Unsuitable_Part 1 of a Reverse Harem Royal Romance

by Penelope Wren

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Afterward

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Unsuitable:

  A Royal Reverse Harem Romance

  Part 1 of the Princess' Harem Series

  By: Penelope Wren

  An Ardent Affection

  Copyright © 2018 Penelope Wren

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of Penelope Wren, except for small quotations used for book reviews.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Violet

  I was nodding off again, swaying a little until finally the side of my head hit the limousine's window with a resounding thump. I straightened abruptly, rubbing the sore spot

  George cleared his throat, eying me in his condescending way. As my royal advisor, this was something he was extremely skilled in: condescension.

  Feeling a little sheepish, I leaned back in the plush seats with a huff, trying (and probably failing) to look nonchalant. Maybe I was more than a little sheepish. The warmth in my cheeks was clear evidence of that.

  I smoothed my hands down the front of my dress before reaching up to twirl a lock of hair around my finger. I'd just had the color retouched. Chestnut, according to my stylist. Although to me, it just looked brown.

  "Sorry, George…" I said softly.

  "It doesn't require an apology, your Highness. Just do better," he replied with a sigh belonging to someone completely downtrodden and overcome by life. I didn't believe that my slumping in the back of a limo should somehow merit such a reaction, but then again, I didn't have to put up with me all the time.

  "You are the future ruler of this country, Violet," he continued his lecture. "You'll do well to start acting like it. No better time than the present. Just think about how your mother would hold herself and do that."

  Easier said than done. No matter how much finishing school I had under my belt, or how many reminders by way of my advisor's terse looks or pursed lips, I was simply not cut from the same genteel cloth as my mother. I had too much of my father in me, as she was fond of saying.

  I failed to see how that was a bad thing, given that my father was the King of Justana. I supposed my lack of decorum was simply a failing somewhere in my education, and the reason I was stuck with the constant presence of my royal advisor.

  "You're right. I'll try that," I said blankly, attempting to appear as though I was someone who knew how to be calm and collected, but I was probably topping out at constipated.

  "The Mortcombes have been ruling Justana for centuries, Princess. I know sitting up straight might not sound like the strongest advice for a monarch, but it is that precise lack of discipline that I am trying to correct."

  I wasn't the biggest fan of being chastised like a child, but he wasn't wrong.

  "It should have been addressed years ago," he added with a stiff nod. "Shame that it wasn't."

  "I know who I am, George," I muttered, folding my arms across my middle. He shot me a look and I straightened immediately. What he saw as indignance was actually just a defense mechanism. I was twenty-two years old and yet I still, for some reason, had to be lectured by a bald man in Armani.

  "G, lay off her," Amanda chimed in from the seat directly beside mine. "She's been up since four this morning." She tossed her long red hair over her shoulder and winked in my direction.

  It wasn't normally a personal assistant's job to reign in the Royal Advisor, but in this case, I figured I'd let it slide. It was nice knowing I at least had someone in my corner.

  I shot her a quick smile and straightened my back. I smoothed my dress once more, running my gaze down the pale green silk to make sure it wasn't becoming wrinkled. It was. Of course it was.

  "Your Highness," George admonished, his tone moving quickly on the spectrum from 'slightly perturbed' to 'annoyed' in record time. I was well-acquainted with all the colors of my advisor's annoyance levels by now. "Please stop fidgeting. You're due at the ship dedication in twenty minutes." He glanced at his watch, swearing under his breath. He unbuckled his seatbelt, standing as best he could in a moving limo, and wobbled his way up to the window that separated us from the driver.

  "Stop that fidgeting right now," my PA drawled from her laid back position, mimicking George's tone in an almost cartoon-ish manner. Amanda wasn't George's biggest fan. She took every opportunity to undermine his authority, basically turning him into a caricature so I didn't take his snippy behavior to heart. As much as I appreciated the solidarity, it often caused a clash between my desire to please George and my desire to have a true friend. It that was even possible given that I was, technically, Amanda's employer.

  I had been skeptical about her at first. I didn't really care for the round-the-clock management that Father seemed to think I needed. But Amanda had turned out to be a lifeline in my lonely existence. She treated me as an equal, not bowing and scraping like nearly everyone else in my life because I was somehow 'higher' than they were. Amanda treated me like a friend.

  Even if it wasn't precisely true, it was nice to pretend.

  I could count the real friends I had on one hand, and generously at that. Security detail, proscribed entourage, and constant management really cut down on the amount of people willing to spend time with me. Scratch that. Cut down the ones willing to spend time with me without receiving something in return - social status, usually.

  I shot a look that I hoped rivaled one of George's in her direction. She was the one currently relaxing in her seat because she wasn't wearing an expensive (and uncomfortable) combination of Etrian silk and lace to impress the Etrian royal family coming to witness the boat dedication. Amanda didn't have to make nice with the Crown Prince Gideon or King Adam of Etria for that matter, because there weren't a billion titles after Amanda's name. Titles that meant absolutely nothing other than that I was born with a metaphorical silver spoon up my ass.

  Never mind that, in addition to making nice-nice that afternoon, I was also supposed to be using this visit to help me choose which one of the two Etrian princes I preferred. I'd already told Father that I didn't know who to choose. Neither seemed a particularly compelling option.

  Gideon Stalswift, as I remembered him, had been loud and overly-excitable in his youth. It had been difficult to get a word in when he spoke with you; he often spoke for you, carrying on entire conversations with himself before solidifying plans and jogging off to kick a ball in the air or otherwise show off. Then you were left blinking in his wake and wondering how on earth you were going to get out of going to a Lacrosse match with him. But that was just how I had remembered him. George was right, it had been nearly four years, and four years could change someone.

  As for his younger brother, Tristan? He and I had never gotten along very well. In fact, we had barely spoken a dozen words over the entirety of our
adolescence. Prince Tristan wasn't even going to be in attendance at the ship dedication, so his absence could be a sign he hadn't changed a bit. I supposed I might also be more open to considering Tristan once I met him again. While he couldn't make it for the ship dedication, he was coming to visit Justana- and me, especially - in a few weeks' time. He was closer to my age than Gideon, who was well on his way to thirty. Well, he was actually twenty-seven, but that was definitely closer to thirty than not. Tristan was twenty-four and therefore, closer to my age.

  But Gideon was also the better looking, as far as I remembered. And, as a result of my recent perusal of a number of Etrian magazines, I knew that he'd only gotten more beautiful with age.

  It appeared I would be stuck with either a loud, but gorgeous prince, or a younger prince who disliked me. I supposed, given the options available to me, I could just invest in ear plugs.

  But all joking aside, it was still a tedious process. I had no way of knowing which one of these men would make me happy. I had barely seen either of them in my adult life: all of my knowledge was based upon our shared childhoods and scarce moments brought together as teenagers.

  Perhaps it was better that only one of the Stalswift brothers would be present today. Both at once might sour me on the entire family.

  I glanced back over at Amanda, eying her stylish black boots and blue jeans with something akin to jealousy.

  I didn't mean to be envious, but I was. Amanda had the life I desired. An ability to go home and back away from all the things prim and proper. She was allowed to lounge and be sarcastic. I had plenty of sarcastic thoughts; it was voicing them that took courage. Courage I didn't have in the face of George and all of his rules.

  Not that George wouldn't try to micromanage Amanda if she was the one of royal descent. He might attempt it now, even — that is, if he wasn't completely scared to death of her. Which was yet another reason I loved her.

  "Wouldn't want to get a crease in your skirt, Princess Violet." Amanda's green eyes twinkled.

  I took a deep breath and chose my next words carefully. "Do you think there's any possible way I can be home before nightfall?"

  It wasn't even noon yet, but already the thought of spending the majority of my day making nice with the Etrian Court and posing for photographs and publicity was making me tired. Plus, I wouldn't be able to spend any kind of quality time with Prince Gideon if we were constantly in the public eye, either.

  Amanda snorted. "Let's see. The coordinators want you to do a reading in Latin, bust a bottle of champagne, and then shake a bunch of hands. It's The Sofia. Justana's been waiting two years and change for this patriotic piece of crap to finally be seaworthy. You're gonna be there until midnight, I bet."

  I groaned, sinking down further in my seat. Let my dress get creases. Let it get wrinkles. Let the people of Justana see their princess for what she truly was: a metaphorical butt-crease on the back of a silk skirt. Their future leader was a crease. An imperfection. They deserved better. Because, while I knew no one was perfect, a leader should at least strive for it.

  And I was so tired of striving for the impossible.

  Maybe no one would pay attention anyway, not with that fifteen hundred foot monstrosity of a luxury liner right behind me. It was enough of an eyesore that they might not notice their princess' disheveled dress.

  Or my hair-twirling.

  Or my poor posture.

  Fat chance. I was doomed.

  Amanda glanced up to where George was still arguing with the driver. She snapped her fingers in my direction. "Look alive, Vi, look alive…"

  I did my best as George finally returned to his seat. "I've ordered the driver to hurry," he patronized. "We can't be late to the dedication."

  "Oh goodness, no. What would people think?" Amanda exclaimed in feigned distress. I stifled a giggle.

  George wasn't amused. "Sarcasm is the basest form of all humor," he muttered to me with a nod, as if he and I were aligned in our opinions, partners in our disdain of low humor. As if I wasn't thinking up a million more sarcastic things to say to my dumpy advisor.

  Instead of responding, I bit my tongue and stared out the window.

  Amanda and I had made bets about the nature and species of bug living in the deep recesses of George's rear end. None of those conversations were fit for a princess to be having, so we tended to have them only when free of George's presence.

  The streets of Tinerly, Justana's capital, whizzed by the window as the driver stepped on the gas. Some of them were new to my eyes. Twenty-two years old and I still hadn't physically gone to the city's market district. That wasn't a 'sensible' thing for a future ruler of Justana to spend her time doing, according to George.

  That kind of opinion had never made sense to me. If I was going to rule the nation, shouldn't I, well, know something about Justana? About my people? Surely Father had visited every part of our small country.

  Hadn't he?

  I filed that away as a topic to discuss with him at a later date. It wouldn't do any good to bring it up to George now. Not while my precious schedule was at risk.

  I'd asked my father on numerous occasions why we couldn't just fire the Smithes and hire new advisors. No one appeared to like them. His answer was always the same. "Well, Vi… if we fire them, how will we know what the people truly want from us? Our advisors help us make informed decisions. Without them, we'd have to do all the work ourselves."

  As to why it had to be the Smithes? His answer was even more infuriating. "It's always been the Smithes, Vi."

  Even though it was unlikely to come to fruition, I still entertained the fantasy of firing George and knocking him out of the palace onto his designer-suit-covered butt. That particular daydream was one of my favorites. But it was just a fantasy. The thought of actually doing that made me start to sweat. Which, aside from wrinkles, was the last thing this Etrian silk cocktail dress needed.

  Father was right. My family knew nothing about our people, and no number of trips to the furthest corners of our country were going to fix that. The advisor was the bridge. No matter how unsatisfactory a walk it was, a bridge was always better than falling into the water.

  I swayed with the limo, glancing again out the window, trying to discern where the driver was going. It looked like he was taking a shortcut to the harbor through the backstreets of downtown Tinerly. I was trying to figure out exactly which backstreets when I was thrown forward as the driver slammed on the brakes. My seatbelt was the only thing that kept me from spilling into the floor in a mess of rumpled silk and limbs.

  George, on the other hand, was not buckled, and so did end up sprawled on the floor. It would have been funny, except the driver was yelling about something and getting out of the vehicle, walking around to the front.

  "What happened?" I asked no one in particular. It was just something said in situations like these.

  "I think he hit someone," Amanda murmured, barely audible.

  My blood ran cold. "What?! Oh gods! I hope they're alright." I reached down to unbuckle my seatbelt.

  "Let me go. I'll assess the damage."

  Amanda leaned forward and opened the door, stepping out of the vehicle and closing it firmly behind her. She was probably going out to make sure whoever we'd hit was wasn't smeared all over the pavement and that it was safe for me to come out. Which was absolutely fine with me. I might have wanted to know more about my people, but I didn't need to know what anyone's insides looked like.

  "Your Highness, you should let me handle this," George 'suggested' in a voice that sounded more commanding than anything else. As much as I wanted to let him, I felt it should be me who confronted whoever-it-was we'd struck. I might not be as up to date on my politics and policies as I should be, but I knew about basic human decency. I knew how much more a personal apology would mean to whoever was out there.

  As usual, George didn't seem to agree with me.

  My stomach was in knots even as he scrambled to his knees, pulling his keys o
ut of his pocket and reaching under one of the seats with them. He produced a small, black-zippered pouch stuffed full of bribe money. He usually kept it for the police, if we got pulled over for speeding, or for the border patrol when we were country-hopping.

  "No, let me out to apologize… if there's still someone to apologize to," I insisted.

  We'd hit someone with the limo, for crying out loud! Couldn't George see that there wasn't any way to just throw money at this and make it go away? We weren't above the law. Even if my family technically had the last say in writing it.

  George shook his head. "Absolutely not. We're late enough as it is. I'll handle this, Princess Violet."

  "Nonsense. I'll handle it. It's my limo that hit them."

  Amanda opened the door. "Bicycle courier. He's fine. Bike's totaled, though."

  George nodded tersely, pulling a handful of cash out of the pouch and replacing the pouch where he'd found it. He made his way to the door amid my protests.

  I grabbed his sleeve. "I need to be in touch with the people in the kingdom if I'm ever going to rule it. There's a guy out there who deserves an apology from me and…"

  George responded by yanking his sleeve out of my grasp. "And he's going to get it," he said, his tone made it sound like a warning. "By proxy. Because we're late. No. More. Arguments." He straightened his jacket. "Your Highness," he added at the end, climbing out of the car and slamming the door behind him.

  My face burned hot in his wake. I blinked steadily to stop the angry tears from falling. So much for my push for the slightest bit of independence.

  I peered out the window to try to see what was going on.

  I spied the courier out on the sidewalk, nursing a badly-skinned knee.

  He had brown hair that looked short at first, but when he turned to the side, I realized that he had it pulled back into a ponytail. A short ponytail, but a ponytail nonetheless.

  He was wearing a gray shirt embroidered with the Justana Delivery Service logo and khaki shorts that I recognized as part of the uniform. When I craned my neck, I could just make out his bike behind him. The front was bent at a ninety-degree angle. There was sweat dripping down the courier's temples and his hands were shaking.