Royal Marriage Market (3 page)

Most of my life, I’ve managed to escape her daily influence. Shipped off to boarding school when I was just a lad and then away to America for university, followed by several tours of duty within our military, I’ve lived more years in England, the US, and the Middle East than Aiboland, a Grand Duchy comprising of a series of tiny islands between Estonia, Sweden, and Finland. But a Hereditary Grand Duke can only run away from his duties for so long. I recently returned home and now reside under the same roof as my brother and parents for the first time since I was eight.

“I am most grateful for the opportunity to represent our country during the summit’s weeklong meetings,” is what I tell the She-Wolf. I’ll be damned if I allow her to pull me into yet another futile round where I basically plead for my life as she cackles over how I’ll do what she says or else.

At thirty, I’m considered to be one of the most desirable catches in the world, even though, despite our vast wealth, Aiboland more often than not remains hidden amongst much larger powerhouses within the European Union. I received high marks in all my courses for both my undergraduate and graduate degrees at prestigious universities in the United States. I am a patron of multiple charities in Aiboland, America, and various countries in Africa. I served two tours of duty in war-torn countries in the Middle East, eschewing my title and privilege for service. While other princes publically sow their wild oats, I managed to keep my head down, maintaining an impeccable reputation.
Prince Boring
, the American rags that even knew who I was dubbed me—and I’m fine with the title. Better boring than some of the other colorful descriptions peers my age are on the receiving end of. I know how to keep my business mine, unlike those sad sacks. Unlike my own brother who, just a few months ago, discovered pictures in the national newspaper of him buck naked and passed out with tequila bottles clutched in his fists. Barely a year younger than myself, Lukas spends most of his time drunk or screwing royal groupies. He gets to live it up while I pretend to be a perfect fucking robot of a prince for a country that most people in the world don’t even know exists.

And now, my iron-willed mother demands her perfect heir to be perfectly amenable toward her plans for me to marry some royal girl and knock her up as quickly as possible. I get that I ought to be thinking about settling down, and it isn’t like I’m out there shagging every available woman I can find. The thing is, I’m
thirty years old
.

My choices ought to be mine.

A conversation was attempted with the Grand Duchess about just this a month prior. Fresh off an inspirational speech about the importance of quality health care, my mother’s voice turned bitingly acidic when she informed me what she thought of such logic.
Wasn’t that what all that time in America was for? Right now, your focus is to find yourself a breeder. Once your heir is born, go ahead and privately play the field all you want. Do your duty first, though.

Classy, typical fare from the She-Wolf.

Despite what she says and thinks, I’ll be damned if I walk into the Summit like a sacrificial goat—or worse yet, a man ready to be auctioned off to the highest, most convenient bidder. There has to be a way out of this.

“Mark my words, Christian.” Her nails click against the crystal in her hand. “You will represent us at the Decennial Summit well.”

I attempt another tactic, one much more subtle. “It’s in California, Your Highness.”

One of the allures of living abroad was knowing my mother loathes travelling to any country outside of the European Union. Or, hell, outside our little Nordic corner of the globe. She’s a xenophobe of the worst kind. Allowing my Spanish Duke of a father to remain in the country is a struggle.

Her pale eyes wander to the sheer white curtains framing a large window. “I wonder if it’s sunny there.”

It most certainly isn’t sunny in Norslœ at the moment. Stark, diagonal slashes tear the sky apart, leaving nothing but gloom and misery.

“You know, I have it on good authority that the youngest Vattenguldian princess will attend.”

Oh, for the love of God.

For years, my mother has been obsessed with the idea of me marrying the younger of the princesses from Vattenguldia, as she covets the prosperous coffers in their treasury, or at least a piece of them, since principality plays the ship registries game to perfection. I’ve always found it baffling, because, thanks to our alluring offshore banking strategies offerings, Aiboland is far wealthier. No matter. She’s willing to sell her son off to . . . bloody hell, I don’t know what that girl’s name is. Idina? Irina? Inga? Whoever the hell she is, the She-Wolf wants her all in the name of securing a piece of the profits.

I haven’t met this girl yet, or her sister who is to inherit the throne. Any information about the Vasa heirs comes either from my mother or the press. They’re close to my age and also hail from a tiny principality in the northern Baltic Sea that gets about as much visibility on the global stage as Aiboland. And still, no matter how gorgeous these girls may or may not be, or smart, or funny, or whatever else, I sure as hell am not the least bit eager to bind myself to someone my mother sells me off to.

Someone shouts, and glasses rise, clinking mine in sloshy succession. I shouldn’t be drinking so much tonight, let alone in a pub, but after the hour-long lecture my mother tortured me with this afternoon, detailing reasons why I must bag myself the Vattenguldian princess, I made it my mission to ensure the rest of the day was a blur. It was either drown myself in stout or throw myself off the bridge downtown.

“Stop while you’re ahead.” Lukas’ warning is quiet. “There are a number of cell phones angled this way. You don’t want to give Her Highness any leverage, do you?”

Arsehole.

I don’t bother looking at my brother when I tell him to sod off. I do, however, glance at my personal secretary—only to find him subtly nodding in agreement. But, as annoyed as I am at him for saying that, Lukas is nearly always right. The one time I’d legitimately slipped up in America, when I had been at a fraternity party and was so bloody plastered I became, for lack of a better word,
friendly
with several ladies who had no qualms about selling videos to the press, I was summoned home to endure a diatribe and a slew of threats from the Grand Duchess. According to my mother, I was no better than one of those island boys (which I took to refer to the United Kingdom, despite also having the right to be called an island boy myself) and besmirching of the family’s reputation would not be tolerated.

Not bothered in the least by what I’ve just muttered to my brother, Parker discretely pushes my half-finished stout, the fifth of the night, off to the side. It’s then I spy Lady Autumn Horn af Bj
ö
rksund sauntering over to our table just as my secretary discreetly suggests we ought to leave, all five inch heels and long, blonde hair, a canary eating smile gracing her overly plump lips.

“Well, well,” Lukas drawls as she closes in on our location. “Look at what just crawled out of her coffin. Here to suck the life out of us, Autumn?”

My brother and the lady aren’t exactly on the best of terms after a disastrous short-term relationship that went nowhere, fast. Autumn angled to become a princess and failed after she discovered Lukas was not ready to settle down, let alone participate in a monogamous relationship. The glossies had a field day with the fallout until the Grand Duchess found a way to shut down such unflattering talk about her youngest son.

I am not necessarily Autumn’s biggest fan, but duty and propriety dictates I rise up to greet her, whether or not I wish for her company. Air kisses are given on my end, real ones on hers. I murmur, “You look gorgeous tonight, Autumn.”

I can practically hear Lukas’ eyeballs rolling toward the back of his head behind me.

“Don’t you look a bit like you’re halfway to three sheets to the wind, Your Highness?”

There’s no coquettishness on her behalf or false modesty, which I appreciate. I motion her to join us; Lukas grudgingly shifts further down the white leather couch to make room. Across from me, Parker’s eyebrows creep toward his hairline, signaling his readiness toward extracting me from an undesirable situation. Friends since childhood, I could not ask for a more trusted confidant or employee.

A buzz fills the pub; cell phones turn from me to Lukas and Autumn.

The server is flagged to return. “What brings you out and about tonight?” I ask politely.

She scrunches her nose up. “A date.”

The server leans down to take her order; appreciation shines in his eyes as he ogles her curves. Lukas asks smoothly, “Did you show him your true face, love?”

She ignores the jab, crossing her long legs and leaning back into the couch. “You’re lucky, you know,” she says to me. “To have your pick of who you want and not be like the rest of us, slogging through bad dates.”

A meaningful glance is thrown Lukas’ way. He merely toasts her in return.

As for me, I laugh in her face. Just . . . laugh. And then laugh some bloody more. Lukas is muttering something about getting it under control and Parker’s signaling the server once more, and Autumn’s regarding me as if maybe I’ve lost those sheets to the hurricane my laughter is brewing, but I cannot help it.

The bill quickly paid, Parker rises, brushing imaginary lint off his jeans. “Your Highness, I am to remind you of your early meeting in the morning.”

Lukas also rises, clapping our mutual friend on the back. “Duty calls, brother.”

“Stay,” Autumn purrs. “I can promise you a much better time than any old meeting.”

I am on my feet immediately. Shite, five drinks really were too many.

“You’re unreal, you know that?” Lukas hisses at his ex. Before she can answer, he and Parker steer me toward the door. Whispers surround us, cell phones angle toward us, no doubt catching our every movement. My brother says quietly, “You know Autumn is basically the second coming of the Grand Duchess Britta, right?”

I’m close to puking my guts out at the thought.

“Get it together.” Lukas’ face is smooth as silk as cameras and phones go off around us. “You’re weaving. The She-Wolf is going to have a field day with this. What in the bloody bollocks were you thinking, Chris?”

That I’m tired of being
Prince Perfect
.

chapter 3

Elsa

“Absolutely not.”

At least, that’s what I think Charlotte is saying, but as her infant is screeching directly into the receiver, I cannot be positive. I remove the phone from my ear, but even a buffer of several inches of air does not decrease the ringing.

“Lottie, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but shove a soother in Dickie’s mouth before I go deaf.”

I think she shouts, “What?” but the tot is now wailing at banshee levels.

“Give him the soother!” My own voice is dangerously shrill. Thank goodness I am alone in my office, because I must sound like a lunatic, bellowing into the telephone.

“I will not give my baby a smoothie!” is what I think she shouts back. “He drinks milk!”

Oh for the love of— “THE DUMMY, LOTTIE! SHOVE IT IN ITS MOUTH!”

“MY BABY ISN’T STUPID!”

She is clearly sleep deprived if she can’t even remember that pacifiers are called dummies. “Where is Josef?”

Dickie’s fuss rises a whole decibel. “WHO?”

“YOUR HUSBAND.”

“WHO?”

I hang up and ring to have my car brought round. As there are two days left until I depart for California, shouting over a phone is not a productive way to spend my time. I might as well go and shout in person.

When I am shown in, I find Charlotte in a frazzled heap of exhaustion, her hair less than impeccable, her clothes rumpled and stained with what I can only assume to be bodily fluids from the baby sleeping on her shoulder. He hiccups softly as she taps an unsteady rhythm against his back.

I open my mouth, but she hisses at me. So I take a seat and wait until little Lord Dickie is passed off to the nanny I forced upon my best friend. She and her husband believed they could manage their pride and joy all by themselves, but with his job in Parliament and hers as my personal assistant slash private secretary, they quickly realized doing it all themselves was easier said than done.

Even still, Charlotte Nordgren is giving it her best. Normally, she manages my existence with the ease and grace of a military general. I can count on one hand the times she lost her legendary cool with anyone in my presence. Yet, there is a small human who appears to have sucked her soul straight out of her and left a zombie in its wake, because the Charlotte I know would never hush me so blatantly.

“Now,” she says as soon as the room clears, “I believe you were asking me to obtain you a one-way plane ticket to Switzerland? Feeling nostalgic?”

I snort. “Hardly.”

Charlotte and I met at boarding school in Switzerland. If there is nostalgia there, it’s because of her and very little else.

I pour her a cup of tea from the tray the housekeeper delivered whilst mid-trade-off. “Their Serene Highnesses know I am familiar with that country, so it is the first place they’d look. I am willing to go wherever, as long as I can leave within the next twelve hours.”