Royal Marriage Market

by Heather Lyons

  There is no hesitation; I pass my plate to a nearby busboy. And then we exit through the gated doorway without another word.

  Minutes later, we wander onto a tiled patio behind the largest of the guesthouses, one featuring two fountains. The air, cool and crisp, is hushed; whispers of wind through palm and oak trees and bird songs are the only sounds to dare challenge the delicate silence.

  I stare up at the first fountain as we pass by. There is a golden girl atop the marble, smelling a rose. The second fountain is a bit different—the girl there leans forward to kiss a frog in her palm.

  I know this story. Unfortunately, my ending will not be as happy as hers.

  Christian motions toward a seat carved into the wall facing the princess and her frog prince. The space he puts between us as we sit is miniscule compared to that between him and my sister just ten minutes before.

  “So.”

  My word is just as quiet as his. “So.”

  But he is as reluctant to discuss his meeting with his mother as I am about my parents’ edict. Instead, he asks, a hint of a naughty smile curving his lips, “Have you recovered?”

  Oh. Perhaps I was wrong? “Um . . .”

  “From the cold,” he clarifies. “You were in a chilly pool in the dead of night. I worried about you afterward.”

  Gratitude over how his efforts to make this as normal as possible loosens the lines around my mouth. “I might have inched a bit closer to my sister for warmth, but I was soundly kicked back to my side of the bed and informed my feet were ice blocks.”

  He laughs, all rich and warm and honeyed, prompting an image of him, in my sister’s bed, going through the same motions.

  It is a terrible thing to imagine.

  “I’m lucky I don’t share one with Lukas. One or the both of us would most likely end up with a black eye and a sore back from sleeping on the floor.”

  “I was surprised to see him this morning,” I admit. “He is more elusive than not, it seems.”

  A sly grin is thrown my way. “Luk got in even later than I did, looking like he’d been at the party of the century.”

  “Ah. How very interesting. Who do you think he was cavorting with at such a late hour?”

  “I think the better question is, who wasn’t he cavorting around with?”

  “Me.” I smile brightly. “And you. Our cavorting was limited to a very exclusive party of two.”

  “Is that what we were doing? Were we cavorting?”

  We were falling in love, I think. Wonderfully, miserably, tragically, beautifully falling in love. Or at least, I was. But I say, “Of course. You and I are natural cavorters.”

  Bittersweet amusement sparkles in his eyes. “I thought our thing was to run amuck.”

  “That, too.” I gently touch the back of his hand. “We run amuck and cavort.”

  The smile on his face softens. “Only with each other, though. We cavort best when it’s with the other.”

  “Shall we make a deal then? Shall we swear to the other that, when it comes time to cavort, we must only do it together?” My words are light, so is my tone, but part of me crumbles within, knowing what I jokingly request will never come to be.

  Gravity invades his face as he shifts on the seat toward me, knees brushing up against one another. I am trapped by his gaze, motionless with his leg pressed against mine. “That’s a promise I can easily make.”

  I am still as the golden princess before us when he slowly, gently pushes stray hairs freshly escaped from my ponytail behind my ears. The feel of his fingers, light as breezes against my cheeks, leaves me hot and desperate.

  “Shall we shake on it?” I whisper.

  The muscle within my chest ceases its rhythm when he shakes his head. He stares at me then, as if he is unraveling all my atoms, rendering me exposed and vulnerable.

  But then he leans forward, lips caressing one corner of my mouth and then the other. “All the best agreements,” he murmurs, words just as soft as mine, “are sealed with a kiss.”

  I consist only of nothing but exposed nerve endings when I replicate his promise. My lips tingle, my heart hammers, and tears swarm my closed eyes. “You have my promise in return.”

  He tilts his head up, mouth pressing against my temple before resting his forehead against mine. “I’m going to hold you to that, Els.”

  chapter 33

  Christian

  I ought to be focusing on what’s being discussed, but it’s impossible. It’s about . . . shite, I think the roles of modern monarchs in constitutional governments, which is actually something I’m quite keen on. I’ve got loads of opinions on the matter, but my attention is shot. It’s been shot all week.

  Fifteen minutes before I came down to breakfast, the She-Wolf took me aside. Said, “It’s been officially decided, Christian. You’re to marry the Vattenguldian girl.”

  For one small, idiotic, yet bloody fantastic moment, I thought she referred to the woman I’ve spent all my nights this week with. But then reality sunk in. Not Elsa. Never Elsa.

  She meant Isabelle.

  I was so pissed I told her there was no fucking way I would marry that woman. In return, the She-Wolf informed me in the iciest tone I’ve yet heard that, in no uncertain terms, I most certainly would. Terms that included Parker’s future, Lukas’, even my father’s. How they would be rendered penniless or exiled, in my secretary’s case.

  In the end, I was immobilized, because there wasn’t a bloody thing I could say that would change the She-Wolf’s mind. So I cussed her out, only to have her laugh in my face.

  “I am to meet with Prince Gustav today,” she continued, like she hadn’t just blackmailed the living hell out of me. “We’ve already hammered out most of the details, but for now, you must begin a public wooing of the girl which will culminate in an engagement within the year.” A victorious grin overtook her pinched face. “There’s your concession, Christian. You have until Christmas to grow a pair of balls and do what’s needed for Aiboland.”

  I told her, “Fuck you.”

  Her eyes widened.

  So I clarified, “Fuck you, Your Highness.”

  In response, she slapped the shite out of me. Just hauled her bony hand back and slapped me so hard my teeth rattled and I saw stars. And then she pulled her hand back once more, but I grabbed it before it touched my face. “Hit me again,” I told her, “and I might forget I’m your son.”

  So here I am, in yet another meeting, wondering if my cheek is going to bruise. Seriously, how fucking humiliating would that be? Because men of my age and station don’t typically get slapped by their mothers. But worse yet, I’m wondering how I’m going to marry the sister of the only woman who has ever consumed my thoughts, and how I’m going to be able to stand back and watch her marry a man I call friend.

  I’ve known her all of four days. It took only four days to fall after years of not even coming close.

  After the meeting, Parker tracks me down. He methodically goes over my itinerary for the rest of the day, and then of the following pair of days once we depart California, but my attention is shot just as easily with him as it was with the Grand Duke of Luxemburg an hour before.

  He’s discussing the hospital renovation I’m to tour in Norslœ when I say, “The She-Wolf laid down her official decree today.”

  Parker immediately quiets. Opens and shuts his mouth a few times before he says, “Will the new Hereditary Grand Duchess of Aioboland be Princess Isabelle of Vattenguldia?”

  I can’t admit it. Won’t.

  I inform him I need to take a walk. He moves to follow, but I assure him I’m in no need of a minder.

  I need to get the bloody hell out of here already.

  chapter 34

  Elsa

  “You’re quieter than usual this afternoon.”

  It is windy—not hurricane gales, but enough of a breeze that my ponytail is not as sleek as it was this morning. I brush back the strands ta
ngling in my eyelashes before facing Mat. “My apologies.”

  His eyes are undecipherable behind the dark plastic of his sunglasses. “Am I to take it you spoke with your father?”

  I glance away, back toward a statue of the Three Graces we have studied for the past several minutes, wondering if they’ll favor me with the right words to tactfully address this situation.

  “I hope we can find a way to make this work,” he says, not waiting for my answer.

  Annoyance flashes beneath my skin, reddening my cheeks and neck. His words, his tone are all resigned, bitterly so, even. Why is he not raging?

  “I thought you weren’t a fan of the RMM.”

  “Believe me, I’m not. But it appears neither you nor I have any say in the matter.”

  I turn to face him, anger surging up my throat and out of my mouth. “Do you wish to marry me? Is this what you want?”

  He takes a long time to answer. “What I want doesn’t matter.” Even still, he reaches out a tentative hand meant to land safely on my arm or shoulder, but I step away.

  “What are you not telling me, Mat? I know you cannot want this. Every time we speak, it is clear that you are as appalled by the situation as I am.”

  His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

  “It is bad enough that we’re in this godawful situation,” I continue, “but to know you are keeping something is maddening!”

  Heat now fills his words. “Funny, I can’t claim that you’ve opened up, either.”

  “I am not hiding a damn thing. I don’t want to marry you. There. It has been said. Can you do the same?”

  His body vibrates with frustration, but once more, he holds the bitterness and secrets within. We are in a standoff for a good minute before I realize he will not back down.

  I am chewing on glass when I say, “It’s really very beautiful here, is it not? The coastlines, I mean.”

  He is wary. “Yes, it rather is.”

  “Vattenguldia is scenic, too—only quite differently than this.” I scuff the tip of one shoe against the painted tiles sandwiched in between terra cotta ones beneath our feet. “We are more starkly beautiful.” I turn briefly back toward him; his hands are stuffed in his pockets as he rocks back and forth on his heels. “Have you ever been that far north before?”

  Tension laces his answer. “I have not had that pleasure yet.”

  “Winters are cold. Days are long.” My smile is paper-thin. “The people are stubborn.”

  “Much like their princess. Stubborn, I mean.”

  Not stubborn enough, apparently. “It is a tiny country.” I am all business now. “One of the smallest microstates in the world. We are practically non-existent in the grand scheme of the planet.”

  “A tiny country is better than no country, correct?”

  The hostility in his words sends me back a step. And then, like one slowly awakening, I realize why Mat’s family is so keen to connect their line with mine.

  Land is land, a throne is a throne. These are things the Chambérys have been denied for hundreds of years, ever since their small country was swallowed whole by two larger ones and they were deposed.

  They have money, we have land.

  How romantic.

  How traditional.

  chapter 35

  Elsa

  Our last dinner in California was nightmarish. Seating was carefully arranged to reflect new alliances between families, and the entire patio surrounding the Neptune pool was packed with gloomy, stricken heirs whose lives are now nothing more than bargaining chips.

  Our long stretch of table featured three families: mine, Mat’s, and Christian’s. Isabelle was quiet and tense as she picked at her food. Mat was as passive aggressive as myself. Lukas was forced to dine with the Spanish contingency at a nearby table; both he and the girl he was seated with looked as if they were to face the firing squad. Christian turned robotic again, all manners and politeness while none of his natural warmth filled a single syllable uttered.

  Our parents, though? Animated and in fine spirits. And why wouldn’t they be, having secured whatever political gains they desired by signing away the futures of their adult children?

  And now here I am, dancing with Mat under the stars, attempting to not cringe as his hand clasps mine. I will myself to feel something for him, anything, but there is nothing. No butterflies. No tingles. No surges or clenches or lady parts dancing.

  Nothing but anger and resentment.

  “You didn’t eat much tonight.”

  His attempts at civility grate against my raw nerves. “I am afraid I had some biscuits at tea time this afternoon and found myself without much of an appetite this evening.”

  I feel, rather than see, his sigh. “Until today, I thought we’d been becoming friends—or at least acquaintances. Some here can’t claim at least that.”

  Now I feel lousy because he sounds eerily beaten down over all this. I am not being fair to him; this wasn’t his idea, after all. He is as much a pawn as I am. And still, I scoff, “Friends. Right.”

  “Better that than strangers.”

  I look him right in the eyes. In a lot of ways, this man who has so much sadness reflecting back at me is still a stranger. While we chatted over the week, I do not feel as if I know him. I have no idea what makes Mat tick or even how he drinks his coffee.

  “I suppose there is that,” I concede reluctantly.

  “Believe me, I’m well aware of how you feel about wedding me. After all, it’s how we met, remember? We joined the rebel alliance together—”

  I cut him off. “Fat lot that did us.”

  “All I’m trying to say is it could have been worse. We both could have been . . . matched with people that we might not even be able to talk to.” He swallows hard.

  The irony of this is not lost on me. Had I not lamented numerous times about desiring a partner I could at least talk to?

  “I’m not going to lie and claim I’m madly in love with you, Elsa. Believe it or not, I respect you too much for that. I know you’re not in love with me, either. But considering the situation we’re in, I’d prefer to at least make a go of being civil. Do you think this could be possible for you, too?”

  My animosity is too strong. “Have you ever been in love?”

  His eyes flit away, but not before I see the change. “Yes.”

  There is a quiet desperation to him, one colored with melancholy-tinged regret. And I cannot help but wonder whom the person in question is, and why I can practically feel this man’s heartbreak.

  “Are you still?”

  Without a beat, he ignores my question and asks instead, “Have you?”

  I maintain my focus on the man before me and not over his shoulder, toward where I know my sister and her soon-to-be intended are dancing.

  “Yes.”

  And that is painful honesty if there ever was such, yet it is equally inane, because I have known the man holding my sister in his arms less than a full week. The same amount of time I’ve known Mat.

  Damn Charlotte for being right.

  The song ends; Mat releases me, only to place his hand at the small of my back as he steers me to the side of the pool. But before we get there, Isabelle and Christian meet us, and my stomach spasms at the pink flush on her cheeks.

  And then Christian asks if he can have the next dance with me.

  And like the masochist I am, I say yes.

  chapter 36

  Christian

  Isabelle rattled on about horses again. Is this my future? A life that revolves around equines?

  Dinner was hell. Just the absolute lousiest meal I’ve ever had. The She-Wolf gloated the entire time; every glance purposefully thrown my way was another metaphorical slap to the face.

  I refused to provide her a single moment of satisfaction with any sign of reaction, although my hands curled into balls beneath the table. It’s an awful thing, wanting to slug one’s own mother, but that
rage and desperation built within me the entire meal.

  And then I was forced to dance with Isabelle afterward. And she babbled on about her fucking horses again until I wanted to tell her to sod off. It didn’t help that Elsa was a mere twenty feet away, dancing with Mat. And that his damn arms were around her. And that she was miserable, even though I could tell she was doing her best to appear unaffected and in control.

  So when the song was over, and I was finally able to get the hell away from Isabelle, I asked her sister to dance even though it was a terrible idea. Because as I look down at Elsa now, our bodies swaying together to the torch singer and the band playing on the deck overlooking the pool, I wonder, how am I going to live my entire life without kissing her once? Really kissing her, where I memorize her mouth and she mine. How will I never make love to her? Not fucking, not sex . . . but something more meaningful. Or never wake up next to her in the morning? Or experience any of the things, mundane or extraordinary, I want to do with her? To her?

  “Do you think it’s possible we can stroll right out of this party, straight down the drive, and disappear before anyone knows what’s going on?” she asks me. But there’s humor there, too.

  I groan quietly. “Don’t tempt me.”

  “What time do you fly out tomorrow?”

  Not soon enough and yet too soon all at once. “Eight a.m. You?”

  “Five-thirty in the morning. My father is clearly insane. We are to fly to LAX with Lichtenstein, and apparently he’s an early riser.”

  Tiny bits of ugly panic grip the muscle in my chest. That’s only eight hours away. Eight hours before Elsa boards a plane and flies away from me.

  “I have it on good authority,” she continues, “that there is pie in the kitchen, a kind specific to the region, sent over by a local town but deemed too countrified for tonight’s gala.”