Royal Marriage Market (12 page)

He called me Els again. Prince Charming has officially charmed me—at least tonight, at least in this kitchen. “I accept your challenge.”

Skipped beats transitions to sprinting when the corners of his lips tick upward. “You have until cocktails after dinner tonight to suggest another first. I’ll suggest one, too. And then we’ll decide, together, which of our firsts to cross off our lists. Or perhaps even do both.”

Together.

I have been drinking milk, but there is peanut butter in my throat. What am I doing? I ought to turn around and walk away, but when he sticks out his hand, mine goes out, too. And like before, his lips meet the back of my knuckles for the smallest of orgasmic moments.

“All the best deals are sealed with a kiss,” he says lightly.

I am a bloody idiot.

chapter 14

Elsa

I am cranky and in possession of dark bags beneath my eyes that no amount of cream and makeup can conceal the next morning. Or rather, later the same morning. Once I returned to my room, Isabelle and my father were snoring louder than ever. The milk helped, but Christian did not. That sexy accent of his haunted what precious few dreams I had.

“You look terrible,” Isabelle helpfully confirms as we make our way to breakfast. Our father ran into a friend in the hallway and sent us ahead. Nothing makes a woman feel more childish than being escorted by a parent. And as such, I am not heartbroken in the least over his absence.

My smile is in no way joyful. “How lucky that I can always count on you for the brutal truth.” Perhaps I ought to point out she is exquisite as always right now. Of course, she did not have to listen to the deafening noises she and my father were making last night, either.

“I saw you talking with Mathieu last night.”

“We spoke,” I confirm.

“And?”

“We snuck out of the party and made rabid, passionate love behind one of the palm trees. I am pregnant, and we decided to name the baby Raffaello, move to Italy, buy a villa, and cultivate an olive grove so we can press our own bottles of oil. Our tagline will have something to do with having the most royal of all olive oils. He and I will rusticate happily in the countryside whilst you assume the throne in Vattenguldia.”

      
Her pink tinged lips thin considerably. “That is not even remotely funny.”

For all her royal aspirations, sovereign is most definitely not one of my sister’s most cherished wishes. “Honestly, Isabelle. What do you think happened? We spoke. He was surprisingly decent, but if you’re asking if it was love at first sight, I am not sorry to disappoint. That aside, I believe I’ve found myself a new friend to wade through the week’s trenches with.”

It’s not exactly a lie, but I am relieved she does not press me for a name, or realize I am now referring to a different man. How awkward would it be to admit I’m on friendly terms with her future husband? Or, worse yet, making plans to hang out with him in the dead of night?

“I overheard Father on the phone with Mother last night. Mathieu is definitely their target for you, Elsa.”

Fantastic. “He seems as enthused by the prospect as I am.”

She says quietly, bitterness crisping the edges of each of her words, “As we all are. His Serene Highness introduced me to a virtual Neanderthal last night.”

I nearly trip on the stairs at such a description. Prince Charming was anything less than charming? Impossible. His too-ness would never allow it.

Isabelle continues, “He is quite good looking, even if he dresses like a panhandler.”

At first, I’m startled. Christian, a panhandler? But then I realize my sister has switched subjects and is once more referring to Mathieu . . . who still does not resemble what she’s insinuating. “Have you actually ever seen one? Mat is a far cry from that. If anything, he is a hipster. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is secretly a music snob.” I bump my shoulder against hers. “Also, he was wearing a tuxedo last night. How many panhandlers do you think dress in couture?”

She counters with, “It was velvet. And he was wearing tennis shoes.”

I literally clutch the pearls around my neck. “Let us take him out back and put him down before it’s too late.”

She is quiet for a long moment. “The Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland plays tennis.”

I clutch the pearls tighter. “Shite, Isabelle! What is this world coming to?” And then, as her mouth turns down, “Please tell me you did not discuss sports last night.”

Or at least any that my highly opinionated sister does not approve of, which are all but those dealing with equines.

Dark, curling hair is smoothed behind her ears. “We also spoke of horses.”

I have never been more pleased to not be part of a conversation before. And it delights me to know Christian must like horses, because at least now there’s something to disapprove of. Horses smell. I am a failure of a princess to believe that, but it’s the truth, nonetheless. “Somehow you got onto tennis after talking about horses?”

Her voice drops to a disapproving whisper, soft yet grating against the staircase we descend. “He mentioned he played ice hockey. It’s as I said. That man is a Neanderthal.”

And he cooks warm milk and offers unsuspecting princesses éclairs in the dead of night. Is he trying out for Man of the Year? Bloody Prince Charming. How did she not fall prey to his charms? Neanderthal, indeed. “Why are you whispering?”

Her nostrils flare. “What if those aren’t his real teeth?”

I don’t bother informing her I initially wondered if they were capped, too.

According to the welcome packet received upon arrival, morning meals at the Castle are served buffet style in a large dining room that resembles a medieval monastery that found itself in the middle of an American ranch. A long wooden table and antique padded chairs and benches line the bulk of the richly decorated room, the seats filled with chatting royals. Music from the 1930s discreetly pipes through hidden speakers, and as I take it and all the flags lining the ornate ceiling in, I marvel at how time travel is so perfectly desirable here in this house and utterly mundane in my own. How delightful Hearst Castle must have been in its heyday, filled with glamorous movie stars and America’s elite. I can almost feel the ghosts of the past brushing my arms, beguiling me to discover their secrets.

“Look at this.” Isabelle motions toward a large sign posted on an easel near the doorway. It reads:
Hearst Castle is a historic site, a museum, and part of California’s State Park system. You are financially responsible for any damage you cause.

She passes me a plate. “A house can be a park?”

“More likely the land it sits upon. Didn’t you read up on its history before we came?” I should talk, though. My research was cursory at best.

“I didn’t have time.” Isabelle allows herself an apple and a cup of coffee. “I find it insulting they would believe we are slovenly enough to trash the furniture. We reside in genuine castles and palaces, most of them with antiques far older and more precious than these.”

“Careful, sister,” I warn lightly. “You sound like the biggest snob in a room packed to the gills with the world’s most prolific elitists.”

To prove my point, she issues a condescending sniff of displeasure. But then, all the bitchiness on her face dissipates into stark resignation.

“There’s Christian. I suppose we ought to sit with him.”

“What a ringing endorsement. You
suppose
.”

The lines around her mouth grow more pronounced.

“What would Alfons think?” I tease, following the line of sight my sister motions toward with her elbow. Christian, the man he ate dinner with, and Parker are sitting next to and across from one another at the end of the table, sipping coffee.

Dammit. Even in the morning, Christian and his
too
-ness are impossible to escape. Because he really is alluring, with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms and the sun dancing in streaks of blinding light across his wavy hair as he chats with the fellows he is with. And he’s wearing those jeans again.

Neanderthal, indeed.

If only he’d had an ugly personality to go with such a visage.

“I don’t want to talk about Alfons.” And then, remembering the last time she said—nay, snapped—this, Isabelle adds, “Please, Elsa.”

There’s that statement again. My sister’s smile turns wan, tripping warning signals that urge:
caution ahead; proceed at own risk.
Propriety dictates I ought to respect such a wish, but the sister in me simply cannot ignore the pain in my only sibling’s eyes. “Is everything all right between you two?”

Dark hair, so very like my own, whispers from side-to-side in a quick jerk. Wan transitions to wobbly.

When had this happened? Just last week, I endured yet another one of Isabelle’s quietly voiced convictions over how certain she was that Alfons was her soul mate. Granted, this was not new, but she had been particularly vehement in her faith of their happy ending together. Naturally, I urged caution—and support, despite her beau being as interesting as a wet paper bag (and, if I am honest, about as smart as one, too). But Alfons appears to possess a good heart and certainly fails to strike me as a gold digger out to snatch himself a free ride for life. Did my normally cautious sister jump the gun by becoming engaged to her riding instructor after knowing one another all of a year? Most definitely. But Isabelle was always so happy with Alfons—and happy is something we desperately chase when so much of our lives are dedicated toward ensuring the emotion for others. How did she go from blissfully in love to willing to refuse standing up against the RMM in such a tiny span of time? Or at least not rock the boat?

I murmur her name, but a sharp shake of head plus another jab in the ribs quickly stops any further comments. Then she is off, striding across the room toward her assumed intended, her features perfectly schooled so there will be no further hidden demons betrayed. I know better, though. She would normally never let her guard down in public, so for her to allow me to witness such a fleeting moment means at least one heart must be bruised and possibly crushed. And that is a hard realization for a sister, knowing all at once something horrible has rocked Isabelle’s existence and accepting there is nothing to be done other than simply be a leg of support, if that’s even what she requires from me.

I am about to follow when I hear, “Ah, there you are, Elsa.”

My father stands behind me, a cup of steaming coffee in his hands.

“Your mother rang a few minutes ago. She was most displeased she was unable to touch base with you this morning.”

“I fear I must have left my mobile set to vibrate.” It is a lie—I sent the call straight to voicemail. I have had neither enough sleep nor coffee for such a conversation.

He grunts, probably wishing he had done the same. “You’re to ring her after your meeting this morning. Have your sister join in—it will be easier that way. She wishes to discuss some important matters with the both of you.”

Irritation flares at the same time my stomach sinks.

“I’m off to go chat with the MC before the day kicks off, and then I have a quick meeting with the Nordic Council,” he tells me, “but I wanted to catch you up to speed on a few crucial matters.” He glances over my shoulder. “Isabelle are Aiboland are a union I’m keen to support, Elsa.”

So it is official, whether my sister wants it or not.

“If she asks your opinion on whether or not you think she and Aiboland are a good match, I know I can count on you to do what’s best for the family and Vattenguldia, hm? Relations between our countries have been distanced for far too long.”

If we were behind closed doors, I might just tell him my actual opinion, but as we are out in the open, surrounded by peers, I simply incline my head. But, yeah. Not going to happen. Nor will it happen when my mother pushes the topic later today.

“You spoke to him last night. Do you think his acquiescence will be a problem?”

My legs feel as if they’ve turned to wood. “Are you inquiring if I believe the Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland is an eager participant of the RMM?”

My father chuckles good-naturedly, as if he knows it matters not one bit whether or not Christian is—or any of us are, for that matter. “I have no doubt that that boy will do what’s best for his country.” He takes my arm and steers me just outside the door. “The Grand Duchess is just as keen for this match as I am.”

Now that we are out of view, I say, “Boy? He is older than me.”

This only brings forth an affectionate pat on my shoulder. “If necessary, encourage him to see your sister and Vattenguldia in a positive light. I’m sure that won’t be hard for you, not if you wish for what’s best for our people.”

One does not roll their eyes before their monarch, not even when the sovereign is their parent. But goodness, if it isn’t difficult to repress the action.

My father sips his coffee, watching me carefully. “I have arranged for you to have tea with Mathieu after your meeting today. It is best you spend some time each day acquainting yourself with him. Remember, we have only until Friday.”