Royal Marriage Market (8 page)

Christian

The mercenary charade known as the RMM officially kicks into high gear shortly after an exquisite, gourmet dinner, as only a macabre event like this can: amidst glamour and ghastly intentions. The stars twinkle in the ombré sky, the sights around us are beyond compare, and light chatter and laughter float through the cool air. To an outsider, the scene I’m ensnared within would appear the event of the century. Nothing could be more glamorous than a gathering consisting entirely of royalty.

How wrong they would be.

We’re all still gathered around the admittedly awe-inspiring Neptune pool that seamlessly meshes Hollywood opulence and Greco-Roman architecture and art. Lit up, like it is now, all hints of turquoise, shimmering liquid against the black velvet of the hilltop and the faint roar of waves nearby, it’s mesmerizing. I don’t consider myself romantic in the least, but I have enough common sense to admit it’s a pretty damn perfect sight.

“One of the Brits says we’re not allowed in unless some park ranger or the like is present.” Lukas passes over a glass of champagne. “I guess California has its knickers in a bunch over that.”

It’s a pity. I sigh as I peer into the golden bubbles of my glass. “Couldn’t you find anything stronger?”

He grimaces. “I’m working on it. For now, it’s this or the She-Wolf’s cognac.”

I’ll take champagne any day over the family swill. “Where is she, anyway?”

“Sucking the marrow out of some local children, no doubt,” he mutters, and I chuckle, because it’s quite within the realm of possibility.

He finishes his own glass within four quick gulps. “Let me correct that. She’s most likely signing away our royal sperm.”

One of the
Jordanian
princesses, chatting with a friend nearby, blanches at my brother’s words before quickly moving away.

I shake my head, but he’s in no way embarrassed at being caught discussing bodily fluids at a party. “It’s a shame that matricide is illegal in the United States.”

The lopsided grin that’s charmed far too many women in Aiboland makes an appearance. “I say we risk it and immediately flee the country. How strong is our extradition treaty with Washington?”

Come to think of it, I can’t think of a single instance in which somebody was extradited from Aiboland back to the United States. I’m about to tell him this when he hisses quietly, all humor dissipating without a trace. “Oh, fuck me now.”

He doesn’t need to explain his one-eighty. There’s only one thing that brings this level of disgust out in my brother. And she’s currently sashaying her way toward us in a slinky black dress better suited for someone at least forty years her junior.

“Don’t you dare,” I threaten.

But of course Lukas dares. He bolts in the opposite direction as smoothly as one can, abandoning me to face the one person who can bring us both to our knees.

When my mother reaches my side, she discharges what I can best describe as a happy yet entirely evil sigh. “It’s a virtual buffet, isn’t it?” And for at least the twentieth time tonight, I wonder why all of the other
sexagenarians
present managed to dress in modest yet elegant encrusted pieces surely meant to highlight their exalted statuses yet my mother chose something that emphasizes her desperation to hold onto youth.

      
I’m fully aware of what she’s insinuating. Hell, it isn’t even insinuation, not when nearly half of the words out of her mouth to Lukas or myself over the course of the day were vulgar comments about the women present. Still, I refuse to let her know just how much my skin is crawling. Why couldn’t my mother be a feminist instead of a royal pimp? “Dinner was excellent.”

The She-Wolf tut-tuts, reaching up to pat her coronet, as if it had somehow fallen off and sunk to the depths of the azure pool when she wasn’t paying attention. As though she hasn’t been completely on top of every single detail around her since she was three years old. “I wanted to get a good visual in person on the girl you’re set to marry before I made up my mind, but she appears to possess hips large enough for decent birthings and I’m informed her menses are healthy.”

I repress the familiar shudder inspired exclusively by her that threatens to emerge over this latest piece of information. It’s nearly impossible to keep my fingers from curling into fists, or from howling in fury over how she’d actually gone through with her plans.

Bloody hell. I need more booze, and I need it now. It’s obvious she wants me to inquire about whom she’d been talking to, which girl with hips wide enough to pop babies out has earned her seal of approval, no doubt so she can delight over my discomfort, but I refuse to give her that satisfaction. I might as well offer up my own marrow for her to suck up, alongside a straw. Besides, I already know, don’t I? It’s the damn Vattenguldian woman. So, I glance back out at the pool, pull in a long breath as I think of cheerful things, like sailing and good stout and strangling my mother until she can no longer speak on my behalf, or at least claim she can.

I’m going to kill Lukas for abandoning me to the She-Wolf like this. Has he no sense of filial loyalty? Speaking of . . . where’s Parker? Employees have been encouraged to come tonight for the after dinner festivities.

A quick, discreet search shows him over by the dessert table. Lucky bastard.

It takes about two and a half minutes of stony yet polite nonsensical pleasantries that have nothing to do with her taunts before she accepts I won’t play her game tonight and saunters away. Well, that and I track Lukas across the pool and promptly give up his location.

I love my brother, but it’s every prince for himself right now.

When I’m in the clear, I make my way over to Parker and the dessert table, praying safety can be found amongst savory treats my mother would rather die than put into her body out of fear of a single ounce gained.

“Éclair?” Parker asks, passing over a pastry before I can even answer.

I’m tempted, but I wave it off in favor of more champagne.

“That bad, huh?” he asks sympathetically.

“If by bad, you mean she’s already having discussions about my future marriage, then yes.”

He lets out a low whistle. And it’s then I see her, staring at me like I’m the most disgusting human to ever grace the planet. Or maybe more like she’s sucking on lemons.

No, not the She-Wolf. It’s the Valkyrie. I mean, the Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia. Which is bloody ironic, right?

To quote my eloquent brother: “Oh, fuck me.”

chapter 11

Elsa

There he is, looking so
too
again.

The Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland is also looking right at me, which means I’m going to have to get on with the business at hand.

Truthfully, I would rather gnaw off my toes than go over there. And frankly, he appears as if I do head his way, he might be the one to gnaw his digits off, which I really cannot blame him for. If I could have my way, I would be upstairs working and not down here, dressed up like a Barbie doll princess ready to be swept off my feet by a plastic prince (or, at least, apologizing to one). But nobody asked what I wanted, so here I am, ready to lay myself bare for the sake of propriety.

Surely, my mother must be sacrificing lambs or calves or the whatnot back home on an hourly basis to ensure my proper behavior this week, because nothing else could explain the urge to set things right.

I allow myself a deep breath (or, rather, a tiny inhalation that nearly pops the seams of the beaded silver dress I’m wearing), throw my shoulders back, and stroll purposefully toward Prince Christian of Aiboland.

Heavens, why does he have to be so gorgeous?

Make that gorgeous and alarmed, because the instant he registers I am headed his direction, he is once more a deer trapped before a monster truck’s headlights. Only, sweet Mother of God. Just as he gets an eyeful of me, I get one of him, too. Instead of wearing the button down and slacks from earlier, he is now clothed head to toe in one of the most delicious tuxedos I’ve had the pleasure of viewing, proving some people are simply meant for excellent clothes. It is crisp with clean lines, all dark and beautiful and clearly tailored for every inch of skin it touches. But, as perfect as this tux is, his dark hair isn’t excessively stylized like so many of
the other royals present. It is a bit mussed, not too long or too short, with a hint of wave curving the strands.

Men should not be allowed to be so lovely.

He hovers close to the dessert table, drinking champagne with a good-looking man I don’t recognize. Brown hair, although not as dark as the prince’s, brown eyes, tan skin, and a smart but standard tux. Not an heir, then, nor, to my recollection, a spare. Charitable thoughts toward this Prince Christian grudgingly roll in, because it is refreshing to find an influential man mingling with somebody who is not next in line, or even surrounded by a bevy of women ready to faint at every crisply uttered, accented word. All of this is maddening, because I do not desire such benevolent opinions forming. Charitable thoughts equal a weakness for my father to exploit. This prince has a younger brother, and younger brothers mean potential spouses, so no good can come of any of this.

Right after dinner was finished and his friends excused themselves from the table, my father informed my sister and me that he found “quality candidates who are of impeccable bloodlines,” both of whom “seem to be healthy and well-endowed,” and that I, in particular, ought to be prepared to meet the one he felt best suited to Vattenguldia’s needs.

Three, thirteen, or thirty, one is never old enough to hear such words from their sire.

“What will you do?” Isabelle had whispered to me when our father left us to speak to the Saudi Arabian king.

I wished I had a clever or well-thought answer to offer, but I was floundering in panic. My only recourse was to make myself as undesirable a candidate as possible.

The point of all of this being: I am well aware that being overseen conversing with Christian is suicidal. His Serene Highness will view it as me leaving the door to his machinations cracked open. It’s just, I also am keenly aware, now I have had a few hours between my actions and this moment, that I behaved abominably toward a fellow RMM-er. Common decency trumps self-preservation.

The fellow the Hereditary Grand Duke is with registers my approach with an amused glint in his eyes, which is unsettling. A step forward is taken alongside a proper bow. “Your Highness, I am Parker Laurant-Sinclair, His Highness’ personal secretary. May I make your introduction?”

I nod graciously, as one of my station ought to do, rather than spit out brimstone and fire as I did earlier in the day.

“Princess Elsa, I am pleased to introduce you to His Royal Highness, the Hereditary Grand Duke Christian of Aiboland.” I incline my head and Parker turns toward his employer. “Prince Christian, I am most pleased to introduce Her Royal Highness, the Hereditary Princess Elsa of Vattenguldia.”

It is Christian’s turn to bow; like this morning, it’s perfectly executed. I am about to volley back a curtsey of my own when he extends a hand out. He wants to shake hands with me like we are, what, best mates? But my mother’s ingrained manners win out again. I reluctantly shove my own hand forward until his fingers curl around mine and bring them up to his warm lips.

Oh. Sweet. Merciful. Heavens
above
. Christian clearly secretes hormones out of his skin, because I fight the good fight to quell the most tantalizing of nearly orgasmic chills threatening to overtake my body.

Kisses on hands should not
do
this. My irritation toward this man doubles.

“Your Highness.” His words, murmured over my skin, set me ablaze. My heart beats too strongly, too quickly. He smells like a goddamn dream. “It is my pleasure to formally make your acquaintance.”

There is no pleasure in his words, though. He’s wary, which makes complete sense considering I went batshit crazy on him in the hallway earlier.

I extract my hand and steal a step backward, away from the sharp, clean smell of soap and man. What is happening right now? I’m not . . . This must cease. I am not a lovelorn little girl, constantly searching for her fairy story. I am not here to swoon, not even over this paragon of manly magnificence who not only secretes pheromones from his skin upon contact but apparently via airborne particles, too. “Look.” Tartness colors my tone, but it cannot be helped, not even under burgeoning proper manners and shame over loss of self-control. “There is no need for you to act so bloody charming. Save it for someone whose knickers aren’t bolted up for the night. There is no need to flirt, either. I’ve simply come to atone for my behavior this afternoon. I admit I might have overreacted.” My head inclines toward the main house. “In the hallway. When we, uh, ran into each other. For that, I apologize.”

For a long moment, amidst the clinking of glasses around us and light chatter and sweet music, Christian is slack-jawed in the face of my bluntness. Even Parker is acting as if two heads protrude from my neck. No matter. The Hereditary Grand Duke may take what I offered as he will. I pivot on a high heel at the same time as Christian blurts, “I wasn’t proposing. Or propositioning you. Or whatever else it was you assumed I was doing.”