by Pippa Grant
He opens his mouth.
“I said, you’re dismissed.”
“But—”
“Oh, lordy, we’re gonna have to do this the hard way, aren’t we? Leonie, hon, call in the guards.”
The duke looks at me.
Leonie hesitates only a moment before stepping to the door and motioning in a guard.
I don’t blink as I stare back. Though I do picture his entrails being pecked by rabid chickens. Or possibly that migrant duck that kept tripping the alarm wires back at Prince Manning’s manor in Alabama.
“This is utter rubbish.” He’s still shrieking as two guards drag him from the room. Threats. Promises. Insults to my family.
“Have his title stripped,” I tell Leonie.
“And give it to a single woman who’s made something of herself despite her circumstances,” Peach adds.
She’s still smiling, but there’s hard, seething anger glittering in her eyes, and her cheeks are redder than any of the hearts about the castle.
“Your Majesty,” Leonie says haltingly, “the duke was quite the loyal supporter of King Roland.”
“King Roland who attacked the palace with mortar shells until my grandfather fled into exile because of a rumored plan to ink a deal with Italy to cooperate on tourism efforts? Do you recall details of the supposed deal? Something about bringing more attention to both countries as idyllic escapes for lovers, rather than being out-spent in the global advertising markets by our neighbor to the south?”
She clears her throat. “I don’t recall the exact details, Your Majesty. I shall start the paperwork as requested. Your German lesson—”
“Will still be there tomorrow,” I interrupt. “A moment, please.”
She curtsies and flees the room.
I have to wonder if I look quite as mad—both angry and beyond the reaches of my sanity—as Peach appears.
“Are you quite all right?” I inquire once Leonie has successfully shut the door, which takes her three attempts, because the latch is as broken as the rest of the palace.
“I’m fine.” Peach paces to one of the three windows overlooking the inner courtyard, where three workers are scratching their heads over the broken fountain.
“He was rather out of line,” I hedge.
“He’s an entitled ass, raising another entitled ass. Important because his father told him he was important, and he probably pays his maids and his cooks half of what they’re worth and I’d bet half my salary he’s paid off at least one of them to keep quiet after he seduced her. Probably called another one some terrible names for turning him down, and then fired the first under the pretense of not having sluts work for him. Asshole.”
I sit upon the edge of the carved mahogany desk in the corner of the room, because the weight of the world is suddenly too much to bear while standing.
“And it doesn’t matter if his little prickhead son won’t be there at school with Papaya, because there’ll be another one to take his place. No one’s ever taught her what she’s worth, and so she goes wherever it’s easiest to get approval. She likes the trouble. But I’ll be damned before I let her be the only one who gets in trouble for it.” She rubs her temples. “And now you have a new enemy.”
“He’s long been an enemy, I was merely unaware until this morning. Do not add that to your list of concerns.”
“I want to dump honey all over him and roll him on a fire ant bed.”
“It continues to astonish me that women do not rule the world.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m quite serious. You’ve no use for bullies, and you’ve no hesitation to solve problems most efficiently.”
She turns still-suspicious eyeballs on me. “Really.”
“I should insist all men bring their wives to meetings with me. I daresay we would have more straightforward solutions to many of our problems without the egos involved. What room have we for egos and bullies in a realm of love?”
“I can’t decide if you’re mocking me or if you’re seriously hot right now.”
“Should there be any chance of you believing me to be seriously hot, it would seem my best course of action would be to not offer an opinion on the subject.”
She squints at me.
I refuse to let my lips quiver one way or another, though when she tips her head back and laughs, I do allow a victory smile.
A small one.
I’ve many battles to face yet today.
“I might have misjudged you,” she tells me as the smile fades from her face.
“Highly likely,” I agree.
And there goes the smile again. This time with an exaggerated eye roll that reminds me of Papaya.
One more small victory.
I shall happily take it.
18
Peach
I’ve been doing my best to ignore this garden reception coming up, but now we’re in that danged stretch limo SUV thing again, heading from the cozy, lived-in palace to the huge monstrosity of a glittery Abbey of Love.
It looms ahead of us, so large and daunting that it’s making the shooting mountain peaks seem insignificant, which is crazy, but then, men didn’t build the mountains to make a woman question her sanity in moving halfway around the world to pretend to be in love with the king of the kingdom of love.
And if that’s not enough, I’m weighed down with so many jewels, my neck alone could probably pay our entire staff’s annual salaries back home at Weightless.
Papaya and Meemaw are back at the palace, which is also giving me some indigestion. I’m pretty sure Meemaw is tupping the butler. Right now. This very moment. And Papaya’s refused to talk to anyone since this morning.
Not even Alexander or Samuel, who have both tricked her out of bad moods several times this week. It’s hard to stay mad when two grown men play charades to guess what’s wrong with the teenager now. Especially when their guesses included things like too much vegan cheese and sat on a thorn bush. You wouldn’t think a grown man could do that in charades, but they did.
“Why aren’t Alexander and Samuel coming?” I whisper to Viktor as the car winds through the city, past signs and banners and balloons in the official royal red of Amoria.
“The focus is to be on you, Your Majesty,” Leonie pipes up.
A muscle ticks in Viktor’s cheek, and I wonder if that’s the whole story. “’Tis supposed to be a small party. Aristocracy only, and I’ve yet to bestow titles on any of my family.”
“But Duke Blowhard won’t be there?” I ask.
Leonie coughs.
Viktor allows one corner of his mouth to lift no more than a freaking millimeter. “Quite right, my lady.”
The mountains are gorgeous today, jutting into a clear, deep blue sky that would probably make for an amazing Weightless flight. Joey’s flying today. I’ll bet she’s in the air now, probably guiding the plane into a perfect parabola to simulate zero gravity. I wonder if anyone’s going to puke.
And I’m suddenly so homesick this stupid lace-and-fluff dress I’ve been forced to wear is choking me, even though the neckline is well below my actual neck.
So maybe it’s the fourteen pounds of jewels I didn’t want to wear either. I’m not a jewel girl. I’m a get shit done girl.
And I’m done with this vacation.
I want to go home.
With Papaya.
Except if I go home without a husband, that dadgum judge will take her away from me.
The car glides through the shiny open gates of the abbey and rolls around a circle drive—no, a heart-shaped drive filled with blooming red roses—to stop in front of two massive brass doors at the top of a marble staircase. Streamers and guards line a makeshift walkway leading away from the steps, though, and toward the side lawn, where—“Oh, no.”
“It’s the tradition, Your Majesty,” Leonie says happily to me.
“You’re taking quite the liberty with the word tradition, Leonie, as there have only been two coronations and royal weddings in
the last seventy years,” Viktor says.
“The people are quite eager to see you as both king and newlywed, Your Majesty. And it is the tradition for newlyweds, royal or not.”
Viktor and I share a look.
His is full of security risk and I’ve sworn to never let this woman near a hot air balloon again.
Mine’s full of not another fucking heart, and not another fucking balloon.
“I’m terrified of heights,” I blurt.
Leonie shifts a surprised glance at me. “Your Majesty, you owned a flight adventure company.”
Still own, but that’s not the point. “And did I do the flying? No. No, I did not. For very good reason. I like my feet on the ground.”
“You’ve been in a hot air balloon before,” she points out.
“I thought a baby was in danger.”
Even Viktor gives me a no one believes that look, despite the fact that I know he’s on my side here in not wanting to get in that blasted contraption.
“You’ve flown in a plane,” Leonie argues. “I was with you.”
“I—I—I knew I’d be okay because Viktor was with me.” There. That sounds like a reasonable thing for a newlywed woman in love to say.
“Excellent. And His Majesty shall be with you again today.”
She smiles brightly at both of us.
Dammit.
And that’s how we end up floating in a tethered hot air balloon thirty minutes later, smiling and waving at the crowd from fifty feet in the air, the wind whipping all around my fancy hairdo that Papaya said looked like two mountains trying to twerk their butts together, which you would think would be impossible to replicate with a hairdo, yet here I am. Complete with Viktor’s arm tucked securely around me while the balloon operator titters and tutters in Italian, and based on the way Viktor’s face keeps twitching, he’s either chattering on about how lucky we are to be married, or about how he’s not letting me out of his sight so I don’t steal his balloon.
Or possibly he’s saying something highly unflattering about Viktor’s haircut, but I doubt it.
His haircut is fresh and not too short, not too long, all that thick dark hair with just a few threads of silver in it.
A cry goes up from the crowd below us. Though the reception is small and private in a garden behind the abbey, the balloon ride is for the public to see, and they’ve turned out in droves.
All the winding roads from town—except the road we took—are lined with people. The masses spill over onto the sloping lawns surrounding the abbey, all of them waving red Amorian flags. A chant erupts below us.
And I don’t need a translator to know what they’re asking.
They want us to kiss.
Of course they do.
But the bad part is, I’m looking forward to it.
I’ve had precious few moments in the last two weeks when I’ve felt wanted.
But when Viktor kisses me?
When he looks at me with those pure, one hundred percent dark cacao eyes?
Even if he only wants my body, he wants me.
And even if he’s only touching me because we made a devil’s bargain and he has to, he’s touching me.
His hand at the small of my back.
His gaze flickering over my face as though he’s processing my mood, his plan of attack, and how far he can push me before we cross lines we can’t uncross.
He caresses my cheek with a soft brush of his thumb, and that frosty case I keep my heart in thaws a little at the edges despite my best intentions. “Smile, Peach,” he says softly. “It makes me wonder what you’re up to.”
I ignore the teasing, because he said my name.
Which is honestly more dangerous than him doing a striptease in heart-shaped boxers while he asks me if I’ll touch myself for him.
“Shut up and kiss me,” I whisper back.
Unfortunately, he’s good at taking orders.
His lips brush mine, and the roar of the crowd below us fades behind the buzzing in my ears. His skin is rough but hot, his lips full and firm, his grip solid but not suffocating.
Anchoring.
Addicting.
I know better than to give in to the temptation of believing this is about real feelings. But he’s not mauling me. He’s not overpowering me, though he could single-handed. He’s not even shoving his leg between my knees or grinding his hips into my belly to show off how hard he can get, though I am aware that he’s hardening.
He’s merely tucking an arm around my waist and cradling my head while he makes a leisurely exploration of my mouth.
This isn’t about power.
Or about getting me out of my clothes.
Or about an opportunity to get up close and personal with the peachiest parts of my body.
But it’s not about love either.
Which should be perfect.
Except it’s not.
Viktor pulls back, scans my face once more, and a small frown brings a line between his eyes. “Altitude sickness, my lady?”
I could kiss him all over again.
This is bad.
Really, really bad. “Yes. You know me and heights.”
He says something in broken Italian to the balloon operator, and soon we’re on the ground.
Which really means the fun is just beginning.
19
Viktor
Fragile is not a word I ever would’ve associated with Peach, but despite the bright smile on her face, I fear she may crack in two at any moment. There’s no light in her eyes, her shoulder blades are sharp enough to slice the rope that tethered the heart-shaped hot air balloon to the ground, and her voice is strained with every greeting she utters to the guests.
The diamonds and sapphires spilling about her chest and dangling from her ears sparkle in the late afternoon sunlight. She refused the tiara, and her hair is quite mussed from the wind, but no one here seems any the wiser that she’s under any strain.
As they shouldn’t be.
Her makeup is flawlessly hiding the dark circles that have plagued her eyes this past week, the soft blue of her dress is making her eyes brilliant even without her natural light, and the jewels add a regality to her bearing that I know better than to mention for fear of losing my bollocks in my sleep.
The Duke of Aragorn—soon to be the only duke of Amoria—is bent over Peach’s hand, admiring the sapphire and diamond ring she selected from the palace’s jewels this afternoon. He’s speaking in rapid Italian, which Leonie is translating, all complimentary, if borderline intrusive.
I’m about to clear my throat when the woman behind him in line does it for me.
The duke moves on, and a slip of a woman in a red dress, a sea of wrinkles, and white curls peeking from beneath her heart-shaped hat drops a deep curtsy.
“Your Majesties, may I present Ms. Fiona Aurora, Amoria’s Love Laureate,” Leonie says quickly. “Ms. Aurora has the distinction of being the most successful matchmaker in Amorian history. His Majesty King Roland bestowed the title upon her after witnessing her remarkable talents in person.”
Peach stifles something that might be a cry for help or a snort of laughter—or possibly both—whilst I extend a hand to Ms. Aurora. “Thank you for your service to our country,” I say to her in German.
Because gods above, we’re in trouble if she can speak English. I’m rather beginning to suspect this entire garden party is an ambush.
Her shrewd brown gaze drifts between Peach and me. “Your crown has fallen off, Your Majesty.”
“I’m the same person Viktor fell in love with whether I wear the crown or not,” Peach replies with a smile that’s gone even wider than necessary.
So much for small miracles. Ms. Aurora is squinting suspiciously at her now.
“You speak English?” I inquire. Of course she does, though I’d prefer to change the subject. To anything else.
“Love transcends all languages, Your Majesty. And I have clients around the globe.”
So this is
worse than I feared. “How lucky for us, then, that you call Amoria home.”
“Lucky for you that you get to as well.” She smiles and leans closer. “I always did like your grandfather. Your father seemed deeply in love with your mother as well. My sympathies on your family’s losses.”
“Thank you, madam.”
“It’s an honor to have lived long enough to see the rightful heir of Amoria back on the throne. And with such a lovely bride to boot. You were a successful business woman before becoming queen, Your Majesty?”
Peach nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
“How lovely to have accomplished royalty running our country.”
Peach smiles.
It’s a beautiful smile, with no visibly clenched jaw, no arrows flying out her eye sockets, no posture so tense that I wonder at the state of her bowels.
This is the woman I would oftentimes catch chatting with Miss Gracie and cooing at baby Sophie. Carefree. Happy. Generous.
I suddenly can’t remember exactly why the woman ever annoyed me.
“How did you manage to snare such a winning creature?” Ms. Aurora asks me, and my opinion of her rises.
As does my suspicion, as I’m not one to fall into the traps of complacency.
“We met the day my friend Gracie almost killed herself making dick cookies,” Peach answers quickly.
I choke.
Leonie chokes.
The earl behind Miss Aurora chokes, and his wife elbows him sharply.
Miss Aurora, however, nods, and her wrinkled lips spread in a wider, conspiratorial smile. “I shall, of course, refrain from asking specifics,” she says.
“That’s probably for the best. We were all feeling a little ugly that morning.” Peach’s accent is flaring again.
“We were, weren’t we? I do believe that was the day you threatened Prince Manning with a disembowelment,” I say dryly.