Royal Marriage Market

by Heather Lyons

  Parker had just leaned back into one of the chairs in the room, his eyes closing against the syrupy sweet sting of the liqueur, but my question straightens his spine. “The Vattenguldian princess?”

  At least this is Parker and not Lukas I’m asking, because then I’d never hear the end of it. “Yes, obviously the Vattenguldian princess, unless there is another Elsa running around the RMM. What do you know about her?”

  He tugs his overflowing leather satchel to where he’s sitting and digs through it for a few seconds before extracting a slim file. From our debriefing prior to arriving at the Summit, I happen to know that there were numerous similar folders within, all containing dossiers of present fellow royals and their families.

  He’d urged both Lukas and I to read the files on the flight over. My brother flat out rejected the suggestion. I’d gotten through half of the alphabetized dossiers before napping; it was the easiest way to escape the She Wolf’s incessant and frankly revolting scheming over how best to trap the girls she favors into marriage. (Let’s just say seduction was involved, a topic one ought to never have with a parent.) Due to the nap, though, I hadn’t gotten to the Vs, so the Valkyrie and her ilk are still a huge question mark in my mind.

  So he’s right. I don’t read everything he gives me.

  I’m passed a file labeled VATTENGULDIA. “Elsa Victoria Evelyn Sofia Marie of the ruling House of Vattenguldia, the Vasas—”

  “Even my name is not so long,” I interject, startled.

  Parker pays me no heed, continuing, “—is the eldest daughter of His Royal Highness Gustav and Her Serene Highness Sofia. Her childhood was spent at the elite boarding school Le Rosey in Switzerland, where she earned impeccable grades. A graduate of Oxford University, she is twenty-eight years of age and is fluent in five languages. At Oxford, her studies focused on European history—”

  I set my glass down on the floor and lean forward. “Yes, yes, I already know that.” Actually, I don’t. Nonetheless, it doesn’t matter if the Valkyrie likes history. All royals like history; studying illustrious family pasts are vain yet indulged ego boosts. “I mean, what do you know about her?”

  “I was in the process of telling you.” A frown twists his lips.

  “She said she wouldn’t marry me. Or—I don’t know. Have sex with me.”

  Parker startles in his chair, cognac sloshing over the rim of his glass. “You proposed to her? To a hereditary princess?”

  Christ almighty. I really need to learn how to broach these topics better. I toss him one of Lukas’ stray t-shirts to clean up with, wondering where my brother is. I’d think he’d want to be hiding with the rest of us. “No to all of the above.”

  “But—”

  “What I meant to say is, I most certainly did not propose to this woman. Nor did I proposition her.”

  He studies me for a long moment before tossing the shirt back. “Have you been imbibing today longer than I’m aware of?”

  I stuff the shirt beneath Lukas’ pillow on the portable bed next to mine. Neither of us wants to ascend the tiny, steep wooden staircase in the duplex to be near our mother’s bed. It’s bad enough we’re all trapped in this same area together. “We ran into each other in the hallway. Before I could even say anything, she barked out she wouldn’t marry me. Or have sex, or . . . I don’t know. She mentioned proposals and propositions.”

  This elicits a rather lengthy, hearty laugh on Parker’s behalf.

  “I’m glad you find this amusing.”

  “Oh, believe me. I quite do.”

  I tell him where he can shove his laughter, which somehow ups the hilarity for him. “What if this gets out, Parker?”

  None of this sobers him in the least.

  I try again. “What if this gets back to the Grand Duchess?”

  That does the trick.

  “I would not put it past her to orchestrate an engagement at the first word of me having interest in anyone, especially that girl, since the She-Wolf’s had her sister at the top of my so-called”—an involuntary shudder rolls through me—“To Marry list for ages. You know she’d do it, no qualms involved.”

  Parker sobers immediately. Of course he knows this. Nothing the She-Wolf does surprises him, because, as one of my oldest friends, he’s known the truth of her character since childhood.

  “Why would the Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia believe you were interested in a match?” He pours us both another glass of the crappy cognac. “What happened in that hallway?”

  “Nothing. We looked at each other, I suppose.”

  Parker’s eyebrows lift toward his hairline.

  Well, shite. “Not looked at each other,” I quickly clarify.

  The corners of the bastard’s mouth twitch.

  “I meant, we were both in the hallway. We’d bumped into each other. Well, I ran into her. This place is filled with incredibly narrow corridors.” I cross my arms, but then realize how that must make me look defensive, forcing me to relax. “Our eyes gravitated toward one another as polite people are prone to do when they are the only ones present. At a distance no less.” I don’t bother to let him know we were close enough I was virtually drunk on her perfume, a vanilla mixture which was ten trillion times more fantastic than the She-Wolf’s dead roses scent.

  Parker runs a finger along the rim of his glass. “And a marriage proposal was determined from this look?” He whistles. “That must have a hell of a look, Chris.”

  Wanker. “I’m telling you, the look was no look, or at least, it was no look that one could determine a lifelong commitment from. It was a polite look. A glance, to be more specific.” I snap my fingers. “An acknowledgement of another’s existence.”

  “The lady doth protest too much, I believe.”

  Friend or no, I still issue a quiet warning.

  “My apologies. Now that we have firmly defined what kind of look it was, and made sure we’ve both said the word a dozen times apiece, maybe I ought to continue with what I know about this princess?”

  I run a hand across my face. “Go ahead.”

  “Rumor has it that Her Royal Highness is a straight shooter. This trait has endeared her to the Vattenguldian citizens. Despite their adoration of Prince Gustav, Princess Elsa is viewed as a breath of fresh air in a country that much of Europe overlooks or considers antiquated. She’s serious about her charity work, the environment, and keen on ensuring Vattenguldia finds its footing and thrives in today’s economy whilst fiercely celebrating its cultural past.” Parker rubs the bridge of his nose. “You know, you two may have more in common than you think.”

  I at least have some manners. “How so?”

  He sips his drink slowly. “Concerning the quest to find a suitable match here this week. I’m assuming that, alongside her rejection, Her Royal Highness indicated she has no interest in playing a willing contestant in the RMM, correct?”

  My ego will not allow me to relive such humiliation in vivid detail. “In not so many polite words, yes, that was the gist of it.”

  “Maybe you ought to befriend her. You could be each other’s haven in this brothel.”

  I end up choking—literally choking—on the bloody cognac.

  As Parker beats my back, I reluctantly allow that the idea, as hideous as it is, might have merit. But value or no, I also have pride and that pride insists there is no good to come from befriending a woman hell-bent on focusing on her . . . what had she called it—work?—at the detriment of common decency. Besides, the Valkyrie is a princess the She-Wolf would sell her husband’s soul to have me befriend, as it’d be an in to the sister. So, bollocks to that.

  When I can speak, I tell Parker, “It’s best to avoid her entirely.”

  He disapproves. Too bad. “Where the hell is Lukas?” I send my brother a quick text, informing him that Parker and I have the booze out, and that if he wants to survive tonight, he better come and have some already.

  chapter 9

  Elsa
/>
  My father tugs at his bow tie. “Are you girls enjoying yourselves?”

  I let Isabelle answer, as he must know how I truly feel. “It is quite nice here,” she says, her voice smooth and low. She sounds eerily like our mother. “I met some very nice people today.”

  I try not to roll my eyes while I finish applying lipstick. Had I used the word nice twice in a sentence, a lecture requiring me to express myself in less common language would have followed. Isabelle may have gotten the beautiful voice, but at least I can lay claim to an expanded vocabulary.

  “Excellent.” Our father slips on his coat; my sister acts as valet, smoothing the shoulders out. “This is cozy, isn’t it? Us all in a room like this? I feel as if we’re camping.”

  Only His Serene Highness would consider the three of us residing in one of the United State’s most famous historical mansions as the equivalent of camping. After fleeing from Prince Christian this afternoon, I overheard plenty of people who once believed only Europe houses architectural masterpieces oohing and ahhing over the mix-matched styling of the Castle. Nonetheless, it is also fairly tiny for the amount of people packed into it for the week. Royals, so often used to having large, lavish spaces all to themselves, are stacked upon one another like sardines in bedrooms in the four houses. Placements were drawn at random so no one family was favored for a better room over the others. That leaves precious little privacy to be enjoyed. Nobody—not even the most powerful and influential monarchs present—have their own room. Sharing quarters with our father is not ideal, even when he generously ceded the bed for Isabelle and me and is sleeping upon a small portable foldaway off to the side, but Isabelle and I figure it could have been far worse, had our mother also been present. But no—she is at home, overseeing renovations to the palace.

  As for any employees who tagged along, they’re the ones who could argue to be camping since they are lodging in barracks. This is only further proof the MC has lost their collective minds. To require loyal staff to sleep on undoubtedly uncomfortable cots in the equivalent of dorm rooms and use portable showers and toilets? Unforgiveable.

  I texted this insanity to Charlotte, who promptly wrote she was grateful for remaining in Vattenguldia—and that I better keep her updated at least ten times over the course of each day.

  I also told her I met the heir to Aiboland.

  Her immediate response? Is he as good looking in person as he is in the glossies?

  I figured it couldn’t hurt to tell her the truth. Ridiculously so.

  Was he nice?

  I wouldn’t know. We didn’t talk. Which was a lie. Well, all right. Half a lie. I talked. He listened. And now I cannot help but wonder if I came across like a raving lunatic, like the RMM broke me on day one.

  Isabelle’s murmuring to our father, something about how nice it is to visit California, when a knock on the door sounds. It’s Bittner, already dressed in a pristine suit though he will be dining in one of the large tents I spied down the hill. “Your Highness, you requested to be notified twenty minutes prior to supper.”

  My father grunts as Isabelle straightens his tie. “Do you know who we’re to dine with?”

  It surprises me to hear him refer to us as a whole. Family style seating is not something I considered. Or am even used to nowadays.

  “Lichtenstein and Norway,” Bittner offers.

  Ten minutes later, we descend the steps toward the pool. Tables covered in snowy white linen, candles, and fresh flowers adorn the patio surrounding the Roman colonnades that circle back to a Greco-Roman temple facade. The sun glows golden in the sky around us, reflecting against the turquoise waters of the pool, and I quietly muse over how the name our tour guide offered us earlier—La Cuesta Encantada, or the Enchanted Hill—is so perfectly apt for what is before me.

  My father takes my arm. “Not so bad now, is it?”

  Soft music from the early-to-mid twentieth century fills the space around us, and I am loath to admit he’s right. But he is. In this moment, in this place, there is too much magic in the air to wallow fully in my resentment.

  Thankfully, dinner itself isn’t traumatic. There isn’t too much chatter about the RMM, as this intro into the Decennial Summit is all about friends and colleagues reacquainting themselves. At least, that is my hope when my father spends most of his time discussing family matters and local politics with his fellow sovereigns at the table.

  Right when the main course is placed before me, I spot the prince from the hallway at a table on the other side of the pool. He is with his mother, the Grand Duchess of Aiboland, an elegant woman whose poise and ability to masterfully enrapture crowds with her speeches has often sent my mother into jealous fits. He is also with a man I assume to be his brother, thanks to similar features. They are dining with the Swedish and Luxembourgian contingencies, and while his mother listens in rapt attention to the Grand Duke sitting at her side, Christian and his brother are far more reserved with the heirs and spares at their table.

  I try not to stare, but goodness, if he isn’t the most striking man present in a room full of handsome people. And I hate myself for allowing such a shallow opinion, because beauty is nothing, not when there are so many other traits for a person to be attracted to.

  “What’s captured your attention?”

  I glance away from the enigmatic prince, back toward my sister. “Just having a look around to see who is here.”

  She nods knowingly. Her attention flits about meaningfully, too. Who present might be our (un)lucky future spouses? It’s a nasty business, curiosity and bitterness mingling so closely together.

  Neither the Norwegian or Lichtenstein heirs are present; all are safely married with children too young to yet go through the RMM. Rumor has it there is a Lichtenstein cousin upstairs somewhere, but he supposedly fell prey to the stomach flu on the flight over. There is a relief that it’s just Isabelle and I alongside the sovereigns at the table. Small talk is all that is expected of us, which is fine by me.

  It’s maddening how my attention returns repeatedly to the future Grand Duke of Aiboland, though. Each time I take in his stiff countenance, the ugly words that fell out of my mouth ring in my ears.

  He wasn’t propositioning me at all. Distracted by his phone, and trapped in the same, slim corridor, he simply failed to take note of my presence until too late.

  Articulate. Intelligent. Thoughtful. These are all words used by others to describe me, and hours after arriving, I allowed the RMM to wipe them clean away from my personality.

  It just will not do. I must apologize to him.

  chapter 10

  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.