Royal Marriage Market

by Heather Lyons

  All right, perhaps I am, just a wee bit. But as I just spent an hour trapped with my mother, an increasingly agitated Isabelle, and a pair of wedding planners, as well as fielded a tense phone call from Mat, Charlotte is lucky I am moping rather than raging.

  She is right, though, curse her. I fear I am going through withdrawals, as I miss the Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland something fierce.

  “You are,” she’s saying calmly, “and it’s stupid.”

  Just because she’s right doesn’t mean I must play so easily into her deft yet wily hands. “These sandwiches are delish, Lottie.”

  The baby lets loose a loud belch. He’s a Casanova, all right.

  Charlotte ceases her patting. “I know my damn sandwiches are delicious. I am referring to your Prince Charming.”

  It isn’t ladylike in the least, but I shove the rest of one of the cucumber and cream cheese crustless morsels into my mouth. “He ewen’t mwhy Pwrin Darwing.”

  It’s clear now that my personal secretary had no intention of going over the upcoming week’s itinerary. I am to be interrogated.

  Charlotte tosses the filthy burp cloth at me; I do not dodge quickly enough, because miniature white chunks streak down my jeans. I glare meaningfully at my closest friend.

  She pays me no heed.

  Dickie belches once more, which earns a nuzzle from his meddling mother. “I have known you for a very long time and have weathered being your friend through unfortunate relationship after even more unfortunate relationship.”

  “Hey now.”

  “I’m telling you, I have never seen you so taken with a man before. You were so . . . cheerful, I guess, every time I talked to you when you were in California—or cheerful for you. And now you are heartbroken.”

  “Heartbroken?” An embarrassingly loud snort comes out of me. “Hardly.”

  It is her turn to offer a meaningful glare.

  That’s the thing about a true friend. There is no need to offer up secrets for them to intuitively sense something is amiss. Charlotte cultivated the ability to read my emotions like a playbook long ago.

  “You are a cow, and I have no idea why I am here, allowing myself to be vomited upon by your squalling infant whilst you spread lies about my person.”

  Her smile is serene. “Dickie most certainly did so such thing. And it’s called spit-up.”

  I settle further into the overstuffed floral couch, grunting. “The point stands.”

  “What I am saying is, you like him. And I think that scares the hell out of you, especially as you’re set to marry some man you feel nothing toward.”

  Yet another valid statement. It terrifies me, the strength of the emotions I feel toward Christian. “Fine. I like him. Are you happy?”

  “I think it is more than like, though, isn’t it?”

  “Christ, Lottie. Isn’t it bad enough that you got me to admit I like him?”

  “It’s a proper start.” She passes Dickie over so she can pour us fresh cups of tea. The baby and I engage in a staring contest—my eyes narrow, his go wide and, dare I admit it, amused.

  “Now,” Charlotte continues, “we must work on you admitting you’re in love with him.”

  I sputter out a weak, “I have known him less than a month.”

  “We covered this, Elsa. Love at first sight is a powerful thing.”

  “Remember? So is lust at first sight.”

  She sighs loudly.

  I lose the staring contest, glancing away first so I can roll my eyes at my best friend. Dickie celebrates by adding drool to the spit-up on my jeans. No attempt to clean them is made, because I’m positive he’ll figure out some other bodily fluid to add to his collection before the visit is over. So I tuck him into the crook of my elbow and rock gently back and forth until he gurgles contentedly. “How many times do I need to say it? Christian was very clear about not wanting a relationship.”

  “As were you, I believe.”

  “Exactly.”

  “He specifically doesn’t want a relationship with Isabelle.”

  I issue another unladylike grunt.

  “Just as you specifically don’t want a relationship with Mathieu.”

  I try not to gag. There’s enough vomit in the room today, thanks to Dickie.

  “And yet, something happened between you two.”

  I am silent. There is no use denying it. She knows the bulk of the sordid story, anyway. I broke down two days after coming home and told her, unable to keep it all to myself any longer.

  “Have you talked with Isabelle yet?”

  “As we live in the same palace, we speak every day.”

  “Smartass. I meant have you discussed with her how you and her soon-to-be-fiancé have . . .” Charlotte waggles her eyebrows meaningfully.

  “That’s not a conversation I am keen on having. How does one inform their sister of such things?”

  “If she is to marry him—”

  I wince harder than I’d like, causing the baby within my arms to stir.

  “She ought to know what happened between you two. So as holidays will not be awkward.”

  Discussion or no, awkwardness is assured.

  “What of Prince Mathieu?”

  “What of him?”

  “Have the two of you discussed any of this?”

  “I have made my opinion on the matter quite clear.”

  Her lips press together as she chooses her words. “What will you two do, then?”

  “Me and Mat?”

  “You and Christian,” she gently corrects.

  I press my head back against the floral couch. “What is there to do? He is to marry my sister.” I pause. “More importantly, he is a Hereditary Grand Duke.” I ache to surge to my feet and pace, but Dickie’s eyes choose this very moment to slowly slide shut. I whisper furiously, “I am a Hereditary Princess.”

  “These are well known facts.”

  When I tell her, “It would never be allowed,” I must fight the urge to cry.

  “Impossible to know unless you try.”

  I stare up at the chandelier and wooden beams above us for long seconds as the baby in my arms drools contentedly in his sleep. And then I open up my veins and tell her the truth that has been banging at my doors nearly every second since I realized how I truly feel about Christian. “One of us would have to give up our crown to be with the other. It’s not as if we can simply merge our two countries together. Being with Christian comes with consequences that are far direr than simply disobeying our sovereigns’ edicts. One of us would no longer be what we’ve always been, what we’ve been raised to be. How would we chose who gives up that? Which of us is willing to do so? My sister, as you well know, has privately, yet repeatedly, announced how she has no interest in the throne. His brother is a consummate playboy who—well, I admit I do not know him well, but there was no impression he is keen on the job, either.” I swallow hard. “And, even if we decided which of us would abdicate, how does one then explain to their monarch and country that another heir must be found because love trumps lifelong duties and commitments?” More softly, “Provided, of course, he feels the same toward me as I do him.”

  My friend’s voice is soft and understanding. “So. You have thought about this, after all.”

  I am sniffling now. Damn Charlotte and her need to always push for emotional truths until I break. And damn Christian for being . . . well, Christian. Why did he have to be too wonderful? Why couldn’t he be boring, or arrogant and insufferable, like so many other privileged men of my acquaintance? But no. He had to reveal himself as my bloody Prince Charming, leaving me to question so much of what I’ve planned for my life.

  The urge to cry pulls at the corners of my eyes and toughens heartstrings in my chest. But rather than let go like I ache to, I press a kiss on the top of Dickie’s head and glare at his mother.

  I might loathe tradition, but it appears to come out victorious once more.

&
nbsp; “All right,” Charlotte says gently. “I just want you to be happy, Elsa. That’s all.”

  I press my cheek against the baby’s downy head. “If you truly wish for my happiness, then you’ll fetch me something to mop up your child’s bodily fluids. Good lord, Lottie. He is adorable as all get out, but he sure does make a mess. I’m drenched over here.”

  chapter 43

  Christian

  My father’s mouth is clamped shut. So is Lukas’. For that matter, so is mine. We men languish in absolute, miserable silence as the She-Wolf lays out the agenda for the coming weeks.

  I’m to court Isabelle in the most extravagant, obscenely public way possible. Lukas, accompanied by our father, is to head to Spain to do the same, albeit less flagrantly, as the She-Wolf does not want the spotlight off of her so-called “power couple.”

  “Bed them quickly,” she says to my brother and I in an awful business-like tone. “I’ll ensure that any birth control issues will be taken care of beforehand. The sooner heirs are made, the better.”

  It doesn’t matter to her that Isabelle or Maria-Elena might not care to be bedded, nor does it occur to the She-Wolf that tampering with one’s birth control is vile and a crime.

  Every so often, my father catches my eye. Sorrow and apologies line his face, as if his wife’s machinations are his fault. And yet, I do blame him—I blame him for not standing up for us.

  Hell, I blame myself and my brother, too. We ought to be standing up and telling the She-Wolf no.

  We’re cowards, and it’s pathetic.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I’m hopeful it’s Elsa, but as my mother is explaining in excruciating detail just how my upcoming engagement to Isabelle is going to go down, I don’t pull it out.

  When the She-Wolf’s done, and halfway to the door so she can go and do whatever it is She-Wolves do after devouring their young, I find myself standing up. My limbs are shaking in rage, my hands in fear, but as the noose around my neck has just tightened significantly, I feel like I have little to lose in this moment.

  “I wish,” I tell her, “that I actually had a mother who gives a damn about her family. Or gave a damn about anything other than herself. You’re despicable.”

  Maybe I’m not a complete coward after all.

  She doesn’t respond. Not even when Lukas stands up and shows he’s got a bit of spine, too.

  An hour later, as Parker and I are working in my office, my day goes from shitty to flat-out terrible. Isabelle calls.

  I’m tempted to let her go to voicemail, like I have for her last few attempts to ring me over the past couple days. I couldn’t bear talking to her, let alone pretending I want anything to do with her, other than her sister. I can’t bear it now, but at Parker’s urging, I finally answer the phone.

  “Maybe, if you two talk . . .” he offers, and all I can think is: optimistic bastard.

  Once I say hello, I’m greeted with, “It’s about bloody time you picked up the phone, Christian.”

  While her sister may occasionally drop such bombs, I have never heard Isabelle curse before. It’s alien sounding. “Um—”

  “I do not have time for our typical, bland chit-chat, but there are several things I must bring you up to speed on. I will speak, and you will listen.”

  She sounds frighteningly similar to Elsa right now—and I’m grudgingly impressed by it. “You’ve got my attention.”

  “Just to be clear, I’m not a bloody idiot. I am well aware something occurred between you and my sister in California.”

  Instinct kicks in. “That’s none of your—”

  “I may not know the specifics, but I know something must have happened. Elsa . . .” Her sigh is disgruntled. “Allow me to start at the beginning. I’m engaged, Christian.”

  My answer is sharp. “Not yet, you aren’t.”

  Not ever, if I get my way.

  Isabelle releases a rueful, tired laugh. “I am and have been for some time.”

  “Explain.”

  “I agreed to marry my equestrian instructor last year. Elsa knew about the relationship, but my parents did not. She urged me to inform Their Serene Highnesses, but . . .” Another soft, irritated puff of a laugh. “Every attempt to broach the subject was stymied by my parents waxing poetic about family history, glory, and of advantageous marriages. Perhaps that makes me a coward, but my lack of action is not important. What is, is that Alfons—my fiancé—and I had a nasty row prior to the Summit. He did not wish me to go, but my parents decreed I must accompany my father and my sister, as some kind of arrangement in the works with Aiboland. To make a long story short, I was blackmailed.”

  “Is everything okay?” Parker whispers as my arse hits my desk chair.

  I hold a finger up as Isabelle continues to blow my mind. “Elsa and our father fought repeatedly about the Summit. I figured since he wouldn’t cave to her whims—she, the heir who normally adheres to tradition—any objections I had would be immaterial. And this proved so when I was informed that, if I failed to abide by my parents’ wishes and acquire the necessary trade pact and financial backing they coveted from your country, I would be financially cut off. Therefore, I attempted to enter the Royal Marriage Market as gracefully as possible. Only . . .” She sighs. “Christian, it pains me to say this, but . . . we aren’t suited. Not at all.”

  Well, no kidding. “I—”

  “You seem like a decent man, but there were no sparks between us. No common ground. Having watched my parents go through the motions of a loveless, hostile marriage, I refuse to have that kind of life. Besides, I’m in love with someone else, and you just won’t do, money or no.”

  Talk about an ego check. She was bored with me?

  “I’m in Geneva right now. Alfons and I have eloped; we’re to be married before the night is over. Poverty and love is a future I far prefer to wealth and a tedious husband.”

  I’m speechless. Radically, fantastically, stupidly speechless. And to think I was bemoaning how my life was absolute pants just minutes before.

  “Obviously, my family doesn’t know. I left Elsa a letter, but she is at a charity tea. So, she’ll know tonight. Here’s the thing, Christian. I am certain my sister is in love with you. If I am not mistaken, you’re in love with her, too.”

  I don’t hesitate. “I am."

  “I watched you two dancing the final night of the Summit. I had never seen Elsa look at anybody the way she does you. It was as if you were her personal Prince Charming come to life. And I spent enough time with you to know that you never looked at anyone the way you did her. The both of you disappeared every night when the rest of us were shagging, drinking ourselves into a stupor, and/or bemoaning our fates. Everyone at the castle knew you two were falling in love. Everyone. I mean, how many times were you two caught hiding together?”

  For a moment, I fear I might be dreaming, because, for the first time of our acquaintance, I am completely riveted by what this woman is saying.

  “Elsa has been miserable since coming home. Secretive. Resentful. Snapping at everyone. A bomb wracked the palace when our mother brought about wedding planners. Elsa is simply nightmarish every time poor Mathieu calls. She’s to see him next week, in Paris. Mother insists she’s to put on her game face and pretend to fall in love with him in the public light. Thinks that this will bring attention and glamour to Vattenguldia. A crown heir, falling in love with a landless prince in the City of Lights? Her Serene Highness is betting on the glossies having a field day over such a fairy tale. It’s her hope that Vattenguldia will linger on the tip of everyone’s tongues worldwide.”

  I’ll be damned if I allow anyone but me to give Elsa a fairy tale.

  “I’d like to say that I am sorry we are not marrying, Christian, but...as I am deliriously in love with my fiancé, I will not demean what we feel toward one another with this lie. But if you feel anything toward my sister—even in the smallest bit—I advise you to go to Paris next week. Stop Elsa
from making the biggest mistake of her life. She will be a fantastic monarch, no doubt, but it should not come at the expense of her personal happiness.” She pauses. “I have no doubt our parents have blackmailed her, as well.”

  Even though I’m dealing with a similar situation, my blood boils at the thought of anyone forcing Elsa’s hand. What in the bloody hell is wrong with our parents? The royals in this world? “I’m sorry,” I tell Isabelle.

  Hushed anger fills her words. “You refuse to go to Paris?”

  “Hell yes, I’m going.” Fuck the She-Wolf. “I’m apologizing for how wrong I was about you. I was an absolute arsehole. But you’re right—we don’t suit. Not in the least.”

  “People misjudge me often. I wish you luck, Christian. I only thought it fair you know all this, because in an hour or so, when their Serene Highnesses comprehend what I’ve done, the shite is going to hit the fan.”

  A man in the background on her end murmurs something in German. I think it’s: Time to get moving, my sweet filly.

  Well, aren’t they the perfect match?

  “Oh, and Christian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Alfons did a little digging at the palace for me while I was in California. After our first breakfast together, I promptly had a discreet panic attack and rang him up, begging forgiveness and to look into matters I was too far away to investigate. I am undoubtedly committing treason, but . . . I had to know why my parents were so desperate for Elsa and I to make such advantageous matches. There had to be more to it than simply coveting increased shipping routes and designing tourist traps.” An audible breath sounds across the static. “Her Serene Highness has come close to bankrupting the Vasa family’s finances. I am unaware of the particulars, but it is clear my father is aware of the issue. We must assume it is why they are so desperate for Mathieu’s money—and yours. It has nothing to do with modernizing the technological infrastructures of our shipping registries. A quick call to a friend informed me Parliament already has that covered. This is all about staving off a scandal.”

  I’m infuriated. As respected as he is in the EU, Gustav is willing to sell out his own children because his wife mismanaged their money? Who does that?