Royal Marriage Market

by Heather Lyons

  “They were serious, though?”

  I run a hand down her belly, lingering only momentarily at the shallow indentation before heading further south. “That was my impression, yes. He was crazy about her.” It’s hard to do, but my fingers still. “Els. There’s a lot we need to talk about. There are things you need to—”

  One hand settles on my lips. The other nudges my fingers to keep moving. “I think,” she says slowly, “that perhaps we can talk about this in a bit?”

  “But—”

  When she kisses me, my hormones refuse to allow me to do anything but what she asks. We come together then, all fierce and soft at the same time, mouths fusing and hands roaming and I’m finally in her once more, moving and feeling and living and dying all at once.

  When the next series of knocks sounds, Elsa throws her hands up and lets loose a tiny shriek of frustration.

  Assuming it’s the secretary who unwillingly tagged along on the trip, I remind her, “To be fair, she took a fantastically long time to find coffee. There must be twenty cafés all within a two-block radius of the hotel.” Granted, it was because she thought Elsa and Mat were together, but still.

  The woman has promise. I can work with promise.

  She presses a kiss against my collarbone before getting out of bed. “What are we going to do, Chris? I can’t send her for coffee every time she wants to come in.”

  Bloody hell, do I like it when she calls me that. That simple nickname, so common, sounds so perfect when it comes from her mouth.

  I slide out from beneath the sheets. “Since the day I’ve met you, I’ve been paying off one person or another in order to ensure our time together is uninterrupted. What makes this woman any different?”

  She simply stares at me for a good few seconds before bursting into that erotic laughter of hers. “You are going to bribe my mother’s personal secretary?”

  “Might as well. Go let her in. I need to at least put on some pants so she won’t run away in terror.”

  I get a cheeky smile and a firm smack on the arse. “She’d stick around to look. I guarantee that. Don’t you remember how long the maid back in California ogled you?”

  chapter 52

  Elsa

  Greta bears three coffees, which is ironically ideal.

  “Is His Highness already gone?” She glances around the room, as if she fears Mat may leap out from behind the drapes.

  “Yes.” I motion to a chair. “Please join me for some of the coffee you must have gone to Nice for.”

  She blanches. “Oh, Your Highness, please accept my deepest apologies. I—”

  I sigh. Poor Greta wouldn’t know a joke if it hit her over the head. “No need to apologize. I was merely teasing. I understand why you felt you ought to take your time, even if it was wholly unnecessary. Please have a seat.”

  Her bottom barely meets fabric when Christian strolls out of the bedroom, looking so delicious in his t-shirt and jeans that I drool right alongside poor Greta.

  As he sits down next to me, I think: mine.

  A hand is extended; she takes it warily, eyes widened and darting back and forth between the two of us first in confusion and then alarm.

  I love that this woman speaks volumes with her eyes, and that my mother has not squashed all emotion out of her. “Greta, I would like to introduce you to His Highness, the Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland. To make a long story short, this is my boyfriend, Christian.”

  The poor thing collapses back into her chair, even as she struggles to rise and curtsey before him. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.” Only, it doesn’t sound like a pleasure at all. She sounds as if she’s on the verge of a heart attack.

  Christian, for his part, shows no reaction toward the definition I threw out. “The pleasure is all mine, Greta. I’ve heard wonderful things about you from Elsa.”

  I think both of our eyes do some talking at that one.

  “I know it must come as a surprise to find me here when you were naturally expecting another prince,” he continues, words filled with a charming sense of camaraderie that practically undoes Greta, “but I’m going to lay this all out for you. We are all well aware of why you have been sent to Paris instead of Charlotte.”

  We are? Or rather—he is, too?

  “We are quite aware of how my presence places you in a terrible position. Do you rat a grown woman out to her overbearing parents, sovereigns or no, or do you trust your Hereditary Princess to do what is best for herself?” He smiles that too beautiful smile of his. “Greta. You cannot possibly tell me you enjoy assuming the role of a babysitter. Surely this is not what you signed up for when you accepted the position of personal assistant to Her Serene Highness.”

  The words he utters are, on paper, harsh, and yet they are issued the way a sympathetic friend reaching out for a favor would do. I have not had the pleasure of watching Christian at work before, playing his role. The majority of our so-called meetings in California kept us gagged behind the veil of instruction, and those we were allowed to speak during were opportunities to merely parrot the party line our parents provided us with. But here, in my hotel suite?

  Hot damn, I am so attracted to him. Not that I wasn’t a mere two minutes before, but his overwhelming charm and diplomacy only ups his too-ness factor.

  “But . . . but . . .” Greta is stammering.

  He continues smoothly, “Obviously, we would ensure it would be worth your while to hold your tongue.”

  Greta stills, her hands knotting together in her lap. And for a moment, fear raises its ugly head. Will she balk? I can’t risk it. “Greta, you’ve worked for my mother for years. You know she is behaving irrationally in the wake of Princess Isabelle’s elopement. I would ask of you for your understanding over how ridiculous it is what they’re—”

  But she is not listening to me. She’s focused on Christian. “How much worth my while?”

  He smiles again, practically oozing charisma. “Very worth your while.”

  Minutes later, Greta departs from the suite, for the ability to spend a very lovely few days in Paris buying whatever it is she desires and going wherever she wants.

  Before I can tackle him on the couch, Christian tugs out his phone. “Believe me,” he says, eyes hot and dark, “I want nothing more than to kiss you again right now. But Elsa, I need to know . . . are you resolute about not marrying Mat?”

  It is a sharp slap of reality right to the face, for sure. Of course I do not want to marry Mat. I have been nothing if not painfully clear about my stance since Day One. But outside of Mat growing a spine and refusing to work with me on a way to dissuade our parents, I have precious few options outside of abdicating in order to get out of the arrangement. And even that is now a long shot, considering Isabelle’s elopement and fleeing of the country.

  My frustration must surely show, because he sets the phone down and pulls me onto his lap. “Let me tell you a story. One that’s far overdue, considering I haven’t been able to share it yet, as our ability to converse has been stymied over the last few days. And then you can answer the question, okay?”

  For the next few minutes, he reveals the content of Isabelle’s surprising phone call. I am stunned, unsure of what to say or do in the face of my sister’s accusations and suspicions concerning the agreements made for our hands (especially as they are corroborated by Alfons, a man whose wit and cleverness is more often lacking than not), but when Christian admits Parker and Charlotte looked into the charges, only to find traces of validity behind them, I am at an even larger loss for words.

  “Either Parker or myself has been in touch with Charlotte nearly every day since your sister fled,” he continues, voice hushed in the large suite. “Her husband is discreetly digging deep into financial matters for us, as he is the closest to the situation.” Christian touches my face, fingers brushing softly against my skin. “I’d meant to tell you all of this when I found out, but . . .” His smile i
s paper-thin. “First, I could not get through to your cell—which Charlotte later told me got confiscated. And then, last night, I got distracted. My apologies.”

  Anger and sadness war for supremacy within the tight confines of my chest. I want nothing more than to storm the royal palace and force my parents to admit the truth, and yet there’s hollowness, too. Who does this to their children?

  “I asked you before if you were resolute about not marrying Mat. Els.” He gently angles my face until I am looking at him. “Parker is in Paris, armed with everything we’ve collected so far. Charlotte will be here in . . .” He glances at a nearby clock. “A little shy of an hour. We are willing to pull out all the stops to find the loophole out of this forced marriage, but only if you it is what you want.” A small smile is offered, one filled with a sense of sympathetic melancholy. “Of all the people you know, I think you can trust me when I tell you I will understand if you feel you must go through with this. I just want you to be aware that, as of right now, there are options available. You don’t have to go quietly, with no say. These aren’t the Middle Ages, no matter what the Monarch Council believes. We are not pawns to be moved across a chessboard, all in hopes of bettering future moves for themselves.”

  It is not fair I have to ask the next question, not when we have known each other a mere month, let alone have yet to discuss if there is even a we to consider. But I ask it anyway. “What then? What if we find the loophole out?”

  He’s quiet.

  “I ask, because . . .” I attempt to swallow the growing lump in my throat. “You are still the Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland. And I am still the Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia.”

  Hands cup my face. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  My small burst of a laugh is pitiful. “It is not as if crown sovereigns go about marrying one another. Not even in the twenty-first century.”

  “I know,” he says once more. And then, more gently, “That’s a bridge we can cross when we come to it.”

  So much uneasiness fills me—not about him, not about my feelings for him, but toward the vast reach of empty forever before me that gives no clues about a newly soft future once set so firmly in stone.

  My father threatened to remove me from the line of ascension, but with Isabelle the current black sheep of the family, I am the only heir. Hope, as tiny as it is right now, takes hold.

  Christian then unspools his own situation. He tells me of his mother, of the plight of his father, and of how his brother and he have been backed into corners all of their lives, too.

  I am outraged. Saddened. Jealous and wistful over how those whose family and traditions do not serve as chains about their wrists and ankles like ours do live their lives so freely.

  How lovely it would be if we really were just Elsa and Christian.

  “Mat doesn’t want to marry me. Of that I am certain.” I’m firm when I tell Christian this. Composed, when I want to rage. “More importantly, I do not want to marry him.” A small smile slips out, a genuine one in the face of so much heat. “He’s a nice enough fellow, but he is not the one for me.”

  I soak up Christian’s laugher, reveling in how I can feel it moving through his chest. Appreciating how, after all that’s been shared today, such a sincere emotion can still surface. “What a ringing endorsement. He’s a nice enough fellow. Just what every man wants to hear when a beautiful woman describes him.” He reclaims his phone, fingers flying across the touchscreen. I peer down to find Parker’s name.

  “Notice I didn’t say you’re nice.”

  He glances up briefly, grinning. “Ah, but I am. Just hopefully in a different way than Mat—at least when it comes to you.”

  “Digging for compliments, Your Highness?”

  The phone beeps in his hand at the same time he chuckles.

  “My point is, he feels comfortable rather than exciting, if that makes sense.”

  Christian’s feigned wince is comical. “Nice and comfortable?”

  “We hugged; it was similar to embracing a brother. Or at least, what I assume that would feel like. Perhaps more like a grandfather or uncle. Or a mere acquaintance.”

  His fingers tap upon the screen. “Thank God poor Mat isn’t here to hear his character maligned so.”

  “Would you rather me be attracted to him?”

  “Certainly not.” And then, “I saw that hug. It was a rather unpleasant experience to witness.”

  I’m amused. “Why, Chris. Are you admitting you were jealous of nice, brotherly, comfortable Mat?”

  The phone beeps again. He smiles as he admits, “Only that they were his arms around you, not mine. I was fairly positive you weren’t attracted to him in the least.”

  I gently flick his shoulder. “What an ego you have.”

  He merely shrugs, grinning.

  “You and I hugged, lest you forget. After skinny-dipping.”

  “I haven’t forgotten a thing, especially how it felt anything but brotherly. Or,” he says wryly, “in my case, sisterly.”

  “Speaking of, were Isabelle’s hugs sisterly?”

  “I wouldn’t know. We didn’t hug, but I did dance that once with her.” His shoulder nudges mine. “Does that count?”

  A hand is pressed over my lips to keep my giggle in.

  “None of that, Els. If you want to laugh, laugh.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “I’m rather taken with your laughter, you know.”

  Fragile joy blooms within my chest. “Are you?”

  He brushes his lips across my cheek, whispering in my ear, “Very. I think it’s my favorite thing to hear.”

  The phone beeps once more, so I give him a nice bit of side eye.

  “Just a minute more. I’m coordinating with Parker right now. He’s currently in the suite a floor below us.” He types with one hand; the other runs lightly up my bare leg, beneath the silk of my robe. “Ready to help us stop Operation: RMM from fully commencing.”

  “Thank goodness. I cannot imagine doing anything further with Mat than hugging. Kissing?” A tiny gasp wrenches its way out of me as his fingers trace my inner thigh. “Let alone having sex?” I pretend to shudder to hide my genuine shivers of pleasure surfacing from his light touches. “Any children between he and I would have to be created in a lab, that’s for sure.”

  The phone finally finds its way to a nearby table. “For the love of God, Els. Let’s not talk about you and Mat having sex. Brotherly or no, imagining it will only drive me crazy.”

  I am laughing once more, and it’s surreal as anything I have ever experienced, as we are planning on voluntarily blowing apart my orderly life.

  I am also leaning in to press my lips against the base of his throat. He smells so lovely this morning, all faint cologne and Christian, mixed with a hint of musk from the lingering residue of hours spent together. “Let us imagine you and I having sex, then,” I murmur against his warm skin. “Better yet, perhaps we ought to actually do the deed, and then there will be no need to imagine anything at all.”

  He grips my hips, fingers digging into the soft silk of my robe. “Parker and Charlotte will be here as soon as he gets her from the airport. There are things we still need to discuss before they arrive.”

  I find myself smiling at the huskiness in his voice, and of the growing hardness pressing against my thigh. “Surely there will be traffic on the way from the airport.”

  He groans as I purposefully shift in his lap in order to unbutton his jeans, his words stumbling, his eyes darkening. And then they disappear when my mouth meets his.

  chapter 53

  Christian

  Charlotte blows into the room, a hurricane force gale of energy mixed with powdery perfume, followed by a dazed Parker.

  “I apologize for the delay,” the statuesque blonde says to Elsa, tossing a suitcase, briefcase, coat, and scarf down on the floor. “But this one here”—she hooks a thumb behind her—“drives like he’s ninety.”

 
; Parker turns a nice shade of Fuck-My-Life red, poor bastard. I clap him on the shoulder as the ladies hug. “Did you bring the documentation?”

  He slides the straps of his messenger bag off his shoulder and pats the worn leather.

  “As I actually only recently discovered you were coming,” Elsa is saying, “there is no need to apologize.”

  Charlotte’s bright eyes swing my way. I’m positive she wants to censure me, but her manners must take hold. A curtsey precedes, “I am honored to finally make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”

  Elsa says, “None of that Your Highness bit from you, either.” She turns to me, practically daring me to disagree with her call for informality.

  I don’t bother confessing I went several rounds with Charlotte on the phone about this very thing.

  “Where is Dickie?” Elsa asks. “Did you leave him behind?”

  “Obviously. He’s in good hands—between Josef, the nanny, and my mum, he’ll be fine. I’m really only here for the duration of your trip, anyway, which is where I should have been in the first place. Speaking of,” she glances around the suite, “where is Greta?”

  “Christian paid her to go sightseeing and shopping.” Elsa ushers Charlotte toward the seating area. “If we’re lucky, we won’t see her again. My goodness, Lottie. What a novelty this is, not having to shout at one another just to be heard.”

  Parker clears his throat. “If I’m to make my flight, I need to leave in the next few minutes.”

  “Do you have everything you need?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Wait—where is Parker going?” Elsa pipes up from her place on the couch.

  “Good lord, Your Highness,” Charlotte says, “did you not tell Elsa anything?”

  I asked for informality, didn’t I?

  “To be fair,” Elsa says, “we were distracted. There wasn’t always proper time for talk.”