over the course of the day were vulgar comments about the women present. Still, I refuse to let her know just how much my skin is crawling. Why couldn’t my mother be a feminist instead of a royal pimp? “Dinner was excellent.”

  The She-Wolf tut-tuts, reaching up to pat her coronet, as if it had somehow fallen off and sunk to the depths of the azure pool when she wasn’t paying attention. As though she hasn’t been completely on top of every single detail around her since she was three years old. “I wanted to get a good visual in person on the girl you’re set to marry before I made up my mind, but she appears to possess hips large enough for decent birthings and I’m informed her menses are healthy.”

  I repress the familiar shudder inspired exclusively by her that threatens to emerge over this latest piece of information. It’s nearly impossible to keep my fingers from curling into fists, or from howling in fury over how she’d actually gone through with her plans.

  Bloody hell. I need more booze, and I need it now. It’s obvious she wants me to inquire about whom she’d been talking to, which girl with hips wide enough to pop babies out has earned her seal of approval, no doubt so she can delight over my discomfort, but I refuse to give her that satisfaction. I might as well offer up my own marrow for her to suck up, alongside a straw. Besides, I already know, don’t I? It’s the damn Vattenguldian woman. So, I glance back out at the pool, pull in a long breath as I think of cheerful things, like sailing and good stout and strangling my mother until she can no longer speak on my behalf, or at least claim she can.

  I’m going to kill Lukas for abandoning me to the She-Wolf like this. Has he no sense of filial loyalty? Speaking of . . . where’s Parker? Employees have been encouraged to come tonight for the after dinner festivities.

  A quick, discreet search shows him over by the dessert table. Lucky bastard.

  It takes about two and a half minutes of stony yet polite nonsensical pleasantries that have nothing to do with her taunts before she accepts I won’t play her game tonight and saunters away. Well, that and I track Lukas across the pool and promptly give up his location.

  I love my brother, but it’s every prince for himself right now.

  When I’m in the clear, I make my way over to Parker and the dessert table, praying safety can be found amongst savory treats my mother would rather die than put into her body out of fear of a single ounce gained.

  “Éclair?” Parker asks, passing over a pastry before I can even answer.

  I’m tempted, but I wave it off in favor of more champagne.

  “That bad, huh?” he asks sympathetically.

  “If by bad, you mean she’s already having discussions about my future marriage, then yes.”

  He lets out a low whistle. And it’s then I see her, staring at me like I’m the most disgusting human to ever grace the planet. Or maybe more like she’s sucking on lemons.

  No, not the She-Wolf. It’s the Valkyrie. I mean, the Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia. Which is bloody ironic, right?

  To quote my eloquent brother: “Oh, fuck me.”

  chapter 11

  Elsa

  There he is, looking so too again.

  The Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland is also looking right at me, which means I’m going to have to get on with the business at hand.

  Truthfully, I would rather gnaw off my toes than go over there. And frankly, he appears as if I do head his way, he might be the one to gnaw his digits off, which I really cannot blame him for. If I could have my way, I would be upstairs working and not down here, dressed up like a Barbie doll princess ready to be swept off my feet by a plastic prince (or, at least, apologizing to one). But nobody asked what I wanted, so here I am, ready to lay myself bare for the sake of propriety.

  Surely, my mother must be sacrificing lambs or calves or the whatnot back home on an hourly basis to ensure my proper behavior this week, because nothing else could explain the urge to set things right.

  I allow myself a deep breath (or, rather, a tiny inhalation that nearly pops the seams of the beaded silver dress I’m wearing), throw my shoulders back, and stroll purposefully toward Prince Christian of Aiboland.

  Heavens, why does he have to be so gorgeous?

  Make that gorgeous and alarmed, because the instant he registers I am headed his direction, he is once more a deer trapped before a monster truck’s headlights. Only, sweet Mother of God. Just as he gets an eyeful of me, I get one of him, too. Instead of wearing the button down and slacks from earlier, he is now clothed head to toe in one of the most delicious tuxedos I’ve had the pleasure of viewing, proving some people are simply meant for excellent clothes. It is crisp with clean lines, all dark and beautiful and clearly tailored for every inch of skin it touches. But, as perfect as this tux is, his dark hair isn’t excessively stylized like so many of the other royals present. It is a bit mussed, not too long or too short, with a hint of wave curving the strands.

  Men should not be allowed to be so lovely.

  He hovers close to the dessert table, drinking champagne with a good-looking man I don’t recognize. Brown hair, although not as dark as the prince’s, brown eyes, tan skin, and a smart but standard tux. Not an heir, then, nor, to my recollection, a spare. Charitable thoughts toward this Prince Christian grudgingly roll in, because it is refreshing to find an influential man mingling with somebody who is not next in line, or even surrounded by a bevy of women ready to faint at every crisply uttered, accented word. All of this is maddening, because I do not desire such benevolent opinions forming. Charitable thoughts equal a weakness for my father to exploit. This prince has a younger brother, and younger brothers mean potential spouses, so no good can come of any of this.

  Right after dinner was finished and his friends excused themselves from the table, my father informed my sister and me that he found “quality candidates who are of impeccable bloodlines,” both of whom “seem to be healthy and well-endowed,” and that I, in particular, ought to be prepared to meet the one he felt best suited to Vattenguldia’s needs.

  Three, thirteen, or thirty, one is never old enough to hear such words from their sire.

  “What will you do?” Isabelle had whispered to me when our father left us to speak to the Saudi Arabian king.

  I wished I had a clever or well-thought answer to offer, but I was floundering in panic. My only recourse was to make myself as undesirable a candidate as possible.

  The point of all of this being: I am well aware that being overseen conversing with Christian is suicidal. His Serene Highness will view it as me leaving the door to his machinations cracked open. It’s just, I also am keenly aware, now I have had a few hours between my actions and this moment, that I behaved abominably toward a fellow RMM-er. Common decency trumps self-preservation.

  The fellow the Hereditary Grand Duke is with registers my approach with an amused glint in his eyes, which is unsettling. A step forward is taken alongside a proper bow. “Your Highness, I am Parker Laurant-Sinclair, His Highness’ personal secretary. May I make your introduction?”

  I nod graciously, as one of my station ought to do, rather than spit out brimstone and fire as I did earlier in the day.

  “Princess Elsa, I am pleased to introduce you to His Royal Highness, the Hereditary Grand Duke Christian of Aiboland.” I incline my head and Parker turns toward his employer. “Prince Christian, I am most pleased to introduce Her Royal Highness, the Hereditary Princess Elsa of Vattenguldia.”

  It is Christian’s turn to bow; like this morning, it’s perfectly executed. I am about to volley back a curtsey of my own when he extends a hand out. He wants to shake hands with me like we are, what, best mates? But my mother’s ingrained manners win out again. I reluctantly shove my own hand forward until his fingers curl around mine and bring them up to his warm lips.

  Oh. Sweet. Mercifu
l. Heavens above. Christian clearly secretes hormones out of his skin, because I fight the good fight to quell the most tantalizing of nearly orgasmic chills threatening to overtake my body.

  Kisses on hands should not do this. My irritation toward this man doubles.

  “Your Highness.” His words, murmured over my skin, set me ablaze. My heart beats too strongly, too quickly. He smells like a goddamn dream. “It is my pleasure to formally make your acquaintance.”

  There is no pleasure in his words, though. He’s wary, which makes complete sense considering I went batshit crazy on him in the hallway earlier.

  I extract my hand and steal a step backward, away from the sharp, clean smell of soap and man. What is happening right now? I’m not . . . This must cease. I am not a lovelorn little girl, constantly searching for her fairy story. I am not here to swoon, not even over this paragon of manly magnificence who not only secretes pheromones from his skin upon contact but apparently via airborne particles, too. “Look.” Tartness colors my tone, but it cannot be helped, not even under burgeoning proper manners and shame over loss of self-control. “There is no need for you to act so bloody charming. Save it for someone whose knickers aren’t bolted up for the night. There is no need to flirt, either. I’ve simply come to atone for my behavior this afternoon. I admit I might have overreacted.” My head inclines toward the main house. “In the hallway. When we, uh, ran into each other. For that, I apologize.”

  For a long moment, amidst the clinking of glasses around us and light chatter and sweet music, Christian is slack-jawed in the face of my bluntness. Even Parker is acting as if two heads protrude from my neck. No matter. The Hereditary Grand Duke may take what I offered as he will. I pivot on a high heel at the same time as Christian blurts, “I wasn’t proposing. Or propositioning you. Or whatever else it was you assumed I was doing.”

  I make the very poor mistake of focusing on his mouth as he says this to me. His lips are too perfect, shaped too much like those statues carved by the masters.

  “Bloody hell, I don’t even know you,” he continues hotly. “Besides, you’re to inherit your throne. Why would you ever think I would propose to you? Narcissistic much?”

  This is enough to tear my focus from his delicious mouth back up to his eyes. He’s outraged right now, in the middle of an elegant party, no longer attempting to hide behind required yet feigned civility. And this anger from him only piques my interest tenfold, because what kind of perfect man snarls at a woman in public?

  Parker hisses in scandalized horror, “Your Highness!”

  Apparently I am not the only royal with a language problem in public. Oddly, the similarity leaves me yearning to chortle.

  Christian waves his secretary off as I battle to contain the grin desperate to tug my lips upward. No longer the paragon of perfection, not at least in temperament, I allow a few more charitable thoughts about this prince.

  Unable to resist the perverse pleasure stemming from such repartee, I say smoothly, “You gave me a look. What else was I to think?”

  My jab hits its bull’s-eye, because Christian’s eyes widen in comical dismay. “There was no look!” he barks.

  Chortling, according to my mother, is vulgar and completely unattractive. It simply is not to be tolerated from the heir of the Vattenguldian throne. Nor am I allowed to laugh long and hard. I’m permitted polite, quiet mirth that is minimal at best. But goodness, if I don’t want to laugh right now in the face of such exasperation, especially when champagne physically spurts out of Parker’s nose.

  Taking pity on Mr. Amused, I fetch a napkin from the buffet table. And still, I cannot help but volley another round. “There most definitely was a look.”

  Christian invades my personal space. “By look, you mean a polite acknowledgement of strangers alone in a hallway. If there was a look, that was it. Nothing more!”

  Hot damn, outrage is a delectable look on this man. Unbidden images of him, righteous in his convictions as he talks to the Aibolandian Parliament, taunt me until I curse my newly tingling lady parts.

  Stupid lady parts. They never think logically.

  I cannot be attracted to him. I cannot. Attraction at first sight is a fairy story, not reality. Enjoying banter is one thing, but discovering a physical attraction is entirely different. Therefore, I force the foulest memory I possess to the forefront of my mind, of when I discovered my father mid-coitus with someone other than my mother. His Serene Highness was as nude as the day he was born; worse yet, wiry hair sprouted from his surprisingly tan arse.

  Appeased at the burgeoning urge to escape to the loo and vomit out what little bit of dinner I managed to consume without popping seams, I offer Christian a, “You may think that.”

  But then my lady parts rally anew when a delightful flush steals up his neck. How is it possible that my father’s hairy arse cheeks are not enough to overcome this man’s charm? “As the looker,” Christian says, once more crowding my personal space, “I can verify it was the only intent possible.”

  Hairy arse. Hairy dimpled arse. Hairy dimpled arse that rippled when (SHUDDER) my father shoved himself (SHUDDER) into that woman—from behind, no less. I force the scene to loop in my mind as my shoulders square, allowing myself a tiny, nauseated breath. “As I have no desire toward marrying anyone in this godforsaken place, let alone . . . doing anything else, such information is comforting.” And then, wholly unable to resist a bit of cheekiness, “Capiche?”

  His mouth opens. It is a dangerous mouth that offers far too many promises. “Noted, madam.”

  My father’s arse fails me for the first time.

  I must be ill, perhaps even with the flu plaguing the Lichtenstein cousin. I am warm and dizzy and clearly not in the right frame of mind, because sharp delight over how this prince isn’t fawning surges through my bloodstream.

  “Perhaps I ought to stress I have no desire in marrying anyone at the RMM, either, let alone . . . doing anything else.” He mimics my cadences. “Present company included.”

  My mother would be utterly shamed, because I nearly burst out into genuine laughter. It arrives as a snort, but still. I quickly cover my mouth. Right before dinner, I overheard several ladies discussing what they would do to Prince Christian when, not if, they get him alone, and none of the suggestions were innocent. “Good luck with that.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, if you escape the Summit with your bachelorhood or virginity intact, it will be a miracle. Besides, protests aside, you know as well as I that none of us have any say in the matter anyway.”

  He gapes at me once more. My lady parts find his astonishment adorable, which is intolerable. This man is a Hereditary Grand Duke. I am a Hereditary Princess. A match between the two of us is not an option, not even at the RMM. I must do something to shut this inappropriate attraction down once and for all. I inhale deeply and say, mentally cringing as I am patently aware of just how blatantly rude and awful this will sound, “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

  Gaping transitions to sputtering. Parker quickly excuses himself under the guise of finding more champagne.

  Well, at least that makes one less person I must humiliate myself in front of, although I am certain the damage is long done. “It is all right if you are,” I continue.

  Christian stands so close now we share the same, toasty air from nearby heat lamps. “I am thirty years old.”

  I clearly overestimated him. Asking such a boorish question would send normal, polite folk running. But here this prince is, closer than ever, forcing me to desperately root around for another awful memory to combat his unwanted effect on me. Maybe that of Nils shagging my ex-BFF? It’s a nice, angry memory that serves me well in times of need. Only, every breath is filled with Christian, and stars in the sky are twinkling. and my head is swimming, and my bloody lady parts are dancing and crying all at once.

  I need someone to shake some sense into me right now. Charlotte would gladly do so if present;
perhaps Isabelle will stand in her stead? Because this prince is not meant to be mine. Ever. Not that I would ever want him and all his too-ness, anyway. What a hassle it would be, being with a man far more attractive than one’s self. Hell, he probably has a different woman for each day of the week. And that is not what I want or need. I would rather have nothing than something that isn’t true.

  I despise how judgmental I am being. How much I’ve allowed an attraction to warp my thoughts. I must be ill. I must.

  This is unacceptable.

  I swallow hard and, pleased my voice is level, say, “There are plenty of thirty-year old virgins. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  His head dips toward mine; dark, wavy hair falls into his eyes and all I can do is watch in utter fascination as an outraged breath sucks sharply into him. “Not that it is any of your business, but I am not a virgin.”

  Silence fights for space between us amidst the din of the party for nearly a full, agonizing, hot minute, during which we simply, warily study one another. I think I would gladly pay a million euros to know what he thinks right now.

  Finally, his mouth opens. “And you?”

  I somehow lost most of the air in my lungs once more. “What about me, sir?”

  “Are you a virgin?”

  I have to give it to him: that was well played and ballsy as all get out. “What an impertinent question. I ought to slap you.”

  I inappropriately wonder if women spank him often.

  Christ, he’s got a beautiful smirk. “You’re avoiding.”

  I mimic his accent in a low voice. “I am twenty-eight years old.”

  “Surely there are plenty of twenty-eight year old virgins running amuck in the world.”

  Not at this party, they aren’t. Despite the matrimonial nooses looming over every singleton’s head, the sexual escapades planned for this week are already legion. It will be shag central at La Cuesta Encantada tonight—myself excluded, of course. “Would virgins be running amuck, though?”