Prince of my Panties (Royal Package)

by Lili Valente

  Prince of my Panties

  Lili Valente

  Contents

  PRINCE OF MY PANTIES

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek

  About the Author

  Also by Lili Valente

  PRINCE OF MY PANTIES

  Royal Package Book Two

  By Lili Valente

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Prince Jeffrey is a bossy, smug, overprotective grouch and the last man I want anywhere near my V-Card.

  Would I like to know what all the sexy times fuss is about? Heck yes.

  Do I want to lose my virginity to a prince out to ruin my plans? Or risk breaking the heart of a man I’ll have to leave behind? Hell. No.

  I'm already living on borrowed time. If the firstborn curse on my family is real, I only have six months to ensure my twin sister lives happily ever after. But Jeffrey wants to slam the brakes on my sister's romance with his brother and force me to stay in bed until I recover from a touch of pneumonia.

  But I don't have time to stay in bed! And I certainly don't have time to fall madly in love with this man who holds me like I'm something precious, kisses me until my bones melt, and promises to protect me at all costs.

  But he can't protect me from Fate. Can he?

  Or is Jeffrey Von Bergen keeping secrets too?

  Secrets that might change…everything.

  1

  Princess Elizabeth Agnes Rochat

  Twelve years ago…

  If I’m caught, I’ll be in so much trouble.

  Sooooo.

  Much.

  Trouble.

  I should turn around, creep back up the stairs, down the longest hallway I’ve ever seen, and into the room with the pink linen sheets and rose-scented bath towels. It’s a lovely space. The art deco furniture in my guest suite is museum-quality, and the hand-carved reading chair in the corner probably costs more than every piece of clothing I own, including the ball gown I wore earlier tonight.

  My mother sold a pair of antique diamond earrings to pay for the dress, a garment I will wear only once—twice if I manage not to grow before the midsummer celebration in the village and can work up the courage to draw attention to myself.

  I don’t enjoy attention, but it would be such a waste for that dreamy peach silk to molder in a wardrobe for the rest of its life.

  Not all garments have souls, but dresses like that one do. They have hopes and dreams…aspirations. They want to be a part of the story, even shape it if they can.

  Cinderella wouldn’t have caught the attention of the prince without her fairy godmother’s ball gown, and Dorothy Gale wouldn’t have made it home to Kansas without those shoes.

  If I had to choose, I’d pick the shoes.

  I step off the final stair, heart slamming in my chest as I try to remember the way to the royal library. After three days amidst the glitz and glamor of the always bustling Baden Bergen castle, like Dorothy Gale from Kansas, I’m starting to feel there’s no place like home.

  I’m already engaged to marry a prince, and I don’t know about Cinderella’s experience, but so far, I can tell you it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

  Prince Andrew clearly hates being my fiancé, not that I can blame him.

  I’m only thirteen, technically a teenager, but so thin and flat-chested I still look like a kid. Meanwhile, Andrew is a strapping seventeen-year-old, so handsome even the older, married women at the ball were stealing glances his way.

  No one looks at me. And if they do, they quickly look away, to spare us both the discomfort. In addition to being so skinny I practically disappear when I turn sideways, I stutter when I talk to strangers and I don’t think I’ve ever laughed out loud in front of anyone but my sisters. Meanwhile, Andrew gives rousing speeches on national holidays and has a popular social media account full of his wild adventures. I enjoy reading, crafting, sewing, and helping my nanny with her insect farm. Andrew lives for world travel, jet-setting with glamorous people, and surfing in shark-infested waters.

  We’re about as well suited as a tiger and a ball of sentient drier lint, and if we ever make it to the altar, I’m sure the marriage would be miserable for us both.

  And that’s only with what I know for sure about marriage—the friendship and companionship and spending every day together part.

  There are other things…

  Things that married people do…

  Things that happen in the dark that I know Andrew and I will never do together—imagining it for even a second makes my stomach churn like there’s a swarm of locusts loose in there—but I still can’t help but wonder…

  I wonder a lot.

  I wonder so much it’s like a forest fire in my mind, threatening to smoke out the rest of the healthy growth—this burning need to answer questions I hardly know how to ask.

  But my parents are so old and old-fashioned the thought of asking either of them about that makes my soul cringe. And yes, I could ask Nanny Chamomile, but she’s from California and so not old-fashioned I’d probably get far more information than I’m prepared for. And then I’d never be able to look her in the eye without thinking about what she knew that I now knew.

  It would be too shame-inducing to bear.

  Books are the best way. A book keeps your secrets while giving up all of its own—at least to the careful reader. Books can be trusted not to tattle or reject or judge, and if I find the right ones, I’m certain they’ll tell me everything I want to know.

  But I’ve spent hours searching the bookshelves in our soggy, crumbling castle back home without stumbling upon anything helpful. The raciest thing I could find was a Victorian volume on animal husbandry. And though useful for confirming my suspicions with regard to the “Tab A into Slot B” issue, it was otherwise a wash.

  I don’t want to know how animals mate.

  I want to know how humans make love.

  I want to know why love makes people crazy, why they’ll risk heaven and earth to be with the person who makes their blood burn. Why every story is a love story if you look closely enough, even the ones that try to make you think they’re about war or brotherhood or bitterness or loss.

  In the end, they’re all about love—finding it, losing it, longing for it, regretting it, wishing it had come along in a different form at a different time or with a different person.

  I’ve come to peace with the fact that I’ll never get to experience romantic love firsthand—it wouldn’t be fair to the person I loved, and Andrew is far too intimidating for me to even imagine loving him—but I still want to unravel the mystery.

  And this might be my best chance.

  The Von Bergens aren’t old-fashioned. They’re elegant and worldly and educated, absolutely the kind of people who might have a few racy books mixed in with the thought-provoking biographies and classic fiction.

  So I creep down darkened hallways, hiding
behind a statue in an alcove with my heart in my throat as two softly whispering servants walk by. When they’ve gone, I try every door I pass until one opens with a puff of air that carries the smell of old paper, furniture polish, and pages turned thousands of times.

  I slip into the library and close the heavy door behind me, pausing to allow my eyes to adjust to the moonlight cutting through the large window on the other side of the room. After a moment, I can see well enough to pick my way around the plush furniture to a desk on my left.

  I can’t risk turning on the lights, but I need some sort of illumination in order to read the titles on the spines. I open one drawer after another, finding a collection of pens and pencils, a stationery set, a miniature billiards game, and then, in the last drawer on the bottom left, a box of candles.

  Secretly thrilled to be forced to light a candle like an eighteenth-century heroine in a gothic novel, I fetch matches from the mantel on the fireplace and light one thin taper, holding my hand in front of it to protect the flame as I go in search of the fiction section.

  I find it after only a few moments, excitement building as I discover it takes up an entire wall of the massive room and that there are oodles of newer books mixed in with classic titles. I knew Princess Felicity, Prince Andrew’s mother, was a reader. I could just tell. Readers can spot readers. They have a curious gleam in their eyes, a spark of aliveness that non-readers often lack.

  I might be cursed to die young, but it could be so much worse. At least I wasn’t cursed with an idle mind or a shriveled, unfeeling heart. I think and feel so much it hurts sometimes, but it’s a sweet ache.

  I’d rather be sad than feel nothing at all.

  And I’d rather know what I’m missing than live in the dark.

  I spot the title on the fourth shelf and my stomach flips—Lady Chatterley’s Lover, by D.H. Lawrence. If that isn’t what I’m looking for, I’ll eat the rest of this candle for breakfast.

  I reach up, hooking my fingers around the top of the hard spine, but before I can slide it from between two other volumes by Lawrence—Selected Poems and The Rainbow—the candle drips, the wax rolling over the backs of my knuckles, scalding my skin.

  I flinch and cry out, dropping both the candle and book onto the carpet.

  The book flops open to an illustration that leaves no doubt this is precisely the sort of book I’ve been looking for. The candle flickers as it hits the floor, but then the flame steadies and continues to burn.

  I stand frozen for a moment, clutching my stinging hand to my chest as I watch the flame leap, casting shadows on the picture of a man and woman in bed, the man settled between the woman’s legs. But then the fire flares brighter, and a scent like burning hair rises from the carpet, jolting me into motion.

  “Fire,” I whisper, panic clawing at my throat as I spin, searching for an extinguisher or a pitcher of water or something to throw over the flames.

  But there’s nothing.

  Nothing but more carpet and books that will serve as tinder if I don’t put this out fast.

  “Fire!” I repeat in a louder squeak, torn between the logical urge to run for help and the illogical certainty that I’ll be in terrible trouble if I’m caught sneaking around the castle in the middle of the night. My mother warned me no less than ten thousand times not to embarrass her while we were visiting the Von Bergens, and setting fire to the castle while looking for sex books absolutely qualifies as inappropriate.

  Pulse racing and hands flapping uselessly, I race back around the desk to the overstuffed furniture, hoping to discover a blanket or afghan, but the leather couches are bare.

  “How can you have a library without blankets?” I ask, my breath coming so fast that my head starts to spin.

  I blame the spinning for the fact that I don’t see the shadow by the door until it’s rushing past me, trailing a whiff of the forest through the burning carpet smell.

  The shadow grunts, and the flames abruptly go out.

  “Get the lights,” it orders in a deep voice.

  2

  Elizabeth

  I gulp, my eyes going wide as I clutch the top of my nightgown. For a moment, I consider making a break for my room—the man might not have gotten a good look at my face yet; I might still escape without getting caught—but then he adds in a gentler voice, “It’s all right, Elizabeth. I’m not angry. Just get the lights so we can see the extent of the damage.”

  Rats!

  I’m caught! Caught!

  And by a member of the royal family.

  None of the servants would dare call me Elizabeth. From the moment I arrived, they’ve called me “your highness” or “princess,” another thing that’s made this visit surreal. Yes, technically, I am a princess, but in name only. Rinderland abolished the monarchy and funding for the royal family years ago, leaving my parents struggling to adjust to their new place in the world. They’ve managed by ignoring our crumbling estate, disastrously managed finances, and the fact that their three children are being raised by an odd assortment of poorly-paid, mostly American nannies who taught us English in an accent not nearly as posh-sounding as the Von Bergen boys, with their pricey British tutors.

  There’s nothing posh about our threadbare life back home.

  That’s why my mother, in particular, is so desperate for me to marry Prince Andrew. Once I do, I’ll be a real princess, with the power and money to restore all the pride and status she’s lost.

  Of course, I know I’m never going to marry Andrew, but I have to stay on the Von Bergen royal family’s good side. I need to appear sweet and compliant until the moment Fate steps in to ensure the right Rochat marries the future king of Gallantia.

  But then, if my twin sister is destined to marry Andrew, I suppose it will happen no matter what I do.

  Destiny is destiny, no matter who sets fire to the library.

  Still, I’m trembling with nerves by the time I reach the switch by the door.

  Taking a deep breath, I flick on the lights and blink in the sudden illumination, waiting for my eyes to adjust before I turn to see which royal has caught me out of my room. I’m praying it isn’t the king, Andrew’s grandfather—he’s nice, but he makes me desperately nervous. And then I lock eyes with the bare-chested boy frowning up at me from the floor, where he’s thrown his shirt over the flames, and I wish it had been the king after all.

  The king is scary, but this prince is even scarier.

  It’s Jeffrey, Andrew’s second-to-youngest brother. He’s even taller than Andrew, built like an American football player or some other hulking creature—an ancient Viking or a caveman who fights dinosaurs with his bare hands—and as far as I can tell, he’s always grouchy.

  Always.

  Always scowling and brooding and avoiding eye contact with anyone in my family as if he’s afraid our decline in status is catching.

  I have no idea what he’s going to say or do, but it’s going to be bad.

  “I’m s-so s-sorry,” I stammer, the stutter cropping up the way it always does with unfamiliar or intimidating people. “I w-was l-looking for something t-to—”

  “It’s all right,” he cuts me off gently. He’s still scowling, but he doesn’t sound angry, a contrast that’s so confusing that I stand frozen by the door, my fingers twitching at my sides, with no clue what might happen next. “We’ll rearrange the furniture to hide it. And if we can’t, I’ll tell Grandfather it was my fault.”

  My jaw drops, and my already undependable words fail me.

  He’s going to take the blame? For me?

  Jeffrey’s frown deepens, and a muscle in his clenched jaw tightens into a knot. “You don’t have to be frightened, Elizabeth. I promise. And you don’t have to apologize. We’re the ones who should be sorry. Our entire stupid family.”

  My jaw remains slack, and I’m pretty sure my eyes are bulging out of my head.

  I hear myself breathe in a stutter-free voice, “Why would you be sorry?”

  “You’re a chil
d,” Jeffrey says, still crouched on the floor by his singed shirt. “It’s not right. What our parents did. You shouldn’t be at a ball, dancing with your fiancé. You should be at home playing with your dolls or…whatever.”

  “I don’t like dolls,” I whisper. “I like sewing dresses for them, but not playing with them. I’m not that young.”

  “Still too young,” he says, his troubled gaze holding mine.

  I look into his eyes, past the anger, to the compassion and concern that’s inspired it, and my chest goes warm and melty, like cheese seeping out of a sandwich left on the grill too long.

  I decide I like this prince—a lot.

  I bet he’s a reader, too. I bet that’s why he found me in the library, because he couldn’t wait until morning to start a new book.

  “Thank you.” I motion toward the burned carpet. “For helping me.”

  “Of course.” His lips quirk into a smile-shape before he adds, “Let’s evaluate the damage, shall we?”

  He pulls his shirt away, and I pad closer, craning my neck for a closer look. There’s definitely a black spot, and the singed smell is worse now, but it’s not nearly as bad as I thought it would be.

  Jeffrey nods, apparently sharing my relief. “No problem. We’ll drag a chair on top, and no one will ever notice.”