Royal Marriage Market (13 page)

Somebody must have come up behind me and clocked me on the head with one of those enormous Acme hammers, because surely, His Serene Highness did not just say what I fear he did.

Did he?

I have never prayed so hard to be hallucinating. Here I was, feeling sorry for Isabelle and Christian, when my own demons are here to roost.

“Your mother and I had several productive conversations with his parents over the last few weeks, and we feel quite certain that you two will get along smashingly,” my father continues, oblivious to how he ripped the ground out from beneath my wooden feet. “Mathieu is an intelligent boy. Full of strong opinions.” He playfully clucks me under the chin, only the seriousness lining his face and coating his words betray any lightheartedness of the moment. “Sound familiar?”

Weeks? He’s been wrangling a deal for my hand in an archaic arranged marriage for
weeks?

Somebody calls my father’s name. “Inform Isabelle she’s to meet Aiboland for tea this afternoon, as well. Do your duty, Elsa.”

Once he departs, I want to dig out my phone and check the calendar, just to ensure we’re in the twenty-first century and not the Middle Ages.

“May I be of assistance, Your Highness?”

I blink and find a server standing in front of me, his tux impeccable for such an early hour. I offer my royal smile: calm and collected as I will be damned if I show anyone within the next room just how shaken I am. “I am heading in for breakfast.”

He props the door open for me; I force my feet to uproot and deliver me back into the dining room. Isabelle has, to my surprise, been detained by one of the Monégasque girls and is just now heading to where Christian is.

The moment they notice her approach, the trio of men stand up. Christian cannot let go of his manners for two seconds, can he? You would assume, in a room filled entirely with royalty, we could all let our hair down and not give into restrictive roles such as standing up simply because a lady arrives at a table.

Christian wasn’t so chivalrous last night. Fine, that’s a lie. He was. He made me warm milk, for goodness’ sake.

At the thought of Prince Charming cooking for me, my idiotic heart stutters within my ribs.

“Mind if we join you?” Isabelle is all cool elegance, one of her patented, coquettish slips of a smile attempting to shine through, only to come across as more of a grimace than the flirting she undoubtedly strove for.

Before I can tug her away to press the issue from before, those too fascinating amber eyes of Christian’s leave my sister’s face to settle on me. Like some ridiculous stereotype, when our visions meet, the breath in my lungs magically disappears until I do not know if I’m actually even on the planet anymore, because surely all of the oxygen is gone. And it is outrageous, because stuff such as this—reactions to someone simply making eye contact—do not exist in reality, even in one as extraordinary as mine.

I am clearly exhausted from lack of sleep, or actually falling prey to the flu I feared last night, because there is no other rational explanation as to why I’m lightheaded.

Thankfully, he glances back at my awaiting sister. “It would be our pleasure.” He offers her a smile in return, yet it is radically different than last night’s sunny dazzler that lit up a dark kitchen. This morning’s is closed-lipped; worse, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

I don’t think I like this smile at all. Not on him, not like this. But he proves his Prince Charming moniker is well deserved, because Christian graciously pulls my sister’s chair out for her. In return, she promptly slams her plate against the table. Is our mother having a stroke somewhere? She’s clearly slacking on her spells to enforce proper behavior in the both of us, that’s for certain. Because this is not my sister’s normal behavior. She is a tough cookie, but normally polite beyond measure. I know this is a hellish experience, but of the two of us, my money was on her to act decently. First the pathetic attempts at flirting, and now plate slamming? What is happening right now?

Christian weathers her mercurial mood in stride. “May I introduce my brother, His Highness Prince Lukas of Aiboland? Lukas, this is Elsa, the Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia and her sister, Princess Isabelle.”

Lukas bows, but it is nowhere nearly as crisp and lovely as his brother’s. His eyes narrow upon my sister. “Enchanted, I’m sure.”

His accent is not as lovely, either.

Niceties performed, I round the table and place my plate next to Parker’s. But right as the Aibolandian heir attempts to politely follow me to my side, no doubt to pull my chair out, too, I grab my own seat and slide it from beneath the table.

Parker’s startled into action. “Allow me,” he quickly throws out. I wave him off.

“Despite popular opinion, I am fully capable of pulling out my own chair.” My words have no bite in them, though. I’m teasing and they’re well aware of it.

Lukas, who made no effort to pull my seat out for me, lifts his coffee cup in a small salute, surprise flickering in his eyes.

A distinct chirping of my sister’s phone informs us our mother—or her secretary—has sent a text message. Isabelle stiffens and then flinches, almost as if the rings were slaps rather than signals. She remains standing, waiting for the sounds to cease . . . and even then, the light fading from her eyes, she does not move.

The men who share our company shift uncomfortably, as if they know a darkened cloud has come to rain down upon us during our meal.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Isabelle?” When she does not readily answer, I switch tactics and motion to the space in front of us. “These gentlemen were in the midst of eating and cannot resume doing so until you’ve sat. Do you wish them to starve?”

Her trance broken by my teasing, my sister clearly bites back her response but does as asked. As the men sit down themselves, Christian once more catches my attention—and there. Mission accomplished. He doesn’t even appear shocked I would say such a thing. A tiny bit of light has returned to his face, to the slight curve of his lips. A small slice of teeth appears for the teeniest of seconds.

That’s much better. A morose Prince Charming does no one any good.

One of Isabelle’s slender hands rests against the exposed skin just below the roll of his sleeve. A shuddery sigh slips from between her pink lips, one that smacks of forced yet wholly unwanted determination. “I hope I have not kept you from your food too long. Can you ever forgive me? Perhaps we can find a way for me to make it up to you.”

Seriously. What is going on here? Did somebody come and suck my sister’s soul out of her? She would normally never say such a thing.

The ease Christian had just shown me is once more gone. “Actually,” he says slowly, “this my second plate, so there is no need for worry.”

Perhaps I am not remembering him correctly. Perhaps I had too much champagne last night, because the man before me is not the same as the one I ate éclairs with in a darkened kitchen. This one sounds robotic. Robotic and annoyed?

What a pair these two make.

“Did you sleep well last night, Your Highness?” Parker asks me.

I turn toward him, grateful for redirection. “None of this Your Highness nonsense, please. Feel free to call me Elsa. And as a matter of fact, I did not. I hazard to guess none of us did.”

“You can say that again,” Lukas mutters.

My pulse leaps. Did Christian embellish our time together to his brother?

“Was it shag central down in the barracks, too?” Lukas asks the secretary. “If last night was any indicator of what the week’s going to be like, I don’t know if I brought enough condoms.”

Ah. He’s referring to himself, then.

Cheeks flaming, Parker uneasily shifts his eggs from one side of his plate to the other. “I can go to town for you if you like, Your Highness.”

Christian merely sighs, shaking his head.

Isabelle says suddenly, woodenly, “Christian, what are your plans for the day?”

His attention flies up from his sausage, startled to be singled out. “Back-to-back meetings, I’m afraid.” Only, he sounds relieved to tell her this, which is odd, considering his comment about our itinerary last night.

That said, he did make a point to let me know he had no interest in making a match at the RMM. I claimed the same, but he and I know our opinions mean nothing in the long run, especially in light of teas that are already being scheduled. But here he is, sounding indifferent toward my glamorous sister who routinely shows up in glossies.

As Parker cuts a piece of ham, he says, “Your schedules today must match fairly closely.”

Isabelle is blank faced for a split second. “I don’t have much of a set schedule today—”

“Ah, the joys of being a spare.” Lukas tugs out a flask from his coat, toasting my sister.

“My apologies, my lady,” Parker continues. “I was referring to Prince Christian and Princess Elsa. I would think that, as the heirs to their respective thrones, they will sit in on many of the same meetings this week.”

“It makes sense,” I say. “I left my full schedule back in my room, though.” My smile is faint. “I failed to read it all the way through it yet.” And then, dryly, “Unlike some people.”

Amusement flashes in Christian’s eyes. “Why isn’t your private secretary here with you?”

He actually appears interested in my answer. “How do you know she’s not?”

“I have my sources.”

He checked up on me? Interesting. I turn toward Parker. “Hello, source.”

Parker merely chuckles.

“To answer your question, Charlotte gave birth a few weeks ago. While she was willing to come, the new man in her life had very different ideas, and rightly so.” I set my coffee cup back onto the table. “I’m positive she’s afraid I’m quite lost without her.”

“You probably are,” Isabelle murmurs.

It is good to see glimmers of my sister appearing every now and again.

“Are you?” Christian is once more staring at me like my answer is important.

“Would you be?”

“Actually, I would.” There is no hint of embarrassment. “Parker pretty much runs my life for me.”

“Your bromance is adorable,” I admit. “Much like the sisterhood of the travelling . . . well, I’d say trousers that, but we don’t have a pair we share with one another whilst chasing dreams and memories across the globe. So let us just say that Charlotte and I are the equivalent of whatever a bromance is, only lady-style. Imagine how cozy the four of us would be together: helpless heirs reliant upon their personal secretaries. A sitcom is born. Or a reality show.”

Christian laughs now, so do Parker and Lukas, but it’s the Crown Prince’s that seeps through my skin, into my muscles and bones. It’s the same infectious, wonderful laughter I heard last night, like . . . like he is unafraid to embrace life rather than simply hold on like the rest of us. Truthfully, it is baffling, because just five minutes ago, I wondered if I imagined that side of him.

But, no. Here he is. Christian and his too infectious, wonderful laughter. Something inside me clenches. Flutters.

Isabelle’s knife clatters against her plate. “It really is a shame Charlotte isn’t here to rein you in from saying such sordid things.”

“Sordid? Did you not hear my clarification? Charlotte and I have long since stopped sharing clothes.”

“Have you known her long?” Christian asks.

I tear off a corner of a piece of toast. “We went to the same boarding school when younger, which is most likely why she tolerates me so well. I am an acquired taste, you see.”

A tiny choking sound emits from my sister.

Christian leans forward. “I’m shocked to hear this. I assumed all princesses run around inquiring about others’ virginities. Is this not normal behavior for future monarchs?”

“Don’t you mean running amuck?” I cannot help but tease.

“What’s this about virgins?” Lukas asks. “Because I’m pretty sure there are none here at the Summit. Not after what I saw going on last night.”

My sister saws at her sausage like her life depends upon it.

“Parker and I went to boarding school, too,” Christian tells me, ignoring his brother. He’s no longer scandalized in the least, which is refreshing. “I wonder if it’s the place du jour to foster relationships with one’s trusted personal secretary.”

Lukas takes another swig from his flask. “Yes, you two went off and left me at home. No wonder I have no secretary of my own.”

For a moment, no one says anything, not in the face of such blatant bitterness. I break the silence with, “I’m sure Charlotte often rues the day she sat down next to me at supper for the first time. She had no idea who I was. She simply thought I was some lonely girl. Which, make no mistake, I was, but . . .” A sly grin fights to show itself upon my face. “She certainly got more than she bargained for.” I turn toward Parker. “Is it the same for you? Do you ever wish that you’d found a perfectly acceptable bromance to cultivate with a non-royal?”

Parker is thoroughly flustered. “Um . . .”

Christian laughs again. “I can answer for him. Of course it’s yes.”

We grin at each other then, big fat smirks that stretch the corners of our lips upward in a shared sense of conspiratorial glee. And I am struck by just how much I admire such a smile on this man.

“Elsa,” Isabelle says flatly, “Isn’t that Mathieu in line for breakfast? You ought to invite him to sit with you, considering . . .” Her pause is meaningful. And irritating.

Because I could almost swear she was telling me to not rock the boat, either, and there is no way that could be right.

chapter 15