Royal Marriage Market

by Heather Lyons

  Because no matter what I feel otherwise, I can’t have her. She’s a Hereditary Princess; I’m a Hereditary Grand Duke. It would never be allowed. We could never have each other, not forever, not without one or the both of us abdicating our rights to our respective thrones. Who would take over? Lukas? Isabelle?

  And yet . . .

  So much of me wants to say fuck it and take the risk.

  “It was good meeting you, too.” I lie. It was better than good. It was serendipity during truly shitty circumstances.

  She lets go first, dropping into a curtsey before me as if we were strangers rather than people who just ate pie and made out like our lives depended on it. In return, I force my waist to bend forward, one of my hands coming across my chest to cover my heart.

  Damn, it physically hurts. Aches like a tin can crushed in a fist.

  And then, before I straighten, she’s gone.

  chapter 39

  Elsa

  “The week went better than I thought, considering.” Isabelle lays her magazine down on her lap, her hands folding primly across the glossy cover. “Don’t you agree?”

  It requires more than a bit of effort not to shout, poor language and all, “Are you bloody kidding?” in the middle of the small private jet we’re currently on. Instead, I say as calmly as one can when they are mentally falling apart, “It had its high and low points.”

  She glances over at where our father is; he and Bittner are deep in discussion. Voice lowered, she says, “I texted Alfons before we left. Told him we need to talk.”

  I close the folder I have desperately tried to read in hopes of maintaining some semblance of sanity on this wretchedly long flight and set it to the side. It was not helping. And this conversation isn’t, either.

  My words are wooden. “I thought you two were on the outs.”

  Her head dips toward me, a shiny dark curtain of hair swaying my way. “He didn’t want me to go this week. We fought terribly about it. He wanted us to elope to Geneva instead.”

  So now she opens up to me, when all has been said and done. And yet I cannot find myself caring much right now about her personal drama. Not when my heart disintegrated this morning within my chest. “Do you regret not going?”

  “To Geneva?” She flips the ends of her hair, brushing the strands back and forth across her chin line. When I nod, she sighs. “I am very conflicted right now, Elsa.”

  “What will you tell him?”

  Isabelle bites her lip, resting her head back against the leather seat. “The truth, I suppose.” She drops the chunk of hair in order to pat me on the knee. “How are you holding up? I wished to check in with you last night, but you didn’t get in until . . .”

  Until it was nearly time to leave.

  She and I have always been honest with one another, but our honesty is much like our royal personas: aloof and perfectly presented. Neither of us lied here, but our responses were carefully worded to the point where they straddled the border between fact and fiction.

  So I continue our charade. I tell her I am fine. Because technically, I am. Numb, but fine.

  She studies me for a long moment, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You stayed out late last night. Or rather, this morning.”

  I reclaim the recently discarded folder. “I suppose I did.”

  “You disappeared for hours every single day in the dead of night.”

  I slip out a document. “As did you, I imagine. As did most of the heirs.”

  “During the late night parties and rendezvous, I never saw Christian, either.”

  I want to laugh in her face. “How interesting.”

  I’m practically daring her to press the issue, especially since she has no leg to stand upon. But Isabelle backs down, just as I knew she would. Lines of disappointment pinch her face. And I am left to the documents in my hands, ones discussing parliamentary issues for the upcoming meeting next week, which are far preferable to any kind of heart-to-heart with my sister.

  chapter 40

  Christian

  The She-Wolf is reveling in her victory right now; along with numerous glasses of her precious cognac guzzled over the course of the flight home, she’s also high as a kite thanks to various pills I don’t care to know the name of. Thankfully, she wanders into one of the plane’s bedrooms, followed closely behind by one of the flight attendants, so we’re in the clear for at least an hour or so.

  Most everyone else, including Parker, are sleeping in hopes of staving off jet lag. But my brother and I are too agitated to follow suit.

  “Think it’d be bad form if I call for the press to be on the tarmac when we arrive home?” Lukas mutters. His flask is out, mercifully filled with vodka rather than cognac. “Because I’d frame the shite out of a shot of Her Highness hitting the pavement face first, cackling the whole way down. And then I’d send one to every family member as a Christmas gift.”

  Our fists bump one another. I’d cheerfully go in on those gifts.

  “Maybe we could even switch out her official portrait with it. And then Aiboland would really see her for the hag she is.”

  Most sons have some sort of filial love for their mother, and . . . maybe the two of us do somewhere, but it’s nowhere near the surface.

  “Honestly, though, this week was a fucking nightmare, Chris.” Lukas rolls his head toward me. He’s surprisingly sober, considering the amount of booze—correction, cognac—on board the plane and within his flask. “Demeaning as all hell. This is the twenty-first century, not the fifteenth.”

  My bitterness knows no bounds. “At least you didn’t come away with a directive.”

  “The hell I didn’t. It was one of those last minute deals. Last night, when you were doing the fuck knows what with whomever, the She-Wolf tracked me down and told me that I am now officially the future fiancé of that Spanish girl.”

  “Shite. Sorry, Luk. I thought you liked Maria-Elena.”

  “That’s not the point and you know it. The She-Wolf and I got into it, though. I told her there was no way she could make me marry some girl that I didn’t pick, and . . .”

  And his cheek is a little swollen today, too.

  “She’s going to have to physically drag my arse down the aisle,” he vows harshly.

  “That makes you and me both.”

  Another fist bump between brothers. “Speaking of, what happened between you and Elsa?”

  Everything, I want to tell him—and yet, not enough. “I kissed her this morning. Does that count?”

  “It depends. Did it rock your world?”

  It did more than that, I admit, surprising even myself. It changed everything.

  He leans in, face serious, voice low. “What are you going to do?”

  I’m honest. “I wish to hell I knew.”

  There’s no press when we land, just a pair of sleek cars hidden in the dark to take us back to the palace. Lukas and I refuse to ride with the She-Wolf, under the guise of allowing her to return home without any delays. This suits her fine, even though she’s come down a little from her high and settled into normal behavior, which has her taunting us at every turn.

  “I’ll see you in a few hours.” Parker grabs his suitcase. Lucky bastard’s car is at the airport, so he’s able to escape quickly. “I just want to pop home and get showered, check my mail.”

  I clasp him on the shoulder as my mother’s car pulls away. “Take the day off. Everything we need to discuss or do can wait until the inevitable jet lag clears.”

  To prove my point, he yawns but doesn’t argue. I assure him it’s my goal to go home and sleep the rest of the day and night so I will be ready for tomorrow morning’s meeting with a group of labor union presidents.

  Inside the car, while Lukas argues with the driver about music, I pull out my phone and switch it back from airplane mode to read through the lengthy list of texts and notifications waiting for me.

  One stands out from the rest: Apple pie—wort
h tracking down or no?

  Yes, goddammit. Yes.

  I tell her: Good things always are.

  Lukas glances over at me, eyebrows raised. I mouth Elsa. His thumbs up is surprisingly welcome.

  That’s what I thought. But I figured it couldn’t hurt to get a fellow PIN/RFC member’s opinion on the matter.

  That will be our next first, I write her. Forget olallieberries. Our mission is to track down an apple pie together.

  I hold my breath. Wonder if, on the heels of what’s happened between us, what lies before us, she’ll balk at my audacity.

  In all your years in America, you never ate apple pie?

  I’ve gone from anger and depression straight to flirting. Alas, I did not.

  Lukas leans over, intrigued; I shove him back to his side.

  “Well, well.” A shit-eating smirk twists his lips. “Isn’t this interesting. Is pie foreplay I’m unaware of?”

  “Sod off,” I tell him, but I’m too damn happy to sound forceful enough.

  Elsa writes: I’m disappointed in you.

  My fingers fly across the touchscreen. We are both apple pie virgins, running amuck in our respective countries. We must pop our cherries at the same time.

  Your puns are terrible, Chris. Don’t you mean we’ll be popping our apples? Or should I say coring our apples? Never mind. I’m wretched at puns, too.

  She called me Chris again. Goddamn, I like the sound of that. Nobody’s perfect, Els. But she is. To me, she absolutely is.

  The tightness in my chest eases when she adds: No eating it without me. Let’s cavort with pie again. Promise?

  It’s a promise I gladly make, without hesitation.

  “I think,” Lukas muses, “you need to go pop that cherry sooner rather than later.”

  I slip my phone into my pocket. “Go to hell.”

  He chuckles. “Is that how you normally interact?”

  I pocket the phone. “Spying on others’ correspondence is a nasty habit.”

  “All the good royals do it.” His elbow jabs my ribs. “Is it, though?”

  “She’s . . . not like the others,” I admit.

  “You mean she doesn’t fawn all over Prince Perfect?”

  “You really want me to punch you, don’t you?”

  “Let me ask you this.” He leans back against the leather seat. “Do you really think you’ll ever be okay with just being her brother-in-law?”

  I turn my head and look out the window. Aiboland is cold and clear beyond the frosty glass, the morning sun sharp as it fights its way through the clouds covering our island.

  “I’d like to think,” he continues, “that if I ever have the pleasure of falling in love with someone, I wouldn’t give it up, not even if the She-Wolf orders it so.”

  Easier for him to say than do, considering our circumstances.

  But my brother’s words linger long after we get back to the palace and I’ve taken care of several pressing issues before I can get ready to lose myself in bed until the following morning. It’s a romantic notion, giving it all up for another person. But Lukas isn’t to inherit the throne. He doesn’t have the expectations I have weighing down upon my shoulders. He is ignorant of the She-Wolf’s threats toward not only me, but him, our father . . . even Parker.

  I’m selfish, but I don’t know if I’m that selfish.

  And still, I don’t know if I’m willing to let Elsa go. Not that I have her, not that we’re a thing or, hell, even the possibility of a thing, but . . .

  I’m addicted. And I’m not ready to lose what she makes me feel.

  chapter 41

  Christian

  Lukas mutters under his breath, “Not again.”

  I glance up from my stout to find Lady Autumn Horn af Björksund sashaying toward us. She’s in a tight white bandage dress that screams discothèque rather than pub, especially this one, which is about as low key as one can get in Norslœ.

  “If I didn’t know you better,” I say, “I might interpret your hostility toward Autumn as renewed interest.”

  “Perhaps you ought to interpret my foot up your arse.”

  “Well, well,” Autumn coos, once she reaches the table we’re at. “If it isn’t His Royal Highness, the Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland, sitting in Sven’s Pig and Roast, looking healthy as a horse. And to think the nation feared you might have fallen off the face of the planet, or at least died from tuberculosis or the like.”

  It’s said flippantly, but it’s clear she’s curious as to why I disappeared. I stand up. “Due to illness, I was forced to cancel all of my engagements. My apologies for any inconvenience.”

  It’s the story that Parker made sure to circulate to explain the trip. I’m not Autumn’s true focus, though. She turns to my brother and says, “Look at what the cat dragged in.”

  He lifts his glass, refusing to follow propriety’s insistence that he rise. “Autumn.”

  I’m not overly keen on the lady in question joining us, but it doesn’t appear there’s a tasteful way of telling her to shove off. So I motion to one of the chairs at our table; she tosses her beaded handbag down and the two of us sit. “Have you recovered, Your Highness?”

  Lukas nudges me from beneath the table, so I cough and pound on my chest a little. “I’m much better, thank you.”

  She lifts a slim hand, beckoning over a waitress. “It’s funny, but I didn’t see you around last week, either, Luk.” Her eyes narrow in on my brother. “Were you also ill? Or perhaps frolicking naked and drunk once more?”

  “We were like dominoes.” The lies roll right off his tongue. “The entire family, save the exception of His Royal Highness. One of us got sick, then the next . . . before we knew it, the lot of us at were confined to bed, vomiting like there was no tomorrow coming.”

  A skinny eyebrow lifts high as she cooly regards him, her mouth twisting in distaste.

  It’s his turn to fake a cough, clearly overdoing it and thereby drawing attention from those around us. “Still feel it in my lungs.”

  My phone beeps. I slide it out of my pocket to find: Hot cocoa doesn’t taste the same in Vattenguldia as it does California. Weird, right?

  I push back my chair and tell them, “I need to take a call.”

  Lukas shoots daggers at me, but I ignore him. I then weave my way to the back of the small pub and head into the kitchen area. Sven, the owner slash cook, issues a greeting. I hold my phone aloft and he quickly wanders out for a break.

  I dial Elsa’s number. My finger had been itching to do so all day, but I knew she, like me, was probably overwhelmed with meetings and appointments. We’d been gone for a week, so if her schedule was anything like mine, there was a lot of catching up to do.

  She answers on the second ring, and I swear, I pretty much melt into a goddamn puddle right in the middle of Sven’s tiny kitchen when I hear her voice.

  Jesus. I’ve got it so, so bad for this woman. “You’re drinking hot cocoa without me?”

  A tiny laugh floats through the receiver, and it’s a gift—a really erotic, fucking amazing gift. “Charlotte made some this afternoon while we were debriefing. Who was I to refuse?”

  “A member of the RHCDS, that’s who.”

  She’s thoughtful for a long moment, which only makes the grin on my face stretch wider. Finally, the soft snap of fingers sounds. “The Royal Hot Cocoa Drinker Society?”

  “Drinkers,” I correct. “Because societies must have more than one member.”

  I’m gifted with more of that bloody fantastic laughter, and it leaves me aching to get on a plane just so I can hear it in person.

  “I take it you’re not drinking hot cocoa?”

  “Alas, I’m drinking stout tonight. Lukas and I are at a favorite pub. What are you doing, other than drinking hot cocoa without me?”

  “Missing you,” is what she says.

  Never in my life has my chest felt like it’d been split open, bones and muscles pu
lled back so the organ that keeps me alive is left so utterly, completely bare. But I feel that way now, hearing the vulnerability in Elsa’s voice when she tells me, for the first time ever, what I mean to her.

  It’d always been known—assumed, yet never voiced. Because she and I? We clicked immediately. We were on the same page. We’re kindred souls.

  She misses me.

  I lean against the door leading to the back alley, my eyes closing. If only she was standing here in front of me. Or I there, before her. “I miss you, too, Els.”

  chapter 42

  Elsa

  The baby chooses the moment Charlotte says, “You’re being supremely stupid,” to spit up what appears to be cottage cheese all over her silk shirt.

  Charming.

  Charlotte planned to come to the palace for our briefing this morning, but I was antsy and in need of an excursion, especially after my mother cornered me like a fox in the henhouse during breakfast with a wedding planner. Scratch that. A pair of planners, because there are two daughters she’s frothing at the mouth to marry off. It has been all of a week since returning to Vattenguldia. One. Hellish. Week. And Her Serene Highness is already in full-blown wedding planning mode.

  So here I am, wondering why exactly it was here I fled to, because watching one individual vomit upon another, mother or no, is a very repulsive thing to witness.

  “I am talking about you, by the way.” Charlotte motions toward me with a questionably wet burp cloth. To a freshly joyful Dickie, in a nauseatingly cute voice, she murmurs, “Not you, precious.”

  I bat the rag away. “How am I being stupid? I’ve been here for a mere quarter of an hour, and all we’ve discussed is the weather and Dickie’s sleep schedule.”

  She rubs her nose against the baby’s while simultaneously patting him on the back. “You are moping.”

  “I most certainly am not moping.” Am I?