Royal Marriage Market (11 page)

Shite, no. Not if I can help it, at least. The last time I did, back when I lived in England, I was unseated and had a goose egg on my head for weeks. “I enjoy tennis quite a bit.”

The lines around her mouth tighten, like I’ve slaughtered a puppy in front of her. Or perhaps, in her case, a foal. What the hell is wrong with tennis?

So I add, “And sailing.”

Somehow, that’s an even worse answer. “While I was in the states, I played a bit of hockey—”

The lines ease just a fraction. “Field hockey?”

“Uh, no. Ice.”

She holds a hand to her mouth and discreetly gasps (or is it gags?), like some delicate woman prone to the vapors in Victorian England. It’s either an act, or Isabelle is nothing like her sister, because I cannot imagine Elsa ever swooning, let alone pretending to do so.

They look a bit alike, with the same dark hair and pale skin, but Isabelle strikes me as much more refined than Elsa. Not that Elsa isn’t—despite what I’ve seen, I’m sure she must be, considering her upbringing. It’s just, Elsa is willing to speak her mind, as exasperating as it may be. She had the stones to say things I’ve never heard another princess say before. I mean, asking me about whether or not I was a virgin? At a party filled with our peers? Oddly refreshing, even if I was taken aback by it.

Yet now I’m stuck listening to horse and weather talk. I’m officially, completely, mind-numbingly bored as all hell. I promptly tune Isabelle out once more during her speech on the horror stories she’s heard about ice hockey players.

But then another pointed clearing of the throat forces my attention back. Bollocks. I’ve missed yet another question of hers. “My apologies. Would you mind repeating that?”

Annoyance flickers across her pale face. “I was asking if you know Prince Mathieu.”

My eyes swim across the waters separating us to the dessert table Elsa and Mat are still guarding. For having just been set up, they aren’t too close together, but then, that’s not Mat’s style.
She
isn’t Mat’s style, so it’s a bit surprising my old friend willingly allowed himself to be dragged over by Prince Gustav for an introduction.
      

Last I’d heard, Mat had been quietly dating the same girl for years now. Their meeting had all the makings of a saccharine movie: the Savoy prince and the American met at a coffee shop when she dropped her wallet and he picked it up. I like her, though. While often quiet, Kim has a good head on her shoulders and, at last report, was in her medical residency at a hospital on the East Coast. Despite their stark differences, the pair always made sense to me.

Elsa isn’t Kim. So why is he still talking to the Vattenguldian heir? Could it be that this is one of the RMM’s grotesque matches? Could he really be willing to throw over Kim in the name of his parents’ whims?

I pity the man. I pity Elsa. Damn, it’s embarrassing as all hell, but I pity myself right now.

I tell Isabelle, “Yes.”

She clearly expects more, because silence fills the space between us. So I add, “He’s a decent bloke.”

Christ. She’s still waiting. What else does she need to know?

“I hope he doesn’t assume my sister will readily fall into his arms,” she murmurs, watching the same scene I’m annoyingly unable to tear my eyes away from. “Although, they make a striking couple, don’t they?”

No. As a matter of fact, they don’t. Not even in the smallest—

Wait.

Why do I even care?

“My apologies,” I say again. “But I must excuse myself.”

She probably thinks I need to go take a piss. I let her think this, not caring one whit about propriety or decorum. I’ve got to get the hell away from the RMM as fast as I can. It’s messing with my head.

Because I most definitely did not like the thought of Mat and Elsa together. And I have no bloody reason to feel that way. None at all.

The RMM has already begun its mind-fucking.

chapter 13

Elsa

My father is sawing logs like a lumberjack desperate to win a contest; Isabelle comes in a close second in her attempts to keep pace with him. I have descended fully into purgatory as slumber gleefully abandons me.

Sometime around three in the morning, I throw on a sweater and jeans and escape the room I share with my family. I weave my way through the eerily still castle until I locate the kitchen. I’m desperate for alcohol to drown me in sleep but am ready to down a glass of warm milk instead. Not wishing to alert anyone to my late night wanderings, I bypass flipping on the lights in favor of the soft light of my cell phone.

I’ve just opened one of the old fashioned, wooden refrigerators decorating the kitchen when a voice inquires, “Are you running amuck through the castle in the middle of the night, Princess?”

There is a delectable British accent coming from somewhere behind me.

I slowly turn around in the darkened kitchen to find, in the faint beam of my cell’s light, the Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland propped against one of the stainless steel islands, a mug and a small plate of éclairs in front of him. He is wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt bearing his country’s military logo, looking a far cry different than the elegant man who nearly choked to death in front of me earlier tonight.

I like this look on him, though. Nearly as much as the other.

“It appears I am not the only one. What brings you to the kitchen so late at night?” Which is stupid to ask, as it is patently obvious as to what he’s doing, but lack of sleep doesn’t necessarily make allowances for witty observations.

Christian pushes one of the éclairs around on his plate before sliding his cell phone over from where it sat just inches away. He switches the flashlight on and tilts the screen so the island is illuminated. “I couldn’t sleep.” And then, with a rueful smirk, “The Grand Duchess snores like you can’t believe.”

There is no way to hold back the grin tugging at my lips. “I have just escaped my father doing the same.” I take pity on Isabelle, though. If he truly is the man she is to be matched to, he’ll discover this fun fact on his own soon enough.

“And you thought you’d find solace in the kitchen?”

“Have you not done the same?”

He chuckles. “I denied myself the éclairs earlier and then resolved, as I stared up at the ceiling for a good hour, that life is too short to not indulge in things that bring about small joys.”

I wander over to the island, positioning myself on the opposite side. “Éclairs bring you such?”

His grin grows. “Hell yeah, they do. Want one?”

Three éclairs rest upon his plate. “Will it bring
me
joy?”

“Have you ever eaten an éclair in the middle of the night, Els?”

I blink at the nickname he bestows upon me. No one has ever called me Els. Not a single person. It’s bizarre, because one would think such a derivative would be natural, but Her Serene Highness was strict about such things during my childhood. My name is Elsa. I ought to be called Elsa. Nicknames are common, and she claimed she wanted more for me.

Whatever that meant.

Despite our earlier conversation concerning his own, though, I happen to like nicknames. “As a matter of fact,” I say, absurdly pleased at the bestowment, “I have not.”

“Then this shall be a first for you.” He shoves the plate my way. “Don’t worry. Éclairs eaten in the middle of the night have no calories. If they did, I’d be at least five pounds heavier already.”

It is impossible to not grin like a fool. Are we really standing here in the kitchen, in the dead of night, sparring with one another again? And why is it so bloody entertaining?
Small joys, indeed
. “Is that so? Well then. This will be more than just a first for eating an éclair in the middle of the night. It will be my first time consuming a calorie free dessert, too. Who knew such things existed?”

“Shall I make you some warm milk, too?”

I blink again, abruptly unsteady.

“You were rooting around in the fridge for milk to heat up, weren’t you?” He motions to his own mug. “As it helps with snoring parents?”

I counter with, “Why were you sitting here in the dark?”

“I’d had my cell’s flashlight on, but switched it off when noises sounded outside the door. I suppose I wasn’t too keen on being caught rummaging around the kitchen in the middle of the night.” He touches the ceramic in front of him once more. “Yes or no?”

I gingerly select one of the éclairs, shivering at its coldness. “Actually, yes. I would very much like that. Do you know how to heat up milk?”

The room may be dim, but there’s no mistaking the comical yet wounded look he proffers. “Everyone knows how to do that.”

“Not everyone. There are surely milk virgins in the world.”

He wanders over to the fridge and extracts a carton of milk. “Rest assured, I am no milk virgin. I’m thirty, remember?”

It is my turn to nearly choke as I swallow a far too large bite of éclair.

“No choking allowed. If four a.m. rolls around, the calories will come back.”

I clear my throat. “Is three a.m. a magical hour, then?”

He heads over toward the stovetop, where a small pan rests upon another stainless steel countertop. I angle our phones’ flashlights his way; shadows crawl around his body as a blue flame erupts from a burner, allowing me to ogle silently at a well-shaped arse. Goodness. Will his too-ness ever cease?

“As a matter of fact, it is. All the best firsts should be experienced at three a.m.” He sets the pan on the stove and adds milk. “But it’s a witching hour. The magic only lasts for sixty minutes before turning ordinary once more.”

With the next bite of éclair, pleasure bursts across my tongue. Curse him for being spot on about pastry-based joy.

In the dim light of our cells, I watch as Christian heats the milk up, marveling at how, just hours before, I was raving at this man in a hallway. And now here we are, clandestinely taking over an unfamiliar kitchen in the dark hours of a sleepless night, and we are chatting easily, and I’m relishing this moment of reprieve.

Life is funny like that.

Minutes later, he brings me a mug filled with steaming milk. “I wasn’t able to find any cocoa, or I would have offered you that.”

I curl my fingers around the warmth, glancing up at his countenance in the shadowy, artificial light. “I would not have pegged you as one for hot cocoa.”

“When I was a lad, my governess used to make it for me whenever I had nightmares. I don’t drink it often nowadays, but it’s still a comfort of sorts.”

I sip the warm milk, reveling in how the day’s tension continues to ease from my muscles. “Did you have a nightmare tonight?”

“I think any child over the age of twenty, forced to sleep in the same room as a snoring parent, is in the midst of a nightmare.” His head cocks to the side, his smile fading just a bit. “Or, any sane adult trapped at the bloody RMM.”

His scorn is genuine, matching mine in vehemence.

Whether I am ready for them to do so or not, all of my earlier resentments melt away. Fine. He is not what I thought. And I’ve behaved abominably toward him, when it turns out he is just as resentful about this farce as I am. Maybe it’s the milk talking, but I no longer wish to resist this prince. Maybe, just maybe, when I was a little girl, wishing for a kindred spirit, I pegged this fellow correctly. So, I take a deep breath and extend my mug. He’s surprised, but doesn’t hesitate to pick his up, too. Ceramic clinks ring softly in the darkness of the kitchen.

“Maybe,” I say hesitantly, unsure if I ought to be voicing such things, “if we both have nightmares at the same time again, we can hunt down that chocolate and I’ll make us some cocoa.”

He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes inscrutable for once in the shadows of darkness and poor lighting. “Not a hot cocoa virgin then?”

My staged whisper is mocking. “I am twenty-eight years old!”

An easy grin reappears. “I’ve never had a princess make me hot cocoa before.”

“I’ve never drank it with a prince before, either.”

He chuckles quietly. It is a wonderful sound, one that raises goose bumps along my arms, underneath the cashmere of my sleeves. “Then that will be another series of firsts for us.”

I take another sip of milk. “That sounds like a club. The Royal First Club, or the RFC.”

The weight of his eyes settle upon me once more, and I feel foolish for uttering such a silly, presumptuous thing. But then he releases that perfect exhale of amusement again. “Let us be the founding members of this RFC. And as such, I issue you a challenge: outside of tonight’s milk and éclairs, we each must determine three more firsts to experience during three a.m. over the course of the week before we leave.”

If I did not know better, I might admit the muscle in my chest skips a beat at such a thought. “If we are running amuck at three a.m. each night, you and I shall be terribly tired during all of our meetings.”

“I’ve got a confession for you, Els. I’m fairly confident I’ll be tired during them anyway. Have you had a look at the itinerary for heirs yet? It’s boring as all sod. We’ll be keen to nap during those hours anyway.”