We weren’t the only ones in just such a situation. There were miserable heirs and spares seated at similar tables under the dim glow of heat lamps and fairy lights all around us.
Afterward, when Isabelle excused herself to go powder her nose, I made a beeline straight to her sister. The gloom coloring Elsa’s face flitted in and out of view every time somebody turned and spoke to her, and I couldn’t stand the thought that she was just as miserable as I was. So, while I rationally knew that going over to her was undeniably irrational in itself, all I could fixate on was how the only moments of pleasure I’d had at all in California so far had been in her company.
Even when we were sparring. Even when she was cutting me down in a hallway. Even if we did nothing more than sit next to one another in silence.
Besides. She has a first to tempt me with.
I catch up with her just as the pair of monarchs she’d been talking to move away to another victim. “I’m disappointed in you.” Her addictive perfume leaves me dizzy, making my attempts at levity difficult. “Here you are, acting so civilized. I expected you to be running amuck.”
The smartest, slyest smile I’ve ever seen is offered just to me. “I thought we decided only virgins are running amuck this week.”
A welcome chuckle falls right out of me. “Are you finally admitting you’re not a virgin?”
“You’re a cad, and you have the world snowed when it comes to your true personality. You know that right?”
Only, she’s smiling just as broadly as I am. “I do. I also feel it’s my duty to admit that plenty of people run amuck, virgins or no. It’s apparently the thing to do.”
I can tell she wants to laugh so much, but all I get is her lips pressing together in a fit to hold in the gasps.
“You can laugh around me. I promise I won’t mind.”
“You know what I mind?” She steps closer. “How our parents watch us.”
My joviality fades as I glance discreetly in the direction she indicates. Although Prince Gustav and the She-Wolf are mingling with a few of the other microstate sovereigns, their attentions are squarely focused on us. Worse, it’s obvious my mother isn’t pleased that I’m with this Vattenguldian girl instead of the other.
Fuck her. “Care for a stroll?”
The relief shining from Elsa’s eyes is worth the blistering lecture I’m sure to receive later. I lead her through the throng of people, away from our parents’ disapproving oversight and toward a much quieter, less populated area of the gardens.
A deep sigh of relief slips through her lips. “You are my favorite right now.”
My pulse jumps at her statement, as does my dick. Damn, does this woman look gorgeous tonight. She’s wearing a shimmery black dress that reminds me of something straight from the past, something that belongs to this place and its history, and her beauty is equally ethereal in the alabaster lamplight around us.
As I drink the sight of her in, I realize, very clearly, just how attracted to her I am. Painfully so, and after such a surprisingly short time—more than any other woman I’ve ever encountered.
My equilibrium promptly disappears.
I say, hoping that I sound merely amused and not rattled by this revelation, “I bet you tell that to all the fellows who take you away from the RMM.”
She digs through her small clutch she’s been carrying and extracts a ball of paper. “Speaking of, have you seen this?”
The Valkyrie is angry. Interesting. I pry the crinkled ball out of her hand and lean in toward one of the nearby globe lamps. “Whatever it is, I’m fairly certain it’s not my fault.”
“Oh, ha ha.” She sighs as I unfold the wrinkled mess. “I wasn’t assigning blame. I simply yearn for someone to share in my outrage.”
In my hands is a recently released itinerary outlining a sunrise hike for crown heirs. Foster critical relationships and bond with your peers in glorious nature, it says in bold letters. There is a generic picture of people I don’t know, holding hands and grinning like maniacal fools as they wander down a trail. Be prepared to write a thoughtful essay afterward detailing the benefits of strong relationships between modern royals in the twenty-first century, to be shared at a special luncheon just for heirs.
I ask, “Is this a joke?”
“Bittner gave it to me; apologetically, too. So I’m thinking, no. He’s not the sort to pull pranks. Did Parker not give you yours yet?”
Parker probably took one look at the asinine paper and threw it into the nearest trash receptacle. Which is exactly what I’m going to do with Elsa’s missive. I reform it back into the ball I received it in and stuff it into my pocket. “No. And if he’s loyal to me at all, he never will.”
She leans against a white wall. “When did the Decennial Summit become the equivalent of summer camp for heirs?”
“If that’s the case, perhaps we ought to request campfire songs and roasted marshmallows.”
She toes one of the painted tiles below our feet. “Have you ever been to summer camp before?”
“Alas, no, but I have watched films depicting it. Marshmallows are frequently involved.”
She’s amused. “Why, Christian. Are you marshmallow obsessed?”
Clapping and cheering sound; we peer around the bushes we’re hiding behind in an effort to find the source of such gaiety. There are champagne glasses lifted in the air and smiles on many a monarch’s face.
It’s a toe curdling, hideous sight.
“What in the world?” Elsa mutters, her eyes narrowing as she leans forward.
But I don’t care about whatever’s going on with everyone else. I’m much more focused on the woman in front of me. Because, let’s face it, those cheers can come from nothing good. Not here, at least. Not at the RMM.
“What were you asking?” I prompt.
Her attention returns to me. And I’ve got to admit, I really like it there. Her lips, which are stained in a really delicious looking red tonight, curve into an astute smirk. This small movement hypnotizes me. “We were discussing your apparent obsession with marshmallows.”
I’m wondering what it’d be like to taste those red lips. She’s thinking about marshmallows. I want to laugh, even if it’s damn near impossible to pull my eyes away from her gorgeous mouth. How is this possible? How can I be so attracted to someone two days after an introduction? “Truth be told,” I murmur, “I’ve never had one before. They always seemed questionable to me.”
Elsa nearly chokes on the hilarity trying to get out, and I swear, in this moment, I want nothing more than to actually hear it. It’s my newest goal: I will hear her laugh before the end of the Summit.
“What’s so questionable about a marshmallow?”
I shrug, grinning. “It’s difficult to articulate.”
“You’ll be wretched at your essay then. If you cannot articulate why marshmallows are suspect and unworthy of your affection, how in the world will you be able to argue the importance of royals sticking together?”
“As I highly doubt I’ll be writing such a composition, it won’t be a problem at all.”
She smiles up at me, her lips tugging up on one side just a bit higher than the other, and it feels like somebody came along and hit me on the back of my head. Damn, this woman is sexy. What if I did kiss her? I’m not imagining this spark between us, am I?
I stuff my hands into my pockets.
“That makes two of us,” she says to me. “Will those be our firsts? Standing up to the man and refusing ridiculous essays?”
“It depends.” It doesn’t appear she can tell I’m utterly turned on right now, thank God. “Have you stood up to the man and refused to write a paper before?”
Her head cocks to the side as she pretends to think, long dark hair spilling across a bared, creamy shoulder. Images of me wrapping that gorgeous hair around my fist as I find out if her lips are as delectable as they look fill my mind. I’m forced to slump against the wall to hide my growing
attraction to her. Christ. Get it together, Chris. I’ve never been so physically out of control around a woman before. Why her? Why now? Why here, at the bloody RMM of all places? “For all you know,” she’s saying, “I did horribly at university because I refused the man his essays all the time.”
I raise one of my eyebrows meaningfully. Please. Elsa’s toed the line just as well as I have over the years, of that I’m sure.
She rolls her eyes and gently kicks the side of my shoe. “Fine. I never refused an assignment. This would be my first time doing so. Are you in or not?”
A feminine fist is proffered. I knock mine against it, marveling how this small instant of skin against skin feels like foreplay that’s going to send me to a cold shower in no time. And for a moment, it seems as if she’s just as affected by this insignificant touch as I am. But then she clears her throat and says lightly, “I knew I could count on you.”
“We still need a witching hour first, though.”
She leans in and Tahitian vanilla floods my senses. It’s my new favorite smell. “That’s on you, Your Highness. I found us a first.”
“For tomorrow,” I stress.
One of her fingers traces the line of my collar from just below my ear to the pointed tip under my chin. The air in my chest stills until her fingers leave me. “Three a.m. is tomorrow.”
I’m a fool, because I allow one hand to curve around her waist for the smallest of moments, just long enough to squeeze gently. And now I’m twice as turned on, as if that was even possible. “If we’re going to ditch the hike and essay—”
“Oh, we’re really standing up to the man now.” Her voice is breathy and soft amidst the chatter beyond the bushes, her eyes darkening in the warm glow of lamplight. “We’re not hiking, either?”
“We’ll be too tired to hike after being up so late. Besides, it starts at five-thirty a.m., Els. How many heirs do you think are actually going to make it? We surely won’t be the only two still asleep during all the so-called fun. If I were a betting man, I’d say no one is going to show up.”
I watch her take a deep breath before she says, “Point ceded. Continue.”
“So my first is . . . let us follow the Pergola trail and have our hike during the witching hour.”
It’s her turn to lift her eyebrows. She knows I’m referring to what once must have been a magnificent walking trail: a series of formerly grapevine and fruit tree covered pergolas stretching nearly a mile on the grounds around the castle that are now in rustic yet charming abandon. I traced the line of the trail on the drive up to the castle.
“I’ve never hiked in the middle of the night,” I add. “It will be a first for me.”
“I highly doubt that’s considered hiking. People strolled the Pergola path all the time before it fell apart.”
“Now you’re just nitpicking.”
Somebody calls her name; and by somebody, I mean Mat. How in bloody hell has he found us?
But then I get a quiet, “Bring a bottle of wine.”
Done.
chapter 20
Elsa
“I swear,” Mat says as he approaches us, two glasses of champagne in his hands, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you two were hiding behind the bushes.”
I take a discreet step back from Christian, realizing it might appear as if I were practically climbing all over him. His too-ness distracts me so. “Can you blame us?”
“Only because you didn’t invite me to join you.” He offers me one of the glasses. “Sorry I don’t have one for you, too, Christian. But I thought a glass was in order, as the first official match of the RMM was just announced. Hooray fucking huzzah.”
I take the drink, desperately trying to repress the insidious shiver threatening to overtake me. We are on our second day, and an announcement has already been made? And then it hits me. All the clapping and cheering earlier represented a grotesque celebration of victims of the RMM losing their respective freedoms when it comes to matters of the heart.
“Who are the unlucky souls?” Christian asks.
Mat takes a long swallow of bubbly. “My sister and some poor sod from the Greek contingency.”
I don’t know what to say. It is obvious Mat isn’t happy in the least with this match.
Christian lets out a low whistle. “How is she dealing with it?”
“The only way she’s allowed to: with her chin up and a smile on her face.” Mat’s grimace is the direct opposite of what he’s describing as he holds up his glass. “Gossip claims there’s at least one more announcement coming tonight.”
Panic flutters within my chest, even though I figure it cannot be mine. While my father indicated his preference for Mat, he hasn’t laid down the decree yet. There is still hope, as slim as it may be.
My whisper is barely voiced. “So soon.”
“Do you know who?” Christian asks.
“No, mate.” Mat sips his champagne. “But what I do know is that the Grand Duchess has requested the presence of both you and your brother.”
Christian swears softly beneath his breath. I am startled by his quiet vehemence, even more so by the obvious sympathy tinting Mat’s face. Do they fear it is Christian at risk of an announcement?
The man in question pauses only momentarily to square his shoulders. “I best not keep the Grand Duchess waiting, then.”
It is pointless resisting the urge to stare as he takes his leave. I am disconcerted by how unsettled he was, and that’s an unfamiliar feeling for me, especially when it concerns a person I’ve only known a couple days.
“I don’t envy him,” Mat says, also eying Christian’s departure.
I sip the bubbly he gave me slowly. Despite the chilly air around us, my drink is semi-warm. “Oh?”
He rakes a hand through his sandy hair. “How well do you know the Grand Duchess of Aiboland?”
“Not at all,” I admit. “Why?”
Mat leans against the wall, swirling the champagne in his glass. “Let’s just say that Her Highness is formidable.”
I reflect on what I know about Christian’s mother. She’s smart, elegant, well spoken, and admired by much of the world for being the epitome of a modern monarch, even if one of a tiny country. “Could we not say that about most our parents?”
“I suppose so,” he muses quietly. “And still, I do not envy my friend his home life, even if . . .” His shoulders sag, a distance filling his eyes.
“Are you all right, Mat?”
The smile he pastes upon his face is no doubt the same his sister showed the others a quarter of an hour before. “I know we’re hiding and all, but they’ve just put out the most delicious looking gelato. Fancy a scoop?”
I would rather take a knitting needle to my eye than rejoin the party, but as curiosity is burning a fresh path through me, I follow him toward the dessert table.
Minutes later, as I’m nibbling on teeny spoonfuls of gelato, I do my best to pretend I am faithfully listening to a story Mat’s telling me about him and his sister when they were little, but my attention is anywhere else.
Okay. That’s a lie—not the story he recounts, which I am certain is true, but that my attention is anywhere else. Because it’s not. It is specifically refocusing upon one place.
Christian and Isabelle are with my father and the Grand Duchess, near the guest house overlooking the mountains. They’re drinking champagne and Isabelle is pale and our parents are so pleased with themselves, it’s appalling.
And Christian? His smile is tight and forced, all practiced lines that offer the untrained eye quiet politeness. His Serene Highness may believe Christian is pleasantly enjoying whatever they’re discussing. Perhaps Isabelle, too. But me, who has known this prince all of two days, can tell how pissed and miserable he is, and those are two emotions he most definitely wasn’t feeling while we were hiding behind the bushes.
Would such forced lines tighten his face if it were me standing next to him and
not my sister? Wishful thinking at its finest, especially as he made it quite clear to me he’s no more interested in a match at the RMM than I am.
Oh, bloody hell.
I may not believe in love at first sight, but like I told Charlotte, lust at first sight is a very real, very valid thing. Because how else can I explain my sudden obsession with all things Christian?
I tune Mat back in, wondering if my smile matches Christian’s.
“It was nice,” he murmurs. I’m not the only one whose attention has wavered, because he stares at his sister standing with the man who must be her new fiancé. “And Margaux was happy. I was, too. It’s funny how we look back and wish for what we once thought was merely commonplace, yet in reality is a rarity.”
“We always look back on memories differently, don’t we?”
It is his turn to refocus on me. A quiet exhale of a laugh passes from between his lips. “The grass is always greener elsewhere, I suppose. It just becomes unfortunate when your bare toes have felt such grass.”
I shove the spoon into my gelato, unsure how to properly respond. And that is part of the problem—I never quite know what to say to Mat.
He hands his bowl to a passing server before stepping closer. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me, to unload all that on you.”
Now I feel even worse.
“I suppose I’m nostalgic,” he continues, “knowing my sister and I will be forced to finally let go of hopes and pasts this week. It’s a straightjacket feeling, isn’t it?”
Something in me softens at the gentle melancholy I am unsure he means for me to see. I hand my bowl to another passing server. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have not been born royal? To not have such expectations on your shoulders?”
His smile is genuine, if not dampened. “All the time. As do you, I’m sure.”
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