Royal Marriage Market

by Heather Lyons

A splash sounds, and then a muffled scream followed by the start of soft giggling. I wish she’d just let go and allow herself to laugh. I mean, hell, we broke into a pool in the dead of night and there’s no one around. I paid off the security guard and his dog for the next hour or so. If she wants to laugh, there’s no reason she shouldn’t.

  It’s a first I’m dying to experience: the first time she fully laughs in my presence. Although, to be honest, I worry the day she does so is the day I’m no longer able to control myself around her. Elsa laughing is probably one of the most erotic sounds in the entire universe.

  Like I need another reason to find this woman desirable.

  “Are you coming?” she calls out. It sounds as if her teeth are clattering together, making me anxious to get into there as fast as possible so I can warm her with my body.

  I’m clearly a masochist.

  I climb the stairs, willing my dick to calm down already. Because Els is in that pool, naked, and I’m going to be in there soon, too, and even though there will be thousands of gallons of water in between us, she and I will be naked together for the first time.

  I reach the top of the diving platform and locate her across the pool, hanging onto the edge. Glimpses of her bare arse shimmer through the lamp-lit water as she faces the opposite direction, and bloody hell, if I thought I was hard before, it’s nothing compared to now.

  When I jump, I marvel at how ironic it is that I’m literally falling.

  She wasn’t kidding about the water. It’s fucking freezing, thank God. All the air is iced straight out of my chest when I surface, alongside my raging hormones. There could be an entire pool of naked lingerie models and I’d still be limp, because this is just as brutal as a polar plunge.

  But then Els turns away from the wall and hits me with her smile. And miraculously, my dick twitches back to life, because now I have a brilliant glimpse of her breasts just below the water line.

  “Cold, right?”

  Not cold enough, apparently.

  I swim over toward her, my teeth grinding together so I don’t say or do something unwise. I ensure to keep a proper amount of space between us when I grab the ledge.

  She’s amused. And so bloody gorgeous I can barely handle it.

  “How does it feel, having your cherry popped?” Please, God, let her assume the shakiness in my voice is due to the frigid water rather than how the sight of her is affecting me. It’s a dumb question I’ve just asked, asinine even, but I need to keep things the same between us, even if I’ve turned a corner I don’t know I can return from once we leave California.

  “Cold.” There’s that laugh starter again that dies in the hush of the pool. “And like I am in a bath. A frightfully frigid, stinging bath.”

  “Skinny-dipping not living up to the hype?”

  The water around her swirls as she kicks below the surface. “Au contraire.” Her eyes meet mine, and in the lamplight, they’re the same blue as the water and glass tiles.

  I’m lost to her, one hundred percent lost, and gladly so.

  “And you?” she asks. “How does this compare to Lake Como?”

  I have never, ever craved to kiss a woman more than in this moment. I’m freezing my arse off, we’ve broken into a historic landmark, and there’s a chance we could get caught, and all I want to do is just haul her in my arms and press my mouth against hers until we both forget our titles, followed by countless hours learning every centimeter of her body.

  Better, I ought to tell her. So much better. Best skinny-dipping experience of my life. But what I say is, “Eh. It was Lake Como, you know?”

  She splashes water at me. I splash it right back, earning myself an erotic gasp.

  Bloody hell. I’m way over my head right now.

  I dip below the surface, allowing the icy water to knock some sense into me. And then I push off against the wall and glide toward the other side, keeping my horny self underwater until I reach my destination.

  I’d give almost everything I have to be able to turn back the clock and meet this woman anywhere but here. But I can’t. Our introduction came at the start of the bloody RMM, which is an automatic death knell for any relationship. Plus the She-Wolf appears dead set on me marrying her sister, and Elsa’s supposed to end up with Mat, even though that makes me want to rage uncontrollably.

  I shove wet hair off my forehead and stare up at the ceiling. There is no way I can marry Isabelle. I’ll go insane. Family get-togethers would be torture. There has to be a way out of this. I cannot meet this woman and marry her damn sister!

  Soft splashing sounds behind me. Elsa joins me on this side of the pool. And she leaves precious little space between our bodies, because when she kicks out in her efforts to tread, her toes connect with my leg.

  She talks. Talks about . . . I have no idea. Things I want to hear, because they’re from her and everything little damn thing about Elsa is fascinating to me. Like how she’s got a pair of freckles just below her clavicle that resemble a bite mark. They’re so endearing I want to lightly graze them with my teeth, just enough to make her squirm.

  I do my best to keep my eyes on hers, even as our bodies gravitate closer and closer until we’re mere millimeters away. A brush here, a nudge there, arms pressed together more often than not, and I’m dying a thousand and two deaths because I’m desperate to keep myself shifted just enough away from her that she doesn’t discover I’ve got the worst literal and figurative case of blue balls a man could ever have. But every so often, she glances away or closes her eyes as she talks, and my focus drifts down the smooth column of her neck to the hint of her breasts and deeper still.

  I’m supposed to marry her sister.

  “How are we going to do this?” she asks me.

  My voice turns raspy. “Do what?”

  “Get out of this pool. We’re going to catch hypothermia, you know.”

  I can think of a very good way for the two of us to stay warm.

  I jerk my head to the right, toward a set of marble steps leading out of the pool. “Or you can just swim into the shallow end and pull yourself out.”

  I offer my back when she chooses the shallow end route. I close my eyes and tread water, forcing myself to think about the She-Wolf and paperwork and other unsavory things like marrying Isabelle or hell, even just touching Elsa’s sister. My teeth chatter uncontrollably; I fear my lips are blue. But I’m worried the woman behind me is worse off, because the sound of her teeth snapping together echoes throughout the room.

  Hugging is proper, right? Friends hug. Hell, I saw her and Mat hug once (and for the love of all that’s good in the world, just let it be that once), and I’m pretty certain she doesn’t feel a damn thing for him. I could hug her. Get her warm before we head back into the main house. Find out what her body feels like in my arms.

  I wait until she tells me it’s my turn. I dive down, reclaiming my shoe before doubling back to take the exit closest to where I left my towel and clothes. Elsa is off to one side, examining a statue as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

  Is it possible I’m the only one who feels this way?

  I towel off and dress quickly before joining her, clutching the soggy shoe in my hand. Clothes stick to my body. All I want to do is touch her. Hold her.

  “You okay?” My voice is hoarse.

  She nods, stringy, wet hair slipping across her shoulders until it falls against her back. “Just cold.”

  She looks more than cold. She looks heartbroken.

  Fuck it. I give into my urge. I drop the shoe and towel and pull her into my arms. There’s a split second in which her limbs remain folded across her chest before they loosen to loop around me. And then she sighs. It’s not a sad sigh, or a resigned one. It’s one of relief, I think. Of bliss.

  “Thank you,” she whispers into my sweater.

  God, she feels amazing, like she was meant for me to hold and I for her. All of my self-control is required in orde
r to not bend my head down and kiss her until she’s no longer cold.

  “I know you have Lake Como,” she murmurs, “but as short as this was, I do believe it was the best introduction to skinny-dipping a lady could have.”

  I close my eyes, my cheek pressing against her temple. If I could speak, I’d tell her I doubt I could ever skinny dip again without wishing it was here, with her.

  chapter 32

  Elsa

  “No.”

  “Pardon?”

  I suck in a steadying breath and repeat, as clearly as one can while terrified they’re shooting themselves in the foot, “No.”

  My father shifts in his chair, his fingers forming a steeple in front of his mouth as he studies me. From the phone sitting in his lap, set to speaker, my mother barks, “What did she just say?”

  My hands lace tightly together in my lap to hide the burgeoning trembling threatening to wrack my entire body. “You’re asking me to marry somebody I—”

  “Ah,” my father interrupts softly. “Herein lies the misunderstanding. I’m not asking, Elsa. I’m decreeing.”

  And so he did, here on the morning of our last full day in California. You will marry Mathieu. It will be done posthaste.

  I dig deeper within my well to amass courage. “I do not love him.”

  My mother’s voice hisses across the distance. “Love him?” she scoffs. “Are you a child or the future sovereign of Vattenguldia? What does love have to do with your duty to throne and family?”

  My father is even blunter. “Your mother and I are not in love, and Vattenguldia is far more influential today than it has been in centuries. It is our duty to ensure this remains the case.”

  My mother doesn’t even take offense with his assessment of their relationship.

  “And yet, there is still work to be done to help Vattenguldia tap further into today’s world markets. Part of that is gaining a share of the Chambéry finances. You of all people know how we need more capital to expand our role in the shipping registry markets.”

  “And increase our visibility in the world’s tourist market,” my mother quickly adds.

  Normally, my mouth would be shut by now. Arguing is pointless, especially since my father has stiffened significantly, his eyes narrowing as the tendons in his neck strain. He is utterly serious about what’s been said, and from experience, I know that once he reaches this place in an argument, there is no more room for discussion.

  His mind is made up, as is my mother’s.

  So is mine. “Arranged marriages are an antiquated notion. Plenty of other royals marry whom they want without destroying their countries.”

  “You give too much heed to the media.” His Serene Highness’ fingers lower to tap against the wooden arm of his chair as my mother says this. “Most of those marriages were arranged through bargaining behind closed doors. Politics and necessity have always been the driving forces in royal relationships, whether you want to acknowledge it or not.”

  Anger and despair seer through my veins. “Mat doesn’t even have a country—”

  “The Chambérys are four times wealthier than we are. They are influential throughout the EU. A union between you and Mathieu will allow Vattenguldia access to funds and relationships not seen before.”

  My father adds to my mother’s rationalizations, “Ones that will also help establish premier technological infrastructures in our shipping fleets, ensuring our registries are the most sought after in the world.”

  “Surely we are not in need of their money. Vattenguldia’s coffers are—”

  My mother interjects, “Politically, we are on a much more miniscule scale than our Nordic counterparts. I would have us be a sought after destination on many fronts—shipping registries is just the beginning.”

  I throw down my cards. “And if I refuse?”

  My father immediately calls my bluff. “Then I will regrettably ensure you never wear the crown.”

  Rage spikes through my bloodstream. I cannot believe he is even willing to entertain such a thing. “Vattenguldia is a constitutional principality! My removal from the chain of inheritance would take a parliamentary act.”

  “Just whom do you think I discussed this with prior to the Summit, Elsa? The Prime Minister and the ruling factions in Parliament all agree. Vattenguldia must take steps forward to grow alongside the rest of the world. After perusing candidates, we concluded that Prince Mathieu and the Chambéry family’s means would suit best.”

  I am horrified. I foolishly had no idea that it ever went this far.

  “You two seem to get along well. Mathieu is . . .” My father’s head cocks to the side. “Unique and a bit rough around the edges, but I have faith he will fall into line and do what is necessary.”

  I force out the next words. “And Isabelle?”

  “The terms of her engagement have already been decided.”

  I am sick to my stomach. Last night, I went skinny-dipping with Christian, and our time together was one of the most magical, beautiful experiences of my entire life. Afterward, I floated back to my room, my hand in his after a long hug in the poolroom that left me wishing for the kiss we’d nearly indulged in earlier that day. I laid in bed, next to my sister, aching for hours as I imagined all the what ifs and could have beens, desperate to relieve the pain that wanting him brought on, yet knowing there was no way I could do so in a room shared that openly with my family.

  And now today, I summarily learn that there are to be no more ifs, ands, or buts, let alone the elusive maybes. Christian and Isabelle will marry.

  And I will wed Mat.

  Shite. Fuck. Bloody hell. Crap. Bollocks. There are not enough curse words to describe what I feel.

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you and Isabelle’s intended have spent much time together this week.” The room’s temperature lowers at the sound of his voice. “I expect you to utilize that relationship to solidify his acceptance of a match with your sister.”

  The hell I will.

  “Plans have been scheduled for you and Mathieu to rendezvous in Paris in several weeks to stage several public trysts to whet the press’ whistles. Afterward, he’ll journey to Vattenguldia in order to officially pursue you during the following month.” To my ears, my mother’s voice mimics bells of yore heralding the arrival of Black Death. “The Chambéry press secretary is already in contact with our office; you not need concern yourself with the details. Simply be your delightful self for the photographers and remember you like this fellow.”

  I like Mat, yes. Like.

  And my sister will marry the man I am falling for, and somehow I must talk him into it.

  I head down to breakfast after my father departs. I am garbed in a yellow coatdress, nylons I abhor, and sensible heels. My hair is in a sleek ponytail. My makeup is subtle yet flawless. I am the picture perfect example of a modern princess when in reality I am nothing more than a controlled piece of chattel.

  When I enter the dining room, I spot Isabelle sitting with Christian, Lukas, Maria-Elena, Mat, and his sister. Parker is nowhere to be seen. Due to the crowded room, there is precious little space between my sister and her intended, and I flash back to mere hours before, when my body was pressed up against his, and it was one of the best goddamn feelings in the entire world.

  Soon, when we hug, it will be as brother and sister. And all my late night hugs, if they ever do miraculously happen, will be reserved for the man sitting on the opposite side of the table from Christian, the one with his back to me.

  I don’t know why I am so disappointed. So crushed. Christian and I could never be anything, anyway, considering our roles to our countries. Not that he would want to, despite an attraction to me; he made it blatantly clear that he had no interest in picking up anyone at the RMM. Besides, I was the one who drew the line in the sand first. Save your proposals and propositions for someone else, I told him.

  And yet, he is all I can think about. All I think I
could ever want.

  I ask a server for scrambled eggs, even though the thought of putting them into my mouth churns my stomach. And then I load up on dry toast in hopes that it will settle my nausea, because dutiful princesses do not vomit all over dining rooms.

  I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. I can do this. I will do what I must. I will do what I am told. My life is one of service. Tradition trumps emotions.

  I have officially lost my love for tradition.

  A hand settles upon my shoulder; my eyes fly open to find Christian beside me, a half-filled plate in his hand.

  Undoubtedly like mine, many tangled emotions cloud his eyes. “I wasn’t sure you were going to come down for breakfast or not.”

  I have twenty-four hours left in California. What I ought to do is smile kindly yet distantly. Unravel whatever cords we’ve fashioned between us and walk directly over to Mat. And yet, as I stare up into amber eyes that hypnotized me on more than one occasion, I realize all I want to do is spend every minute of my last hours here with His Royal Highness, the Hereditary Grand Duke Christian of Aiboland. Even if it is pure torment to do so.

  Even if done as mere friends.

  Even if we will never be anything more.

  “His Serene Highness requested a meeting,” I murmur. Over his shoulder I spy my sister, her brows knit as she studies us. Lukas is watching us, too, but more thoughtfully. Thankfully, it doesn’t appear as if Mat or his sister have noticed my arrival. “Thus my delay.”

  Upon request, a server slides a slice of ham on Christian’s plate when there is already still half a piece remaining. “Is everything okay?”

  My pathetic attempt at a laugh is more akin to a gurgle. “It was crown business.”

  He sets his plate down slowly. Exhales quietly. “I had just such a meeting this morning myself.”

  I want to throw the china in my hand against the wall and watch as it smashes into thousands of satisfying pieces.

  Christian fails to glance back at the table he deserted when he says, “We have an hour or so before our next meeting. Let’s take a walk. Get some fresh air. Unless you’d prefer to sit and eat?”