Royal Marriage Market (5 page)

I was agog. “You want me to find myself a good old-fashioned paramour?”

He was incensed with me more than he’s been in a long time. I was put soundly in my place, reminded that, no matter if I married a butler or a prince, I would do what was best for Vattenguldia. And I would do it because I am from the House of Vasa, and we live and die by tradition.

Tradition, I am learning, is not as rosy as it was once.

After that edict, my arse was ordered onto our private jet and now I am on the third leg of our journey as we travel from Los Angeles up the coastline toward a tiny town named San Simeon. As we begin our descent, my sister settles in the seat across the aisle. She’s stiff and silent, her fingers laced tightly across her lap. I don’t think Isabelle uttered more than twenty words the entire journey. Shortly before we departed, she gripped my arm and murmured, “Wake me from this nightmare. This cannot be how it all goes down.”

I answered, “Only if you wake me first.”

After that, her game face fell firmly in place, but I know better. She is just as distressed as I am by this farce, probably even more so. Unlike my single self, my sister is currently embroiled in a messy yet passionate relationship our parents know nothing about.

I murmur, “Tell Father. It’s your
Get Out of Jail
card.”

A quick, sharp shake of the head is the only response I receive, leaving me puzzled. Why would she continue to hide such a thing, especially now? Isabelle is reserved, nearly to a fault, but she has never been a pushover—or at least not the kind my parents wished for.

Although, until this week, I would have claimed the same for myself. Yet here we are, the Vasa girls on their way to the latest Marriage Market. Beyond the jet’s windows are soft, multi-hued, green rolling hills and choppy waters crashing against golden shores. Further in the distance, our destination materializes: high upon a hilltop, surrounded by dense trees, off-white towers peek out at the ocean.

I have been around beautiful architecture my entire life. I grew up in Vattenguldia, spent much time all over Scandinavia. I attended school in Switzerland, vacationed often in France and Italy. I have viewed stunning buildings from all ages. And yet, the first glimpse of Hearst Castle has me questioning if I have actually ever seen such a stunning site before.

It doesn’t even look real. Which is fitting, I suppose, considering I still feel as if this whole bloody situation cannot possibly be happening.

Minutes later, our jet lands on a tiny strip at the base of the hill. An SUV is waiting, alongside the Prince of Liechtenstein. “Gustav! Just in time,” he calls out as we disembark. “The MC is meeting in an hour, and your expertise is required.”

There is no time for idle chitchat on the runway. Aircrafts from Japan, Saudi Arabia, Malaysia, and Swaziland are all arriving within the hour. In fact, the moment our luggage is stowed and the doors to the SUV are shut, the jet we rode in on shoots down the strip.

“Was the flight comfortable?”

It takes a moment to realize the question was angled at me. I turn away from the window and lie to the monarch from Liechtenstein, “Very pleasant, Your Highness,” because I’ve obviously waded into the River Styx and am rapidly approaching Hell.

If Hell is a gorgeous, glamorous hilltop castle in California.

“My daughter sends her love,” the Prince continues warmly. “She wishes she could attend the Summit, but alas, commitments at home keep her away.”

There is no chance the Princess of Liechtenstein desires to be here. She’s already married. She’s probably thrilled she never had to be trotted out at any of the Summits.

Lucky lady.

I tell the Prince, “Please convey my love and regards as well, Your Highness.”

From that point on, my father and his friend talk shop. I keep one ear on their discussions—apparently, a number of the microstates want to band together to have a larger voice in global politics—but the view outside my window is far more demanding. We climb the emerald hill via a winding path that brings the castle in and out of focus. Fruit trees and succulents line the road, and I must say, for being in Hell, I am enchanted. And then doubly so once we pull up to a wide set of steps leading up to a courtyard with a marble fountain and a cream colored, Mediterranean cathedral-esque castle.

My father and his friend pay the view no mind as they side-skirt the front façade. But Isabelle and I pause, admiring the towers rising above us as well as the lush ocean views nearby.

This is California? The United States, a land so young that buildings from the early twentieth-century are termed historic?

Isabelle neatly sums up what we see by murmuring, “Wow.”

Wow, indeed.

“I read up on the location, Your Highnesses.” Startled, my sister and I turn to find Bittner a few feet behind us. “The original owner was keen on collecting European art and architecture. Much of the Castle or guesthouses either have such pieces embedded within their structure, such as the medieval façade and gate in front of us, or had facsimiles created to incorporate.”

“It lends a very Spanish feeling, does it not?” Isabelle muses.

“Indeed, Your Highness. And yet, there are pieces throughout the grounds that are Roman, British, Italian, or a host of other countries and time periods.” He squints at the tall towers looming on the sides of the building. “It’s a mish-mash, to be sure. This is Casa Grande.” He motions us forward, toward a side door. “While we are granted more freedom around the Castle than most, I am still tasked to inform you there are many parts we must be careful of or stay away from. The front door, for example, leads to an ancient Roman mosaic entryway that is not to be touched.”

We enter into a large medieval yet Roman feeling room surrounded with wooden choir stalls. A woman in a sharp navy skirt and jacket bearing a nametag steps forward. “May I be the first to officially welcome you to Hearst Castle,” she says to us. “My name is Nicole, and I’m one of the Castle guides. I’m to take you on a brief tour of the grounds, show you to your room, and answer any questions you might have about your stay here at
La Cuesta Encantada
for the coming week.”

A ridiculous question mentally surfaces for a princess nearing her third decade of life—does she perhaps know whom I am to be set up with?

“Thank you, Nicole.” I tuck my bitterness away until a later time. “We are most pleased at the opportunity to visit such a beautiful, historic location in California.”

Bittner excuses himself to meet up with our father, informing us to contact him immediately if there is anything we need.

Despite yearning to go to whatever bedroom we have been assigned and hide from the inevitable, Isabelle and I follow Nicole for the next half hour as she tours us through the main house, the three guest cottages, sumptuous coastal gardens, stunning patios that overlook the ocean and mountains, and two magnificent pools that leave both Isabelle and I rather envious they are not our own. By the time we reach our room, a smallish affair with one double-sized bed, a writing desk, several chairs, and a fold-a-bed propped in the corner, I grudgingly admit Hearst Castle has officially charmed me.

It is a terrible omen.

The tour guide ensures our luggage had safely arrived in the room and was unpacked. “As I’m sure you noted on our tour, the dining hall, while spacious, isn’t large enough to accommodate a full dinner with everyone here. Breakfast, tea, and lunches will be served buffet style in there, but dinners will be held on various patios throughout the grounds. Tonight’s will be hosted at the Neptune Pool.” There’s pride in her smile. “It’s a striking sight at sunset.”

“Is that the outdoor pool?” Isabelle is ridiculously dreamy eyed for a woman who’s on the verge of having to marry someone who is not her fiancé. “The one that has the Roman temple at the front? Because I think I’d really rather steal it from you all and take it home.”

Nicole laughs gently, as if this is something she hears all the time. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“Planning on sunbathing while we’re here?” I ask wryly after the guide shuts the door behind her exit.

“Perhaps.” My sister drops down into one of the stuffed chairs in the room. She motions to a packet Nicole brought to my attention that includes my weekly itinerary. “I did a lot of thinking on the plane ride over.” Her head leans back against the cushion, dark curls drifting over one shoulder. “Let us at least attempt to make the best out of a bad situation. We’re both pale as death. If we must suffer through the RMM, let us come away with golden, California tans.”

I glance out the window. A number of other royals are wandering around with their guides. “I wish I could join you, but I will be at meetings.”

“Father is asking for more and more of your input lately. At least there lies a silver lining for you.”

A rueful puff of annoyance passes from between my lips. “I was handed a dossier filled with talking points yesterday. His Serene Highness is no more interested in my opinions toward Vattenguldia and the world at large than he is with what we’re to wear tonight. I am to parrot his viewpoints the entire week.”

“Are you nervous?”

I angle away from the window as she offers this quiet question.

“I am,” she offers flatly. Sadly.

I come to perch on the edge of the bed. “If you revealed your relationship with Alfons, this would not be an issue for you.”

She pulls in a sharp breath before shaking her head.

“Isabelle, you are already engaged.”

Her words are quiet yet firm. “I cannot talk about it.”

My eyebrows lift upward. Since when does my sister not want to wax poetic about her fiancé?

She leans forward, her voice lowering even further. “It does not matter anyway. Our parents called me into Father’s office before we left and laid down the law. Nothing you or I say would mean anything at this point of time. There is no swaying them from what they believe will be best for the country. So, please . . .” Her fingers curve around mine and squeeze. “I am asking you to respect my privacy while we are here.”

I jerk back as if she slapped me. “You think Father finding out you are engaged would have no bearing?”

“Elsa!” My name is shrill and angry from her lips. “Shut it!”

And then she blanches, knowing she crossed the line. I stand up, feeling the blood leech from my own face in quiet fury. “Sister or no, you don’t get to bark at me like that.”

“I apologize. It’s just—”

“There is no need to explain anything to me.” I step away before I utter something I might regret. “I’m going to take a walk. Ensure my dress for dinner is hung out and pressed.”

She bites her lip but nods. And then I am out the door.

chapter 6

Christian

Lukas mutters under his breath, “Fuck this,” before stalking away.

The She-Wolf slithers closer to where I stand. “Get your brother under control. I will not tolerate him embarrassing us.”

The thought of controlling my brother is laughable. For as much as he respects and looks up to me, there’s nothing I can say which would convince Lukas that any part of this trip is acceptable. Shite, his only purpose for attending the Summit is to be a pawn for our mother and look attractive to prospective father-in-laws. Me? I can at least claim that I’m here partially for business. According to Parker, I have a full itinerary of meetings scheduled.

The She-Wolf waves across the gardens, toward the Queen of England and her heir. “Ensure you both are impeccably dressed tonight for dinner.”

The words, “Go to hell,” are so bloody hard to hold back.

The British monarch makes a beeline toward us. My mother turns to me, her hands coming to my shoulders as she smooths imaginary wrinkles out of my shirt. And then she leans forward, pressing matte pink lips against my cheek. “Be a good boy and go and make yourself desirable. I’ll see you and your brother at dinner.” Thankfully, her focus leaves me so she can call out her friend’s name.

Propriety dictates I stay and pay my respects, but the She-Wolf has basically just told me to get the hell away. For once, I’m more than happy to do as ordered, so I depart without another word.

Once I head up the steps, toward the house, I tug out a handkerchief and wipe the lipstick off my cheek. I’m unsuccessful at repressing the shudder of disgust rolling through me, though. Jesus. She’s my mother, and I owe her my life, but any touch of so-called affection from her makes my skin crawl.

Goddamn, do I need a drink. Maybe even several to prepare for the horrors awaiting me tonight. I text Parker and tell him to meet me up in my room. If I’m going to get pissed, I might as well have somebody present to ensure I don’t make a giant jackass of myself. And then I climb up a winding, tight staircase until I reach the second floor, hoping I can remember exactly where the duplex suite I’m staying in is.

A message from Parker sounds, telling me he’s on his way. Before I shove my phone into my pocket, I smack into a woman in the hallway.

“Watch it!” she snaps in accented English.

I jerk back a step, ready to apologize for not paying better attention to where I was going, but then I get a good look at her.