Royal Marriage Market (2 page)

Hearst Castle?

I mentally flip through the names of palaces and castles inhabited by fellow royals throughout Europe. Maybe it’s . . . no. Maybe . . . not that one, either. I move on to various seats of nobility, combing through name after name, but none match. In a fit of annoyance, I relent and open my laptop.

The results come in fast. Hearst Castle
is not a real castle
. At least, not a European one and certainly never inhabited by royalty. Technically, it is a mansion in California, surrounded by several guesthouses.

Sonofabitch.

I click on one of the links and read up on the location. It was previously owned by someone in the newspaper business, a rich and influential man, which I suppose makes him the equivalent of American royalty. Currently, the building is a United States Historical Landmark and open to the public on a daily basis.

I nearly shred the invitation as I grapple to take all this in. The Monarch Council wishes to send the entirety of the world’s reigning sovereigns and many of their heirs to a popular tourist destination in California?

Has the MC gone insane?

I storm out of my suite in a righteous fit of indignation, gripping the linen in my fist. Propriety dictates I call ahead, or knock at the very least, but as there are precious few days between the Decennial Summit and my freedom, I bypass manners and decorum and wrench the door to my father’s office open. Bittner is in there with His Serene Highness, but that matters little. He has worked for the House of Vasa long enough to know just about everything there is to our quirks, including my occasional warm-to-the-touch temperament that flares to life during the most inconvenient times. Like right now, when I am so upset I can barely unfurl my fingers from the invitation to shake it properly in my father’s face.

“My word, Elsa. You appear quite vexed.” My father is smooth as butter as he smiles faintly up at me. “Bittner, I wonder what in the world could inspire Her Highness to lose sight of her manners.”

Before Bittner can respond (not that I think he would), I slap the paper down onto the antique desk that dominates the room. “Is this a joke?”

Although I guarantee he already knows what I have brought to him, His Serene Highness slides on his reading spectacles and peers downward. “I hoped you’d finally gotten over your . . .” His lips purse as he most likely attempts to assign the most diplomatic phrasing he can to what he considers my ravings. “
Hesitancy
over the Summit. You knew that it was coming at some point this year.”

Not only The Prince of Vattenguldia, but the Prince of Tact—because I’ll admit to offering (behind closed doors, of course) my sincere feelings concerning the Decennial Summit on more than one occasion. I must clarify that it is not the Summit that has me in fits, it is the infamous RMM. Because, for nearly five hundred years now, alliances forged through arranged marriages concocted at a Summit hosted every decade have often overshadowed legitimate diplomatic work achieved. In essence, single heirs older than twenty-five rarely depart the Summit unattached. Both male and female are lambs to the slaughter.

It is a tradition I desire no part of, one I cannot find it in my heart to embrace.

But that terrifying, archaic possibility is neither here nor there at the moment. The Prince knows my view on this, and, as he sharply pointed out the last time I attempted a debate, I’ve had my say. Currently, I have other battles to fight. Calming oxygen floods my lungs while I slip on a cool smile. “Not that.” I tap on the paper.
“This.”

Dark blue eyes, so much like my own, squint behind his reading spectacles. “I’m afraid I’m not—”

“Do you know where Hearst Castle is?”

His bushy eyebrows rise ever so slightly, aging caterpillars whose micro-movements illustrate volumes of emotion.

Shite. I barked at him; father or no, he is still my sovereign and deserves my respect. Another deep breath is required for me to continue. “My apologies.” I assume a more respective, ladylike stance, one hand folded over the other in front of me. “I simply wish to know if you are aware of pertinent details of the location?”

As he leans back, the creaking of a chair sounds in the surprisingly modest yet elegant personal office.

“It’s a bloody tourist destination in the United States!”

At this, a small, choking cough escapes Bittner. I quickly apologize again. If I don’t get myself under control, Hereditary Princess or no, I’ll find myself on the other side of the door in no time.

My father’s fingers form a steeple in front of his face, long fingers once elegant and now marked by time and arthritis. “I am well aware of what Hearst Castle is and where it is located, Elsa.”

Ah. Of course he is. After all, he serves upon the Monarch Council, although in a much reduced capacity nowadays, what with two heart attacks in three years. Still, I never would have thought my father this naïve about sending so many monarchs and their heirs to such a public location. “What about terrorists?”

When I was younger and lost control of my emotions, my father reminded me that such passion does no monarch any favors.
The key to being an effective sovereign
is to remain calm and clear-headed.
Never make crucial decisions or arguments when your emotions get the better of you. Productivity and goodness cannot stem organically through heightened feelings, even if crafted under the best of intentions.

It is a lesson I fail to prove mastered, for another lift of eyebrow is meant to remind me continued outbursts will not be tolerated. “Terrorists?”

“I am concerned about safety logistics that might arise during the Summit. While most of our kingdoms and principalities are constitutional monarchies, it would still be devastating if something were to happen to any of the royals present. What if someone were to catch wind of the Summit? Target us?”

A tiny smile bends one half of his thin lips. “Someone like a terrorist?”

“I cannot possibly be the only one to believe it is a monumentally terrible idea to convene every monarch in the world, alongside their heirs, in a single location, let alone such a public one.”

“And yet, we have convened every decade for centuries without incident, Elsa. Nary a terrorist attack, let alone a single act of crime, has ever touched us during a Decennial Summit.”

He’s right. For all our romantic failings in the press, royals are exceedingly excellent at keeping their shite locked down tight. Even still, I cannot let this go. “Respectfully, my point stands in consideration of twenty-first century politics. There are many countries whose citizens wish to abolish monarchies, viewing them as archaic and unnecessary in light of democracy and socialism. The Summit is an excellent opportunity for the disgruntled to—”

“Are you sure your true concern hinges on our safety?” His tongue clicks quietly in reproach. “Or, is it more likely you are fretting over the RMM?”

Well, yes, but . . . “I am simply saying—”

“Must I remind you that your mother and I were betrothed at the RMM?”

It is a far cry from a selling point. My parents, brought together by politics, are no love match. Other than myself, Isabelle, and Vattenguldia, they have little to nothing in common and do not speak unless in public or necessity dictates more than a written note or a message sent via their private secretaries. As much as it disgusts me to contemplate, I am fairly confident words were not even spoken during the conception of their children. A note was most likely written and delivered:
Let’s make an heir. Eight o’clock tonight, my room. Best to be drunk beforehand.

So, yes. Maybe my mother has a valid point. Perhaps I am picky, because I desire that, if and when I attach my life to another’s, it will be to someone I can at least talk to. And like as well as respect. Is it so wrong that I would not mind a storybook tale? Not the horrible bits—no poisoned apples or sleeping spells. I do not even require a prince, let alone a charming one. My life is one of service. Responsibility. Importance. When the day comes and I assume the throne, I simply wish somebody I love to be in my corner. And if I cannot find that, I would rather not marry.

I tell my father, “I am well aware of that, sir.”

He slips off his reading spectacles and sets them on the desk. “Let me assure you every precaution will be taken to secure the location. At this very moment, Hearst Castle is closed to the public for renovations and restorations, and is not scheduled to reopen to the public for another two months. While the location is news to you today, the MC has worked closely with the American government for nearly two years to ensure the Summit goes off without a hitch.”

His words, so crisp and no-nonsense, leave no door open for dissention.

“I am sure you are curious as to why Hearst Castle was chosen,” he continues. “Of that, I will indulge you. After much discussion, the MC decided it best to meet on neutral ground. The United States is a good choice. While we could have easily taken over a hotel, many feel an event such as the Decennial Summit deserves something special. Hearst Castle and its history fit the bill.”

I am beating my head against a wall. “It is no longer in use as a residence!”

“Another fact I am also aware of, Elsa.”

It is a soft jab; he is informing me that none of my arguments carry any weight in his mind.

I want to argue: It’s a tourist trap.

He would counter: I’ve already addressed that issue.

I want to argue: From what I saw on the website, it is not a very big venue for such a large party.

He would argue: That’s part of its allure.

I want to argue: Where will everyone sleep? We have employees to think of, too. Will we all be in tents?

He would argue: You worry too much. It will be taken care of.

I want to argue: Please do not force me to be part of the RMM.

He would argue: The House of Vasa lives and dies by tradition.

But none of this is said. There is no need, not when the outcome is so easily predicted. Instead, I remain silent in my defeat as he reclaims his pen. “You’d best hurry if you are to make your appointment this afternoon. I know the children would be sorely disappointed if you missed story time.”

Translation: You are dismissed.

I am at the door when he adds, “Please let your sister know she will be expected to accompany us. There is vital business I must attend to at the Summit, and I will need my girls with me.”

At first I am stunned, but that is foolish of me. Of course Isabelle is to come. She is an attractive bargaining chip, after all.

Three days. There are three days until we journey to California. Three days until the Royal Marriage Market opens its doors after being shuttered for ten years.

Three days until life as I know it will change, whether I wish it so or not.

chapter 2

christian

My mother, non-affectionately known to my brother and myself as the She-Wolf, pats my shoulder like I’m once again four years old as she shrewdly eyes what I’ve just thrown onto my desk. “You ought to be happy about this, Christian. Yet, you look as if you’re off to the gallows. Are you terribly sure you aren’t a homosexual? Or perhaps asexual? Most men of my acquaintance would be pleased at the prospect of so many potential conquests in such a small location.”

She’s got a tulip glass in her hand as she invades my personal space, lipstick ringing the rim. It’s, what, three bloody o’clock in the afternoon? I make a mental note to inform Parker he needs to do a better job arranging my schedule around my mother’s, so meetings like this are never a possibility.

I remold my features and posture until I’m positive I do not appear as I feel. Because, hell yeah, do the gallows feel close at hand. For one, the She-Wolf entered my inner sanctuary with no prior warning. She’s a stealthy beast, stalking her prey and pouncing when least expected. Two, she’s waving a matching invitation to mine, so she’s here to gloat or threaten. And three . . . I refuse to glance at either piece of paper and give her the satisfaction of confirming how I’m truly feeling, even if she already guesses.

She drops into a nearby chair, dress swishing softly against the hideous nylon stockings she insists on wearing every single day of her life. Then she motions to the chair directly across from her. “Think about all the pretty girls that will be present. Why, I can only imagine how eager they’d be to open their legs for you.”

Fire ants invade my skin as I struggle to repress the muscles within my body from shuddering. Hearing such a proclamation come from my so-called venerable mother’s mouth is revoltingly disturbing. Not that it’s rare, as she delights in torturing my brother Lukas and myself with crude humor meant only for our ears. To the rest of the country and the world at large, she’s gracious and composed, the epitome of a respectable modern Grand Duchess whose speeches are quoted by millions of admirers. It’s why she’s the She-Wolf: she’s cunning, devious, able to hide in plain sight, and devours those who are weaker than her.

If she weren’t Her Royal Highness The Grand Duchess Britta of Aiboland, my mother would have excelled as a movie star or stage actress.