Royal Marriage Market

by Heather Lyons

  Elsa deserves better. Hell, so does Isabelle.

  “Help my sister find the ammunition needed to blow our parents out of the water,” Isabelle tells me. “Give her a kiss for me, and let her know I’ll call in a few weeks once I’m settled in Germany with Alfons’ family.”

  I hang up the phone and turn to Parker, a low whistle slipping through my lips.

  He asks, bewildered, “What was that all about?”

  Hope, I think. Bloody, brilliant hope.

  I clap him on the shoulder, grinning like a fool. I’m not as down and out as I feared just an hour before. “I hope you’re prepared to stay up late tonight, because we’ve got plans to make.”

  chapter 44

  Elsa

  The palace is in an uproar. Isabelle grew a backbone and has left to chase after her fairy story ending.

  Dear Elsa,

  Life is too short to spend it miserable and trapped in a loveless marriage. Twenty-six years of watching one in motion has proven this to me, as I’m sure it has for you. Thus, Alfons and I have eloped. I love him too much to let him go. It’s selfish of me, isn’t it? And yet, it’s the only truth I’m willing to accept.

  I beg you to not be afraid to embrace your truths, either . . . especially those of the heart.

  Yours,

  Isabelle

  My sister thumbed her nose at our parents and resolved to live life the way she wants to, and with whom she chooses to share it with. I am envious, to be honest. And so startled by this turnabout that I do not even know what to say, but I would high five Isabelle if she were standing before me.

  Her Serene Highness ignites in fury over the day’s events, summoning every member of the staff with any regular contact with my sister in order to personally interrogate them until many depart in tears. Did Isabelle inform you of her plans? Were you complicit in hiding her scandalous relationship with the stable hand?

  Other than a hapless security guard admitting he saw Alfons’ car drive away in the middle of the night, no one had anything of import to add to the discussion.

  After several hours of torturing the help, my mother sent everyone away so that only family remains in my father’s office. “How could Isabelle do this?” she rages. “Does she not understand the consequences of her actions?”

  Only all too well, I muse silently.

  My mother continues, words so vehement that spittle unattractively decorates her lips, “She must be found before too much damage can be done. What will the Grand Duchess think—do—when she hears of this? If word were to get out—” She stops. Turns to my father, her face paling significantly. “We must ensure no one in the palace contacts the press.”

  “All staff signed a nondisclosure agreement upon employment,” I gently remind them.

  The note Isabelle left is subsequently dissected until the ink fades from handling. I am also interrogated, although to a lesser degree, finally confessing to my parents that I knew of the relationship between my sister and her riding instructor—and approve of it.

  This admission nearly sends Her Serene Highness into seizures.

  The palace is placed on lockdown. Cell phones are confiscated from each member of the staff, leaving two-way radios as the sole avenues for communication outside of the heavily monitored general phone line. In an utter fit of paranoia, even my own cell is appropriated, despite my insistence I would never betray my sister to the media.

  My arguments now fall upon deaf ears. All my parents can fixate on is how to circumvent the coming media circus.

  His Serene Highness orders Bittner to contact a discreet private investigator to track down Isabelle’s whereabouts. Come hell or high water, it is my parents’ goal to somehow drag my sister back to Vattenguldia and talk some sense into her—or at least find a proper way to spin the situation before word reaches the Grand Duchess of Aiboland’s ears.

  Well after midnight, as I leave my father’s office, I overhear my mother whisper, “What will we do, Gustav? Without Aiboland, we—”

  “Hush.” His Serene Highness is not gentle when he cuts her off. “There is still the agreement with the Chambérys.” His voice lifts. “Elsa? Be sure to close the door behind you.”

  I do as requested, but their words turn over in my mind for the rest of the night.

  I am unnerved at how worried my mother truly sounded.

  “I’ve got an itinerary set up so we can tour all the best sites of Paris.”

  “It will not be my first visit,” I inform Mat. I know I come across as rather bitchy, but the mere thought of playacting the doting, swooning girlfriend makes me want to throw myself out the window, especially on the heels of my sister’s bravery.

  His words are static-y across the landline call. “But have you been there with an insider before?”

  “Funny, I remember quite clearly you telling me you fancy yourself a New Yorker nowadays.”

  One of my mother’s aides is across the room, awkwardly attempting to melt into the wallpaper and paintings rather than eavesdrop as instructed. She’s to ensure I do not mention our family’s scandal. Furthermore, I am not allowed off the palace grounds without an escort.

  They fear I’ll run, too—and frankly, it is beyond insulting.

  A sound of resigned regret fills my ear. “Elsa, I’m trying here. I know this isn’t ideal for either of us, but it’s important that we at least try. Right?”

  Actually, yes—just not in the way he suggests.

  I slip into the open doorway to the balcony in my office. It is drizzling outside: cool, soft tears pepper the rocky land and gray, angry sea. I lower my voice, risking my mother’s wrath in a desperate Hail Mary attempt. “My sister eloped.”

  There is a moment of shocked silence between us. “With Christian?”

  “With her equestrian instructor.” I relate the bare bones of the situation; in the end, I believe him to be just as envious and impressed as I am with Isabelle’s gumption.

  A discreet glance behind me shows the aide with her nose stuck in a book, appearing wholly unaware that I just did exactly what she was sent to ensure did not occur.

  I follow my disobedience with a slice of brutal honesty. “Mat, I appreciate your efforts. I do. But, I simply cannot pretend that I am head over heels for any of this. I like you, I do, but . . .”

  “We already established neither of us is in love with the other.” He clears his throat. “You’re preaching to the choir here.”

  “If it is not what either of us want, then—”

  “It doesn’t matter what I want, Elsa. Not anymore.”

  There’s a quiet desperation, an anger that is nearly tangible across the distance. “What does that mean?”

  “It means . . .” A hard breath is blown out. “Sometimes, you have to do what’s best for others, rather than yourself.”

  The sadness in his voice unnerves me, as does the resignation that drives each word as if it is a struggle. “Is that what you are doing?”

  He counters me with, “Isn’t it what we’re both doing?”

  “Then—”

  “I’m sorry. I truly am. But I can’t back out of this agreement. I wish I could, but my hands are tied.”

  No amount of questioning from that point on yields any clues as to what he alludes to. I am unsettled by the insinuation behind his words long after our call ends. There is something I am clearly missing, something he’s not telling me—which isn’t too surprising. He and I are not best friends who share our deepest, darkest hopes and dreams with one another. We are not kindred spirits.

  But it appears we are nonetheless in the same boat.

  The RMM forced us both into this situation. It just never occurred to me that perhaps some of us may be more forced than others.

  I promptly march over to my mother’s spy. “I wish to ring my personal secretary.”

  It is infuriating that I must even issue such a request.

  The woman tugs a slip of p
aper from her briefcase and studies it. A flush steals up her neck, past her crisp collar. “Lady Charlotte is on Her Serene Highness’ approved list of callers, Your Highness. Allow me to dial the number for you.”

  My teeth grind together so forcefully I am positive I’ve worn away enamel. My parents have lost their damn minds.

  When Charlotte answers, I inch toward the balcony again, lowering my voice once more so the stooge cannot hear me properly. “Have you heard back from the P.I. you hired to investigate Mathieu yet?”

  “I ought to have a report in a week or so,” she says. “I requested it be thorough.”

  “Get it sooner.”

  Because maybe my sister has a very good point.

  chapter 45

  christian

  Three days after Isabelle’s phone call, I am summoned to the Grand Duchess’ office. And once there, it takes all of my self-control not to laugh in her overly Botoxed face. Because the moment I see it, all tight and strained as her fury tries to take root yet remains scarily bland, I know she knows.

  I owe Isabelle a drink. A whole case of them, even.

  She waves her personal secretary out and waits until the door clicks behind him before speaking. “I received a phone call from Prince Gustav this morning that was most . . .” She folds her bony hands in front of her; the knuckles are white in displeasure. “Disappointing.”

  Mild curiosity is such a difficult emotion to produce when all you want to do is gleefully shout, “Suck it, She-Wolf!” whilst holding up a middle finger to one’s mother and sovereign.

  This is a bloody fantastic moment.

  She chews on lemons as she tells me what I already know. Fumes when she laments the loss of assured connections to Vattenguldia. Seethes when she paints Isabelle as a weak, pathetic excuse for a royal. When she’s done frothing at the mouth, I don’t give her what she wants, or hell, even expects, from me. I don’t exhibit any outrage, nor do I share with her the joy that comes from hearing her plans have gone to hell in a hand basket. I merely nod to acknowledge I’ve heard her words, and then I wait to be dismissed.

  She no longer has anything to blackmail me over. My father, my brother . . . even Parker are currently safe for now. I just need to ensure it stays that way.

  Right when I’m to leave the room, she says, “Christian, actions such as Isabelle’s will not be tolerated in this household.”

  I turn back toward her, ensuring my face is blank.

  “If you or Lukas ever dare to disobey me, or sully our line by marrying outside of whom I approve, you will regret the day you were born into this illustrious family.”

  I’m in too good of a mood to be so ungenerous. I’ll give her a little parting gift. The door swings open wide. Her personal secretary is at his desk, and there are a few other aides milling about. “Too late, Your Highness. I already regret being in this so-called illustrious family. I think anyone would, when they have a mother like you. No crown is worth this nightmare.”

  I finally break into the smile that’s been chasing me as her indignant howling shadows my departure. It’s music to my ears.

  chapter 46

  Elsa

  “Now that your sister has ruined her life,” my mother is saying, “we expect you to uphold the Vasa family traditions and do our family proud.”

  She is overseeing my packing for Paris. Normally this is something Charlotte does, but after Isabelle’s departure and my voiced arguments, it appears Her Serene Highness does not trust me to properly pack for the trip. Worse yet, Charlotte is not even to come with. My mother’s personal assistant, a meek yet humorless woman named Greta, will have that honor. I suppose it could be worse—my mother could be coming—but there are several local commitments she cannot abandon.

  I am officially in medieval, locked-in-a-tower, princess hell.

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask from the armchair I’ve been relegated to. Greta, freshly exiting the closet with an armful of dresses and coats, flinches at my vitriol. “No, really. Are you fucking kidding me?”

  My name is a warning from Her Serene Highness’ blood red lips.

  I am beyond angry, and her disapproval does nothing to stem the foul language she abhors from shooting out of my mouth. For days now, all I have heard from my parents and sovereigns is: Get to Paris; ensure the press believes the love story is real and magical. In response, I once more informed Mat that I did not want us to marry. I flat-out asked if he was being blackmailed into this union of ours. All I got was telling silence. Well, silence and a sigh that filled my ear with an alarming amount of distressed resignation.

  Anxiety crawls over my skin. I cannot believe this is happening. This is really happening.

  “Why do you desire me to marry this man so much?” Greta scurries back into the closet as I shout at the woman who gave birth to me. “What kind of mother does this to her own flesh and blood?”

  I want answers from someone. Anyone.

  The woman whose looks I favor stands up, smoothing her slacks. “A desperate one.”

  It is enough to knock my self-righteousness off balance. Desperate? Desperate for what? The updated technological systems for our shipping fleets? Most of Vattenguldia’s commerce comes from corporations based in other lands flying under our flags for a fee usually much less than their home countries. Our personal shipping fleets are miniscule.

  Why are they so keen on updating a few dozen ships?

  “Why desperate?” I crowd her personal space. Warning bells blare in my ears. “Talk to me, Mother. Perhaps together, we can figure out a solution to whatever problem you’re worried about if we simply—”

  She turns and exits my apartments before I finish my question, but not before she issues a sharp order for Greta to ensure I receive a proper night’s rest before I depart for Paris in the morning.

  I march over to my desk and extract a sheet of paper. Then I write a letter to Charlotte, demanding she quiz Josef about shipping technology . . . and to share what dirt she’s dug up on Mat’s family and situation.

  I will get my answers one way or another. I must.

  chapter 47

  Christian

  “Are you sure about this?”

  Lukas slides a beer my way, his dark eyes uncharacteristically hard to read, but that’s okay. I know what my little brother is asking, what the true questions behind the five simple yet weighted words are. More so, I know exactly how he feels about it, even if he won’t outright say it.

  It’s just the two of us right now. Parker is already downstairs, waiting for me, but I needed to ensure I spoke with my brother before I got on the plane.

  The beer is stout and foamy, just like I prefer. I let the bitterness twist down my throat before I answer him.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  He nods slowly.

  I set the glass down. “Were there any problems?”

  My brother’s stout remains untouched. “None that I can tell. But, we can trust Gunnar. He’s . . . unconventional, but he gets the job done.”

  It’s my turn to nod. “Keep me updated. I want everything in place, just in case . . .”

  Just in case the She-Wolf gets wind of familial treachery.

  Luk blows out a hard breath. Then he proffers his fist. Mine knocks his, and then I stand up to leave.

  chapter 48

  Elsa

  Greta napped the entire way to Roissy Airport, which was fine by me. It was probably good for her, too, considering the extreme toxicity of my mood. Their Serene Highnesses actually accompanied me to the airport to personally ensure I boarded our private jet. There were a few tense moments in which I feared they would climb the airstairs alongside me. Instead, my father said quietly, “I know you are displeased with the situation—”

  “I am more than displeased.” It was the frostiest voice I had ever used with him before. At that moment, it did not feel as if I were speaking with my father. In a lot of ways, it did not feel as if I was spe
aking to my sovereign.

  I was communicating with a jailer.

  “There are moments in every sovereign’s life that are less for the betterment of ourselves and more for the common good, Elsa.”

  “Your Highness, I say this with all the respect afforded a crown heir to her lord father, but unless you are here to inform me you value my life and choices as an individual and your daughter rather than a piece of chattel you can use to further your personal agenda, I would really rather get on the jet so I might go whore myself to the rich man you have selected for me.”

  That infuriated him, which was entirely acceptable. I was pretty pissed off myself.

  For years, I looked up to my father. He is not perfect, not by a long shot. But he is a mostly good and popular Prince who loves Vattenguldia immensely. I strove to be like him, to also be a beacon of hope and service to our constitutional monarchy. And now . . . now I no longer know what to think, let alone feel toward him or my mother.

  The Chambérys reserved me rooms at one of the most luxurious of hotels in all of Paris. My suite is gorgeous and opulent, to be sure, but beauty means nothing if it comes at the expense of a loss of personal freedom.

  Thankfully, Greta is to stay in a different room on an entirely different floor. I think the both of us are relieved at such a set-up. She is a nice woman, but she’s no nanny. And she shouldn’t be, for goodness’ sake. She’s the personal secretary to the Queen of Vattenguldia. There is no good reason she ought to be hovering over her Hereditary Princess as if, once she looks away, I might drown myself in drugs or dance naked upon bar tops.

  “Is there anything else I might get for you tonight, my lady? Perhaps room service?”

  My eyes remain on the stunning view of the Eiffel Tower in the distance when I let Greta know I am tired and wish only for sleep.