Royal Marriage Market (29 page)

“I’m in Geneva right now. Alfons and I have eloped; we’re to be married before the night is over. Poverty and love is a future I far prefer to wealth and a tedious husband.”

I’m speechless. Radically, fantastically, stupidly speechless. And to think I was bemoaning how my life was absolute pants just minutes before.

“Obviously, my family doesn’t know. I left Elsa a letter, but she is at a charity tea. So, she’ll know tonight. Here’s the thing, Christian. I am certain my sister is in love with you. If I am not mistaken, you’re in love with her, too.”

I don’t hesitate. “I am."

“I watched you two dancing the final night of the Summit. I had never seen Elsa look at anybody the way she does you. It was as if you were her personal Prince Charming come to life. And I spent enough time with you to know that you never looked at anyone the way you did her. The both of you disappeared every night when the rest of us were shagging, drinking ourselves into a stupor, and/or bemoaning our fates. Everyone at the castle knew you two were falling in love. Everyone. I mean, how many times were you two caught
hiding
together?”

For a moment, I fear I might be dreaming, because, for the first time of our acquaintance, I am completely riveted by what this woman is saying.

“Elsa has been miserable since coming home. Secretive. Resentful. Snapping at everyone. A bomb wracked the palace when our mother brought about wedding planners. Elsa is simply nightmarish every time poor Mathieu calls. She’s to see him next week, in Paris. Mother insists she’s to put on her game face and pretend to fall in love with him in the public light. Thinks that this will bring attention and glamour to Vattenguldia. A crown heir, falling in love with a landless prince in the City of Lights? Her Serene Highness is betting on the glossies having a field day over such a fairy tale. It’s her hope that Vattenguldia will linger on the tip of everyone’s tongues worldwide.”

I’ll be damned if I allow anyone but me to give Elsa a fairy tale.

“I’d like to say that I am sorry we are not marrying, Christian, but...as I am deliriously in love with my fiancé, I will not demean what we feel toward one another with this lie. But if you feel anything toward my sister—even in the smallest bit—I advise you to go to Paris next week. Stop Elsa from making the biggest mistake of her life. She will be a fantastic monarch, no doubt, but it should not come at the expense of her personal happiness.” She pauses. “I have no doubt our parents have blackmailed her, as well.”

Even though I’m dealing with a similar situation, my blood boils at the thought of anyone forcing Elsa’s hand. What in the bloody hell is wrong with our parents? The royals in this world? “I’m sorry,” I tell Isabelle.

Hushed anger fills her words. “You refuse to go to Paris?”

“Hell yes, I’m going.” Fuck the She-Wolf. “I’m apologizing for how wrong I was about you. I was an absolute arsehole. But you’re right—we don’t suit. Not in the least.”

“People misjudge me often. I wish you luck, Christian. I only thought it fair you know all this, because in an hour or so, when their Serene Highnesses comprehend what I’ve done, the shite is going to hit the fan.”

A man in the background on her end murmurs something in German. I think it’s:
Time to get moving, my sweet filly.

Well, aren’t they the perfect match?

“Oh, and Christian?”

“Yeah?”

“Alfons
did a little digging at the palace for me while I was in California. After our first breakfast together, I promptly had a discreet panic attack and rang him up, begging forgiveness and to look into matters I was too far away to investigate. I am undoubtedly committing treason, but . . . I had to know why my parents were so desperate for Elsa and I to make such advantageous matches. There had to be more to it than simply coveting increased shipping routes and designing tourist traps.” An audible breath sounds across the static. “Her Serene Highness has come close to bankrupting the Vasa family’s finances. I am unaware of the particulars, but it is clear my father is aware of the issue. We must assume it is why they are so desperate for Mathieu’s money—and yours. It has nothing to do with modernizing the technological infrastructures of our shipping registries. A quick call to a friend informed me Parliament already has that covered. This is all about staving off a scandal.”

I’m infuriated. As respected as he is in the EU, Gustav is willing to sell out his own children because his wife mismanaged their money? Who does that?

Elsa deserves better. Hell, so does Isabelle.

“Help my sister find the ammunition needed to blow our parents out of the water,” Isabelle tells me. “Give her a kiss for me, and let her know I’ll call in a few weeks once I’m settled in Germany with Alfons’ family.”

I hang up the phone and turn to Parker, a low whistle slipping through my lips.

He asks, bewildered, “What was that all about?”

Hope, I think. Bloody, brilliant hope.

I clap him on the shoulder, grinning like a fool. I’m not as down and out as I feared just an hour before. “I hope you’re prepared to stay up late tonight, because we’ve got plans to make.”

chapter 44

Elsa

The palace is in an uproar. Isabelle grew a backbone and has left to chase after her fairy story ending.

Dear Elsa,

Life is too short to spend it miserable and trapped in a loveless marriage. Twenty-six years of watching one in motion has proven this to me, as I’m sure it has for you. Thus, Alfons and I have eloped. I love him too much to let him go. It’s selfish of me, isn’t it? And yet, it’s the only truth I’m willing to accept.

I beg you to not be afraid to embrace your truths, either . . . especially those of the heart.

Yours,

Isabelle

My sister thumbed her nose at our parents and resolved to live life the way she wants to, and with whom she chooses to share it with. I am envious, to be honest. And so startled by this turnabout that I do not even know what to say, but I would high five Isabelle if she were standing before me.

Her Serene Highness ignites in fury over the day’s events, summoning every member of the staff with any regular contact with my sister in order to personally interrogate them until many depart in tears.
Did Isabelle inform you of her plans? Were you complicit in hiding her scandalous relationship with the stable hand?

Other than a hapless security guard admitting he saw Alfons’ car drive away in the middle of the night, no one had anything of import to add to the discussion.

After several hours of torturing the help, my mother sent everyone away so that only family remains in my father’s office. “How could Isabelle do this?” she rages. “Does she not understand the consequences of her actions?”

Only all too well, I muse silently.

My mother continues, words so vehement that spittle unattractively decorates her lips, “She must be found before too much damage can be done. What will the Grand Duchess think—do—when she hears of this? If word were to get out—” She stops. Turns to my father, her face paling significantly. “We must ensure no one in the palace contacts the press.”

“All staff signed a nondisclosure agreement upon employment,” I gently remind them.

The note Isabelle left is subsequently dissected until the ink fades from handling. I am also interrogated, although to a lesser degree, finally confessing to my parents that I knew of the relationship between my sister and her riding instructor—and approve of it.

This admission nearly sends Her Serene Highness into seizures.

The palace is placed on lockdown. Cell phones are confiscated from each member of the staff, leaving two-way radios as the sole avenues for communication outside of the heavily monitored general phone line. In an utter fit of paranoia, even my own cell is appropriated, despite my insistence I would never betray my sister to the media.

My arguments now fall upon deaf ears. All my parents can fixate on is how to circumvent the coming media circus.

His Serene Highness orders Bittner to contact a discreet private investigator to track down Isabelle’s whereabouts. Come hell or high water, it is my parents’ goal to somehow drag my sister back to Vattenguldia and talk some sense into her—or at least find a proper way to spin the situation before word reaches the Grand Duchess of Aiboland’s ears.

Well after midnight, as I leave my father’s office, I overhear my mother whisper, “What will we do, Gustav? Without Aiboland, we—”

“Hush.” His Serene Highness is not gentle when he cuts her off. “There is still the agreement with the
Chambérys.” His voice lifts. “Elsa? Be sure to close the door behind you.”

I do as requested, but their words turn over in my mind for the rest of the night.

I am unnerved at how worried my mother truly sounded.

“I’ve got an itinerary set up so we can tour all the best sites of Paris.”

“It will not be my first visit,” I inform Mat. I know I come across as rather bitchy, but the mere thought of playacting the doting, swooning girlfriend makes me want to throw myself out the window, especially on the heels of my sister’s bravery.

His words are static-y across the landline call. “But have you been there with an insider before?”

“Funny, I remember quite clearly you telling me you fancy yourself a New Yorker nowadays.”

One of my mother’s aides is across the room, awkwardly attempting to melt into the wallpaper and paintings rather than eavesdrop as instructed. She’s to ensure I do not mention our family’s scandal. Furthermore, I am not allowed off the palace grounds without an escort.

They fear I’ll run, too—and frankly, it is beyond insulting.

A sound of resigned regret fills my ear. “Elsa, I’m trying here. I know this isn’t ideal for either of us, but it’s important that we at least
try
. Right?”

Actually, yes—just not in the way he suggests.

I slip into the open doorway to the balcony in my office. It is drizzling outside: cool, soft tears pepper the rocky land and gray, angry sea. I lower my voice, risking my mother’s wrath in a desperate Hail Mary attempt. “My sister eloped.”

There is a moment of shocked silence between us. “With Christian?”

“With her equestrian instructor.” I relate the bare bones of the situation; in the end, I believe him to be just as envious and impressed as I am with Isabelle’s gumption.

A discreet glance behind me shows the aide with her nose stuck in a book, appearing wholly unaware that I just did exactly what she was sent to ensure did not occur.

I follow my disobedience with a slice of brutal honesty. “Mat, I appreciate your efforts. I do. But, I simply cannot pretend that I am head over heels for any of this. I like you, I do, but . . .”

“We already established neither of us is in love with the other.” He clears his throat. “You’re preaching to the choir here.”

“If it is not what either of us want, then—”

“It doesn’t matter what I want, Elsa. Not anymore.”

There’s a quiet desperation, an anger that is nearly tangible across the distance. “What does that mean?”

“It means . . .” A hard breath is blown out. “Sometimes, you have to do what’s best for others, rather than yourself.”

The sadness in his voice unnerves me, as does the resignation that drives each word as if it is a struggle. “Is that what you are doing?”

He counters me with, “Isn’t it what we’re
both
doing?”

“Then—”

“I’m sorry. I truly am. But I can’t back out of this agreement. I wish I could, but my hands are tied.”

No amount of questioning from that point on yields any clues as to what he alludes to. I am unsettled by the insinuation behind his words long after our call ends. There is something I am clearly missing, something he’s not telling me—which isn’t too surprising. He and I are not best friends who share our deepest, darkest hopes and dreams with one another. We are not kindred spirits.

But it appears we are nonetheless in the same boat.

The RMM forced us both into this situation. It just never occurred to me that perhaps some of us may be more forced than others.

I promptly march over to my mother’s spy. “I wish to ring my personal secretary.”

It is infuriating that I must even issue such a request.

The woman tugs a slip of paper from her briefcase and studies it. A flush steals up her neck, past her crisp collar. “Lady Charlotte is on Her Serene Highness’ approved list of callers, Your Highness. Allow me to dial the number for you.”

My teeth grind together so forcefully I am positive I’ve worn away enamel. My parents have lost their damn minds.

When Charlotte answers, I inch toward the balcony again, lowering my voice once more so the stooge cannot hear me properly. “Have you heard back from the P.I. you hired to investigate Mathieu yet?”

“I ought to have a report in a week or so,” she says. “I requested it be thorough.”

“Get it sooner.”

Because maybe my sister has a very good point.

chapter 45