Royal Marriage Market

by Heather Lyons

  At first, I’m startled. Christian, a panhandler? But then I realize my sister has switched subjects and is once more referring to Mathieu . . . who still does not resemble what she’s insinuating. “Have you actually ever seen one? Mat is a far cry from that. If anything, he is a hipster. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is secretly a music snob.” I bump my shoulder against hers. “Also, he was wearing a tuxedo last night. How many panhandlers do you think dress in couture?”

  She counters with, “It was velvet. And he was wearing tennis shoes.”

  I literally clutch the pearls around my neck. “Let us take him out back and put him down before it’s too late.”

  She is quiet for a long moment. “The Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland plays tennis.”

  I clutch the pearls tighter. “Shite, Isabelle! What is this world coming to?” And then, as her mouth turns down, “Please tell me you did not discuss sports last night.”

  Or at least any that my highly opinionated sister does not approve of, which are all but those dealing with equines.

  Dark, curling hair is smoothed behind her ears. “We also spoke of horses.”

  I have never been more pleased to not be part of a conversation before. And it delights me to know Christian must like horses, because at least now there’s something to disapprove of. Horses smell. I am a failure of a princess to believe that, but it’s the truth, nonetheless. “Somehow you got onto tennis after talking about horses?”

  Her voice drops to a disapproving whisper, soft yet grating against the staircase we descend. “He mentioned he played ice hockey. It’s as I said. That man is a Neanderthal.”

  And he cooks warm milk and offers unsuspecting princesses éclairs in the dead of night. Is he trying out for Man of the Year? Bloody Prince Charming. How did she not fall prey to his charms? Neanderthal, indeed. “Why are you whispering?”

  Her nostrils flare. “What if those aren’t his real teeth?”

  I don’t bother informing her I initially wondered if they were capped, too.

  According to the welcome packet received upon arrival, morning meals at the Castle are served buffet style in a large dining room that resembles a medieval monastery that found itself in the middle of an American ranch. A long wooden table and antique padded chairs and benches line the bulk of the richly decorated room, the seats filled with chatting royals. Music from the 1930s discreetly pipes through hidden speakers, and as I take it and all the flags lining the ornate ceiling in, I marvel at how time travel is so perfectly desirable here in this house and utterly mundane in my own. How delightful Hearst Castle must have been in its heyday, filled with glamorous movie stars and America’s elite. I can almost feel the ghosts of the past brushing my arms, beguiling me to discover their secrets.

  “Look at this.” Isabelle motions toward a large sign posted on an easel near the doorway. It reads: Hearst Castle is a historic site, a museum, and part of California’s State Park system. You are financially responsible for any damage you cause.

  She passes me a plate. “A house can be a park?”

  “More likely the land it sits upon. Didn’t you read up on its history before we came?” I should talk, though. My research was cursory at best.

  “I didn’t have time.” Isabelle allows herself an apple and a cup of coffee. “I find it insulting they would believe we are slovenly enough to trash the furniture. We reside in genuine castles and palaces, most of them with antiques far older and more precious than these.”

  “Careful, sister,” I warn lightly. “You sound like the biggest snob in a room packed to the gills with the world’s most prolific elitists.”

  To prove my point, she issues a condescending sniff of displeasure. But then, all the bitchiness on her face dissipates into stark resignation.

  “There’s Christian. I suppose we ought to sit with him.”

  “What a ringing endorsement. You suppose.”

  The lines around her mouth grow more pronounced.

  “What would Alfons think?” I tease, following the line of sight my sister motions toward with her elbow. Christian, the man he ate dinner with, and Parker are sitting next to and across from one another at the end of the table, sipping coffee.

  Dammit. Even in the morning, Christian and his too-ness are impossible to escape. Because he really is alluring, with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms and the sun dancing in streaks of blinding light across his wavy hair as he chats with the fellows he is with. And he’s wearing those jeans again.

  Neanderthal, indeed.

  If only he’d had an ugly personality to go with such a visage.

  “I don’t want to talk about Alfons.” And then, remembering the last time she said—nay, snapped—this, Isabelle adds, “Please, Elsa.”

  There’s that statement again. My sister’s smile turns wan, tripping warning signals that urge: caution ahead; proceed at own risk. Propriety dictates I ought to respect such a wish, but the sister in me simply cannot ignore the pain in my only sibling’s eyes. “Is everything all right between you two?”

  Dark hair, so very like my own, whispers from side-to-side in a quick jerk. Wan transitions to wobbly.

  When had this happened? Just last week, I endured yet another one of Isabelle’s quietly voiced convictions over how certain she was that Alfons was her soul mate. Granted, this was not new, but she had been particularly vehement in her faith of their happy ending together. Naturally, I urged caution—and support, despite her beau being as interesting as a wet paper bag (and, if I am honest, about as smart as one, too). But Alfons appears to possess a good heart and certainly fails to strike me as a gold digger out to snatch himself a free ride for life. Did my normally cautious sister jump the gun by becoming engaged to her riding instructor after knowing one another all of a year? Most definitely. But Isabelle was always so happy with Alfons—and happy is something we desperately chase when so much of our lives are dedicated toward ensuring the emotion for others. How did she go from blissfully in love to willing to refuse standing up against the RMM in such a tiny span of time? Or at least not rock the boat?

  I murmur her name, but a sharp shake of head plus another jab in the ribs quickly stops any further comments. Then she is off, striding across the room toward her assumed intended, her features perfectly schooled so there will be no further hidden demons betrayed. I know better, though. She would normally never let her guard down in public, so for her to allow me to witness such a fleeting moment means at least one heart must be bruised and possibly crushed. And that is a hard realization for a sister, knowing all at once something horrible has rocked Isabelle’s existence and accepting there is nothing to be done other than simply be a leg of support, if that’s even what she requires from me.

  I am about to follow when I hear, “Ah, there you are, Elsa.”

  My father stands behind me, a cup of steaming coffee in his hands.

  “Your mother rang a few minutes ago. She was most displeased she was unable to touch base with you this morning.”

  “I fear I must have left my mobile set to vibrate.” It is a lie—I sent the call straight to voicemail. I have had neither enough sleep nor coffee for such a conversation.

  He grunts, probably wishing he had done the same. “You’re to ring her after your meeting this morning. Have your sister join in—it will be easier that way. She wishes to discuss some important matters with the both of you.”

  Irritation flares at the same time my stomach sinks.

  “I’m off to go chat with the MC before the day kicks off, and then I have a quick meeting with the Nordic Council,” he tells me, “but I wanted to catch you up to speed on a few crucial matters.” He glances over my shoulder. “Isabelle are Aiboland are a union I’m keen to support, Elsa.”

  So it is official, whether my sister wants it or not.

  “If she asks your opinion on whether or not you think she and Aiboland are a good match, I know I can count on you to do what’s best for the
family and Vattenguldia, hm? Relations between our countries have been distanced for far too long.”

  If we were behind closed doors, I might just tell him my actual opinion, but as we are out in the open, surrounded by peers, I simply incline my head. But, yeah. Not going to happen. Nor will it happen when my mother pushes the topic later today.

  “You spoke to him last night. Do you think his acquiescence will be a problem?”

  My legs feel as if they’ve turned to wood. “Are you inquiring if I believe the Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland is an eager participant of the RMM?”

  My father chuckles good-naturedly, as if he knows it matters not one bit whether or not Christian is—or any of us are, for that matter. “I have no doubt that that boy will do what’s best for his country.” He takes my arm and steers me just outside the door. “The Grand Duchess is just as keen for this match as I am.”

  Now that we are out of view, I say, “Boy? He is older than me.”

  This only brings forth an affectionate pat on my shoulder. “If necessary, encourage him to see your sister and Vattenguldia in a positive light. I’m sure that won’t be hard for you, not if you wish for what’s best for our people.”

  One does not roll their eyes before their monarch, not even when the sovereign is their parent. But goodness, if it isn’t difficult to repress the action.

  My father sips his coffee, watching me carefully. “I have arranged for you to have tea with Mathieu after your meeting today. It is best you spend some time each day acquainting yourself with him. Remember, we have only until Friday.”

  Somebody must have come up behind me and clocked me on the head with one of those enormous Acme hammers, because surely, His Serene Highness did not just say what I fear he did.

  Did he?

  I have never prayed so hard to be hallucinating. Here I was, feeling sorry for Isabelle and Christian, when my own demons are here to roost.

  “Your mother and I had several productive conversations with his parents over the last few weeks, and we feel quite certain that you two will get along smashingly,” my father continues, oblivious to how he ripped the ground out from beneath my wooden feet. “Mathieu is an intelligent boy. Full of strong opinions.” He playfully clucks me under the chin, only the seriousness lining his face and coating his words betray any lightheartedness of the moment. “Sound familiar?”

  Weeks? He’s been wrangling a deal for my hand in an archaic arranged marriage for weeks?

  Somebody calls my father’s name. “Inform Isabelle she’s to meet Aiboland for tea this afternoon, as well. Do your duty, Elsa.”

  Once he departs, I want to dig out my phone and check the calendar, just to ensure we’re in the twenty-first century and not the Middle Ages.

  “May I be of assistance, Your Highness?”

  I blink and find a server standing in front of me, his tux impeccable for such an early hour. I offer my royal smile: calm and collected as I will be damned if I show anyone within the next room just how shaken I am. “I am heading in for breakfast.”

  He props the door open for me; I force my feet to uproot and deliver me back into the dining room. Isabelle has, to my surprise, been detained by one of the Monégasque girls and is just now heading to where Christian is.

  The moment they notice her approach, the trio of men stand up. Christian cannot let go of his manners for two seconds, can he? You would assume, in a room filled entirely with royalty, we could all let our hair down and not give into restrictive roles such as standing up simply because a lady arrives at a table.

  Christian wasn’t so chivalrous last night. Fine, that’s a lie. He was. He made me warm milk, for goodness’ sake.

  At the thought of Prince Charming cooking for me, my idiotic heart stutters within my ribs.

  “Mind if we join you?” Isabelle is all cool elegance, one of her patented, coquettish slips of a smile attempting to shine through, only to come across as more of a grimace than the flirting she undoubtedly strove for.

  Before I can tug her away to press the issue from before, those too fascinating amber eyes of Christian’s leave my sister’s face to settle on me. Like some ridiculous stereotype, when our visions meet, the breath in my lungs magically disappears until I do not know if I’m actually even on the planet anymore, because surely all of the oxygen is gone. And it is outrageous, because stuff such as this—reactions to someone simply making eye contact—do not exist in reality, even in one as extraordinary as mine.

  I am clearly exhausted from lack of sleep, or actually falling prey to the flu I feared last night, because there is no other rational explanation as to why I’m lightheaded.

  Thankfully, he glances back at my awaiting sister. “It would be our pleasure.” He offers her a smile in return, yet it is radically different than last night’s sunny dazzler that lit up a dark kitchen. This morning’s is closed-lipped; worse, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  I don’t think I like this smile at all. Not on him, not like this. But he proves his Prince Charming moniker is well deserved, because Christian graciously pulls my sister’s chair out for her. In return, she promptly slams her plate against the table. Is our mother having a stroke somewhere? She’s clearly slacking on her spells to enforce proper behavior in the both of us, that’s for certain. Because this is not my sister’s normal behavior. She is a tough cookie, but normally polite beyond measure. I know this is a hellish experience, but of the two of us, my money was on her to act decently. First the pathetic attempts at flirting, and now plate slamming? What is happening right now?

  Christian weathers her mercurial mood in stride. “May I introduce my brother, His Highness Prince Lukas of Aiboland? Lukas, this is Elsa, the Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia and her sister, Princess Isabelle.”

  Lukas bows, but it is nowhere nearly as crisp and lovely as his brother’s. His eyes narrow upon my sister. “Enchanted, I’m sure.”

  His accent is not as lovely, either.

  Niceties performed, I round the table and place my plate next to Parker’s. But right as the Aibolandian heir attempts to politely follow me to my side, no doubt to pull my chair out, too, I grab my own seat and slide it from beneath the table.

  Parker’s startled into action. “Allow me,” he quickly throws out. I wave him off.

  “Despite popular opinion, I am fully capable of pulling out my own chair.” My words have no bite in them, though. I’m teasing and they’re well aware of it.

  Lukas, who made no effort to pull my seat out for me, lifts his coffee cup in a small salute, surprise flickering in his eyes.

  A distinct chirping of my sister’s phone informs us our mother—or her secretary—has sent a text message. Isabelle stiffens and then flinches, almost as if the rings were slaps rather than signals. She remains standing, waiting for the sounds to cease . . . and even then, the light fading from her eyes, she does not move.

  The men who share our company shift uncomfortably, as if they know a darkened cloud has come to rain down upon us during our meal.

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Isabelle?” When she does not readily answer, I switch tactics and motion to the space in front of us. “These gentlemen were in the midst of eating and cannot resume doing so until you’ve sat. Do you wish them to starve?”

  Her trance broken by my teasing, my sister clearly bites back her response but does as asked. As the men sit down themselves, Christian once more catches my attention—and there. Mission accomplished. He doesn’t even appear shocked I would say such a thing. A tiny bit of light has returned to his face, to the slight curve of his lips. A small slice of teeth appears for the teeniest of seconds.

  That’s much better. A morose Prince Charming does no one any good.

  One of Isabelle’s slender hands rests against the exposed skin just below the roll of his sleeve. A shuddery sigh slips from between her pink lips, one that smacks of forced yet wholly unwanted determination. “I hope I have not kept you from your foo
d too long. Can you ever forgive me? Perhaps we can find a way for me to make it up to you.”

  Seriously. What is going on here? Did somebody come and suck my sister’s soul out of her? She would normally never say such a thing.

  The ease Christian had just shown me is once more gone. “Actually,” he says slowly, “this my second plate, so there is no need for worry.”

  Perhaps I am not remembering him correctly. Perhaps I had too much champagne last night, because the man before me is not the same as the one I ate éclairs with in a darkened kitchen. This one sounds robotic. Robotic and annoyed?

  What a pair these two make.

  “Did you sleep well last night, Your Highness?” Parker asks me.

  I turn toward him, grateful for redirection. “None of this Your Highness nonsense, please. Feel free to call me Elsa. And as a matter of fact, I did not. I hazard to guess none of us did.”

  “You can say that again,” Lukas mutters.

  My pulse leaps. Did Christian embellish our time together to his brother?

  “Was it shag central down in the barracks, too?” Lukas asks the secretary. “If last night was any indicator of what the week’s going to be like, I don’t know if I brought enough condoms.”

  Ah. He’s referring to himself, then.

  Cheeks flaming, Parker uneasily shifts his eggs from one side of his plate to the other. “I can go to town for you if you like, Your Highness.”

  Christian merely sighs, shaking his head.

  Isabelle says suddenly, woodenly, “Christian, what are your plans for the day?”

  His attention flies up from his sausage, startled to be singled out. “Back-to-back meetings, I’m afraid.” Only, he sounds relieved to tell her this, which is odd, considering his comment about our itinerary last night.

  That said, he did make a point to let me know he had no interest in making a match at the RMM. I claimed the same, but he and I know our opinions mean nothing in the long run, especially in light of teas that are already being scheduled. But here he is, sounding indifferent toward my glamorous sister who routinely shows up in glossies.