Royal Marriage Market (17 page)

A feminine fist is proffered. I knock mine against it, marveling how this small instant of skin against skin feels like foreplay that’s going to send me to a cold shower in no time. And for a moment, it seems as if she’s just as affected by this insignificant touch as I am. But then she clears her throat and says lightly, “I knew I could count on you.”

“We still need a witching hour first, though.”

She leans in and Tahitian vanilla floods my senses. It’s my new favorite smell. “That’s on you, Your Highness. I found us a first.”

“For tomorrow,” I stress.

One of her fingers traces the line of my collar from just below my ear to the pointed tip under my chin. The air in my chest stills until her fingers leave me. “Three a.m.
is
tomorrow.”

I’m a fool, because I allow one hand to curve around her waist for the smallest of moments, just long enough to squeeze gently. And now I’m twice as turned on, as if that was even possible. “If we’re going to ditch the hike and essay—”

“Oh, we’re really standing up to the man now.” Her voice is breathy and soft amidst the chatter beyond the bushes, her eyes darkening in the warm glow of lamplight. “We’re not hiking, either?”

“We’ll be too tired to hike after being up so late. Besides, it starts at five-thirty a.m., Els. How many heirs do you think are actually going to make it? We surely won’t be the only two still asleep during all the so-called fun. If I were a betting man, I’d say no one is going to show up.”

I watch her take a deep breath before she says, “Point ceded. Continue.”

“So my first is . . . let us follow the Pergola trail and have our hike during the witching hour.”

It’s her turn to lift her eyebrows. She knows I’m referring to what once must have been a magnificent walking trail: a series of formerly grapevine and fruit tree covered pergolas stretching nearly a mile on the grounds around the castle that are now in rustic yet charming abandon. I traced the line of the trail on the drive up to the castle.

“I’ve never hiked in the middle of the night,” I add. “It will be a first for me.”

“I highly doubt that’s considered hiking. People strolled the Pergola path all the time before it fell apart.”

“Now you’re just nitpicking.”

Somebody calls her name; and by somebody, I mean Mat. How in bloody hell has he found us?

But then I get a quiet, “Bring a bottle of wine.”

Done.

chapter 20

Elsa

“I swear,” Mat says as he approaches us, two glasses of champagne in his hands, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you two were hiding behind the bushes.”

I take a discreet step back from Christian, realizing it might appear as if I were practically climbing all over him. His
too
-ness distracts me so. “Can you blame us?”

“Only because you didn’t invite me to join you.” He offers me one of the glasses. “Sorry I don’t have one for you, too, Christian. But I thought a glass was in order, as the first official match of the RMM was just announced. Hooray fucking huzzah.”

I take the drink, desperately trying to repress the insidious shiver threatening to overtake me. We are on our second day, and an announcement has already been made? And then it hits me. All the clapping and cheering earlier represented a grotesque celebration of victims of the RMM losing their respective freedoms when it comes to matters of the heart.

“Who are the unlucky souls?” Christian asks.

Mat takes a long swallow of bubbly. “My sister and some poor sod from the Greek contingency.”

I don’t know what to say. It is obvious Mat isn’t happy in the least with this match.

Christian lets out a low whistle. “How is she dealing with it?”

“The only way she’s allowed to: with her chin up and a smile on her face.” Mat’s grimace is the direct opposite of what he’s describing as he holds up his glass. “Gossip claims there’s at least one more announcement coming tonight.”

Panic flutters within my chest, even though I figure it cannot be mine. While my father indicated his preference for Mat, he hasn’t laid down the decree yet. There is still hope, as slim as it may be.

My whisper is barely voiced. “So soon.”

“Do you know who?” Christian asks.

“No, mate.” Mat sips his champagne. “But what I do know is that the Grand Duchess has requested the presence of both you and your brother.”

Christian swears softly beneath his breath. I am startled by his quiet vehemence, even more so by the obvious sympathy tinting Mat’s face. Do they fear it is Christian at risk of an announcement?

The man in question pauses only momentarily to square his shoulders. “I best not keep the Grand Duchess waiting, then.”

It is pointless resisting the urge to stare as he takes his leave. I am disconcerted by how unsettled he was, and that’s an unfamiliar feeling for me, especially when it concerns a person I’ve only known a couple days.

“I don’t envy him,” Mat says, also eying Christian’s departure.

I sip the bubbly he gave me slowly. Despite the chilly air around us, my drink is semi-warm. “Oh?”

He rakes a hand through his sandy hair. “How well do you know the Grand Duchess of Aiboland?”

“Not at all,” I admit. “Why?”

Mat leans against the wall, swirling the champagne in his glass. “Let’s just say that Her Highness is formidable.”

I reflect on what I know about Christian’s mother. She’s smart, elegant, well spoken, and admired by much of the world for being the epitome of a modern monarch, even if one of a tiny country. “Could we not say that about most our parents?”

“I suppose so,” he muses quietly. “And still, I do not envy my friend his home life, even if . . .” His shoulders sag, a distance filling his eyes.

“Are you all right, Mat?”

The smile he pastes upon his face is no doubt the same his sister showed the others a quarter of an hour before. “I know we’re hiding and all, but they’ve just put out the most delicious looking gelato. Fancy a scoop?”

I would rather take a knitting needle to my eye than rejoin the party, but as curiosity is burning a fresh path through me, I follow him toward the dessert table.

Minutes later, as I’m nibbling on teeny spoonfuls of gelato, I do my best to pretend I am faithfully listening to a story Mat’s telling me about him and his sister when they were little, but my attention is anywhere else.

Okay. That’s a lie—not the story he recounts, which I am certain is true, but that my attention is anywhere else. Because it’s not.
It is specifically refocusing upon one place.

Christian and Isabelle are with my father and the Grand Duchess, near the guest house overlooking the mountains. They’re drinking champagne and Isabelle is pale and our parents are so pleased with themselves, it’s appalling.

And Christian? His smile is tight and forced, all practiced lines that offer the untrained eye quiet politeness. His Serene Highness may believe Christian is pleasantly enjoying whatever they’re discussing. Perhaps Isabelle, too. But me, who has known this prince all of two days, can tell how pissed and miserable he is, and those are two emotions he most definitely wasn’t feeling while we were hiding behind the bushes.

Would such forced lines tighten his face if it were me standing next to him and not my sister? Wishful thinking at its finest, especially as he made it quite clear to me he’s no more interested in a match at the RMM than I am.

Oh, bloody hell.

I may not believe in love at first sight, but like I told Charlotte, lust at first sight is a very real, very valid thing. Because how else can I explain my sudden obsession with all things Christian?

I tune Mat back in, wondering if my smile matches Christian’s.

“It was nice,” he murmurs. I’m not the only one whose attention has wavered, because he stares at his sister standing with the man who must be her new fiancé. “And Margaux was happy. I was, too. It’s funny how we look back and wish for what we once thought was merely commonplace, yet in reality is a rarity.”

“We always look back on memories differently, don’t we?”

It is his turn to refocus on me. A quiet exhale of a laugh passes from between his lips. “The grass is always greener elsewhere, I suppose. It just becomes unfortunate when your bare toes have felt such grass.”

I shove the spoon into my gelato, unsure how to properly respond. And that is part of the problem—I never quite know what to say to Mat.

He hands his bowl to a passing server before stepping closer. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me, to unload all that on you.”

Now I feel even worse.

      
“I suppose I’m nostalgic,” he continues, “knowing my sister and I will be forced to finally let go of hopes and pasts this week. It’s a straightjacket feeling, isn’t it?”

Something in me softens at the gentle melancholy I am unsure he means for me to see. I hand my bowl to another passing server. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have not been born royal? To not have such expectations on your shoulders?”

His smile is genuine, if not dampened. “All the time. As do you, I’m sure.”

Dammit. I suppose there is a bit of an urge to share after all. Words I never would have guessed I’d give him slip out. “When I was younger, I talked with classmates about their lives, and of the choices they were afforded. Even those from wealthy, powerful families still had so many choices before them.” The secrets I’m giving him are quiet amongst the loud voices around us. “I began to truly realize that, while I am afforded so many things others are denied or covet, I am still beholden to expectations of thousands of people I do not even know. And those expectations are not always the easiest to live up to, especially when the glare of public life is so bright.”

There’s his soft exhale of a laugh again, only this time, it is filled with a hint of relief. “Exactly.” And then something else fills his eyes—not so much camaraderie, but a sense of understanding compassion coupled with newfound respect. “Although, that’s unfair of me to even say or think. Because while my family legacy holds me tight, it must be nothing compared to that in which a throne still rules.”

I take him in now, all of him. I finally notice the sharp black vest he’s wearing over a crisp gray shirt, the faint pinstriped charcoal pants hugging his lean frame, and the sleek, laceless loafers that leave him reminding me of a green crayon in a box of blues. And I cannot help but wonder just who Mathieu really is.

But what I do know is that his words were weighted with sincerity no matter how heavy they fell between us. So when he moves forward, arms hesitantly opening, I take a deep breath and step into them for a brief hug. And it feels nice. Safe. Extremely brotherly.

Which is not exactly what one desires from their future spouse.

chapter 21

Christian

Isabelle is waxing poetic about horses again. Only this time, Prince Gustav and the She-Wolf have joined in, so between the three of them, I’ve filled my quota of horse talk for an entire century.

As they debate . . . shite, I don’t know, different kinds of steeds, I can’t help but despair that this is how my life will be going forward. Not so much hearing about animals I care little to nothing about, but that my manipulative mother and potential future father-in-law will always be here to vehemently shove a relationship I do not want down my throat. So much of me wants to just shout, “I’m done, fuck the RMM and the rest of you,” but I don’t. None of us trapped here do. And it makes us the biggest lot of cowards ever.

I rebel, though, the only way I can in such a situation. Every time Isabelle inadvertently moves closer, I shift another step away. Each time she anemically flirts with me (just enough, I suspect, to appease her father), I pay her back in cool yet polite response. I seriously piss off the She-Wolf, but I don’t care.

Isabelle’s not awful, to be honest. Polite, if not icy. Smart. Refined. A looker. To many imprisoned in the RMM, this would be enough. Hell, this would be enough for many people outside of this farce I’m trapped in. But the assuredness in my bones tells me it’s not enough for me.