by Leslie North
She pushed herself off the limo, dropped the silver pump back in its bag, and straightened. What they did have in America was a total lack of royalty. There would be no noble duties waiting for her when she started her new life there, no social climbing, no stepfamily, no rules. All she had to do was win the king for Daphne or Anna and she would be free to have all the sex-drenched sunset rides she wanted.
Back straight, she marched into the Summer House.
2
Phillip tugged at his collar. “I don’t know why we don’t just hold interviews for this position like we do for any other,” he grumbled. At least that way the process of choosing a queen would be over quickly.
He coughed as a cloud of hair spray enveloped him. In the mirror above him the royal hairdresser paused, and Phillip sighed, rearranging his irritable expression into one of approval. It wasn’t the man’s fault that Phillip had to get married. Well, it was, but only in a roundabout way. His people needed a queen. They needed one for stability, for the continuity of the royal line, and for the vast amount of good that she could do with the power of her influence. And damn it, he would give them the best one he could find.
He just wished he didn’t have to suffer through a multi-week party to do it.
At his side, Eric laughed. “Don’t worry, brother, I’ll be happy to console all the girls you don’t choose.”
Of course he would. Usually Phillip didn’t begrudge his little brother’s playboy lifestyle, but hell—right now, Phillip would give anything to be able to skip the welcome dinner, find that girl from the driveway, and do whatever it took to convince her to take that ride with him after all. That heady combination of smoking-hot body and total guilelessness had just about done him in. She’d stuttered while trying to flirt with him, which was the cutest thing he’d ever seen, but she’d also put that gorgeous ass firmly within perfect grabbing distance which had to mean she felt the spark between them as much as he did.
The tailor fiddled with Phillip’s cufflinks. Phillip peered past the man in the mirror, toward where his head of security, Drake, stood by the door. “Did you ever find out who that girl was, the one in the driveway?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
Eric glanced up from his own cufflinks. “Aw, did she do something wrong? Break one of your precious traditions, Your Highness?”
Phillip tightened his lips. “No.”
Drake shook his head. “Sorry, sire, we’ve been overloaded with security concerns with all the new arrivals this evening. But if you’d like us to prioritize that, we can.”
“Please do.”
Eric’s eyebrows went up. He leaned forward, scanned Phillip up and down, and then laughed out loud. “No,” he drawled, grinning in delight. “She didn’t do something wrong. You just thought she was hot, didn’t you? Who was she, one of the inland girls? Have I met her?”
Phillip sighed. His brother would find out eventually anyway. “She was a maid,” he said grudgingly.
Eric sat back in his chair, smile vanishing. “Damn,” he said, which pretty much summed it up—but before either of them could say more, the door opened and the tailor, head of security, and hairdresser all snapped to attention.
The Queen Mother swept in and eyed her sons. “With how often I catch you two chattering when you have official duties to attend, you’d think you were still in nursery,” she said archly, and Phillip found an excuse to straighten his cufflink and avoid eye contact.
“Mother dearest!” Eric exclaimed, but she thumped him lightly on the head with her fan as she passed, and he fell silent with a hmph.
“You,” she said to her youngest, “should be getting prepared in your own quarters. And you,” she turned to Phillip, who was forced to meet her eyes in the mirror, “should know better. If the maids are distracting you, I can always send them away so you can concentrate long enough to choose an eligible wife.”
Phillip let out a long breath. She was right, of course. Hair and cufflinks in place, he stood and gave her a slight bow in acknowledgement of the point scored. “That won’t be necessary.”
But she wasn’t done. “It’s time to cut the immaturity out of your life, Phillip. In fact, I think the most mature thing to do would be to give yourself some extra margin time. Pick a wife by the end of the month. That way you can have an engagement of decent length.” It wasn’t a request.
Phillip opened his mouth to protest. He had three months before his birthday, and that was already making things hard enough—but to cut his timeline down to a single month? It was unbearable.
But his mother wasn’t finished. “Because if you don’t get yourself together soon, Eric will inherit the throne.”
The room went still. Phillip ground his teeth. Everyone, his little brother included, knew Eric would make a terrible king. If his mother was threatening to disrupt the line of inheritance, she was deadly serious about him picking a bride this month. And that meant he had no choice but to acquiesce to her demands, because he was committed to doing whatever was best for Danovar, and that sure as hell wasn’t letting his irresponsible little brother take the throne.
But what aggravated him most was that his mother thought the threat was necessary—that he wasn’t already thoroughly aware of what was required of him as king, and prepared to do it even though it meant personal sacrifices. He’d thought she knew him better than that.
Somewhere downstairs, a bell rang, summoning the royal family to greet their guests.
She took his silence for agreement. “Good,” she said, opening the door again. “I expect you to be downstairs in five minutes. And speaking of things that should be cut out of your life, you really should let your hairdresser take some shears to that mane.” And with that, she was gone.
Eric huffed. “Always quick with a parting shot, that woman. Not that she’s wrong. You’re starting to look like my sheepdog.”
Phillip tugged on his jacket and didn’t deign to answer. His hair was the only part of him that didn’t have to fit his perfect traditional image, and he liked it. Plus, he hadn’t missed the maid’s appreciation of it earlier. Not that that could come to anything. His chances of having a fling with her now were about as nonexistent as his chances of marrying for love.
Eric frowned and stepped closer. “Listen,” he said in a low voice. The hairdresser, tailor, and Drake all caught the tone and made themselves scarce, finding things to do on the other side of the room as Eric put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I know you want to do this right, but I have to tell you, I’m not convinced picking one of the women Mom dug up on the basis of who checks off the most queen-like qualities is the way to go. A political marriage might’ve been okay for our parents, but you and I both know you’re a hopeless romantic. It would sap the life out of you. If you really want to marry—although I maintain that’s always a terrible idea in general—then you should marry for love. Go after that maid, if you like her so much. Give your heart a chance at calling the shots for once. You’d be happier for it, and the country probably would be too.”
Philip shrugged his brother’s hand off. “I appreciate the concern, but this is what’s best. My wife has to be a queen and as such her primary function will be to serve the country, same as me. Love would’ve been a nice addition, but if it’s not possible, I’ll just have to learn to live without it.” He allowed himself a sigh as he turned toward the door. “Besides, if I go after the maid now, it’ll just get her fired.”
Eric spread his hands, obviously uncomfortable with all the talk of love and duty. “Okay, Phil. Whatever you say.”
“Don’t call me Phil.”
Eric assumed a look of total innocence, which meant he was already plotting how to call him the hated nickname as often as possible tonight.
The tailor strode up behind them. “Sire?” he said, hand on the doorknob. The Queen Mother’s five minutes were almost up.
Phillip squared his shoulders and faced the door. Time to go find his future wife.
3
/> Ella was headed for the bar when the king entered the room.
Finally, she thought, glad for the distraction so she could nab some drinks without getting sucked into any more conversations with the surrounding nobility. Most of them were nice enough, but she was on a mission and they were the competition. Not that that ever stopped her from being polite. Which was why it had taken her nearly twenty minutes to get to the bar.
“Three merlots, please,” she told the bartender, ordering for her stepsisters and herself. She hadn’t given the stage more than a quick glance yet. Priorities were priorities; liquid fortification first, then she’d size up the king.
The bartender shook his head. “Sorry, miss, all we’re serving tonight is champagne.”
She slumped. She never drank champagne—it tasted disgusting plus it went straight to her head, and she couldn’t afford any giggling fits or finger-dancing scenes on the first night of the Summer House Party. “Just two, then,” she conceded, and stared morosely at the pale, fizzy liquid as the bartender poured it. She bet her mechanic didn’t drink champagne. He looked like a whiskey man. Scotch, maybe.
She wondered what he was doing right now. Probably fixing up another bike, covered in engine grease and managing to look all the sexier for it. She should’ve taken him up on his offer of a ride. If it weren’t for her damn sense of duty, she could be what he was doing right now.
Maybe she’d keep an eye out for him, see if the offer was still open for later. She could check “have a summer fling” and “learn to ride a motorcycle” off her bucket list, plus she’d get to see more of Danovar. She’d often been curious about her country of birth, and lo and behold, the chance to explore it with a local had dropped into her lap. It would be irresponsible, really, for her to turn him down if he made the offer again. In fact, maybe she should slip out to the garage right now. She was already wearing a black dress to help her blend into the crowd—it would help her blend into the shadows as she made her escape, too. But first she’d need to get these drinks back to her stepsisters and make sure they’d spend the rest of the night impressing the king.
The bartender slid the champagne onto the counter. She broke from her reverie and caught him just as he was about to turn back around. “Oh, and also, do you happen to have any macrobiotic snacks?” The man blinked at her, and she tried to explain. The snacks were for Daphne. Ella usually carried three or four around in her pockets, but of course this dress didn’t have any.
“Ah, sorry, miss, we don’t carry those. But we have some peanuts.”
She drooped. “That’s okay, I’ll go find the concierge and ask if he can have some delivered.” Another duty. Coming back from college had shown her just how many she’d taken on over the course of her life when it came to her stepfamily. It was her own fault, of course—she couldn’t stop her natural tendency toward helpfulness. But also, she was starting to realize, it was a little bit her stepmother’s fault too, for allowing Ella to take on duties that she should be overseeing herself. That was why Ella had to seal the deal with the king. If she wanted to get out from under this life of servanthood, she had to fulfill her bargain with her stepmother and marry off Anna or Daphne. Then Ella would be free to pursue her own dreams, instead of helping other people with theirs. And speaking of the people she was helping…
She turned and scanned the crowd for her stepsisters. Anna was skulking off by a potted plant, staring raptly at her purse. Surely her scientist stepsister hadn’t managed to sneak a research text in that tiny thing, had she? Ella groaned and started to swivel back toward the bar to grab the champagne…and then she caught a glance of the king, and froze.
His impressive muscles were hidden beneath a perfectly-pressed tux. His awesome man-bun had been rearranged, not a hair out of place. The oil and grease were gone but it was as clear as day:
The King of Danovar was her mechanic.
She cleared her throat weakly. “You know what, I will have another champagne,” she told the bartender, and downed Daphne’s. She glanced back up at the king/mechanic, remembering all those naughty things she’d thought about doing to him—and having him do to her. She set Daphne’s now-empty glass on the bar. Then she downed Anna’s too.
Oh God, this was so embarrassing. How had she not recognized him earlier? He’d had some oil on his face and he wasn’t wearing anything like what she’d expected a king to wear, but still. She could only think that she’d been too distracted by her mission with the stepsisters to realize who he was, plus she’d been out of the country so long she hadn’t seen his face on the news recently to jog her memory. What must he have thought of her, clueless and awkward as she tried to flirt with the king?
He was still giving the welcome speech. Rather dryly, she realized, even if he was well-spoken. He went on about duty for quite some time—his own duty to the country and how much it meant to him, and his future wife’s duties as queen and diplomat and philanthropist. Then he rattled off the qualities he expected of the woman he would marry like they were a list of groceries: kind, intelligent, discreet, charitable.
Someone cleared their throat at her side. Her stepmother, come to see what was taking her so long. Ella shook her head, unable to form words just yet, and her stepmother frowned and turned to check on the bartender, who was pouring the two new glasses of champagne.
The king scanned the room—and caught Ella’s eye. He paused for half a second in his speech, probably not long enough for anyone else to notice, but Ella felt it to her toes. And then he smiled, just for her.
Her answering grin spread over her face before she could think about it, and she shook her head. She wanted to be mad at him for not telling her who he was earlier, but who could be mad at him when he smiled like that?
Her stepmother elbowed her lightly. “Close your mouth, dear,” she murmured. Aghast, Ella let her grin fall into a small, close-lipped smile. That made two times she’d displayed her goofy grin for the king. Ugh.
But then again, what was she even doing, smiling at the king? She’d come to this party with the express purpose of marrying one of her stepsisters to him. Having a fling with him herself first would be wrong, no matter how delicious he looked in that tux. And anything bigger than a fling was impossible. He’d just spent ten minutes listing the ideal qualities of his queen, and had made it clear he expected the woman he chose to be a servant to the country first and foremost. Ella was trying to get out of a life of servitude, not add an entire country’s population to her list of people to wait on.
She finished off the glass of champagne in her hand and forced herself to evaluate him from a distance. His speech had been both intelligent and dry, so maybe Anna would be in the running. God knew she would respond better to a list of attributes than a play at love.
She scooped up her stepsisters’ champagne and made her way over to them, her stepmother trailing behind. Together the two of them pulled Anna away from her phone—yep, she’d been reading an emailed research document—and corralled Daphne, hoping to get the king’s attention so they could show him what a good match one of the girls would be. But as the night went on, it became clear that every lady there had the same purpose in mind. While the king made his rounds through the room, he was mobbed by the women, all of them simpering and laughing at nothing and finding excuses to touch him. Ella couldn’t get near enough to speak to him, but every time she caught his eye, she could see the faint gleam of panic.
At her side, Anna snorted and muttered, “I think the two of us are the only ones who understand this is a job interview, not some twisted version of The Bachelor.”
Ella ground her teeth. Anna was right. And with so many women all vying for the king’s attention, what were the chances he would choose one of her stepsisters? If she didn’t succeed here, her stepmother would keep dragging all three of them on more “royal tours,” trying to marry one off to bring the family name back to its old glory.
She straightened. She would just have to make sure the king chose Daphne o
r Anna, that was all. And she knew exactly how to convince him.
4
Phillip had a death grip on his champagne glass, but he hadn’t had enough time to himself to take a single sip. He was being suffocated by taffeta and drowned in simpering smiles. The blonde duchess at his left side was doing her damnedest to whisper in his ear even though at least five other people were also talking at him, and the baroness on his right wouldn’t stop petting his bicep.
He’d had enough.
He tugged at his bowtie, a signal to Drake, and the ever-attentive head of security swooped in to extract him. “Excuse me ladies, I have to borrow the king for a moment,” he said, and all the ladies whimpered their disappointment at having been robbed of his attention. He said a few gracious phrases, he couldn’t remember which ones, and then slipped out of the room as quickly as possible.
He ripped off the tie as he hurried to the garage. How the hell was he supposed to ascertain which woman would make the best queen when all they wanted was romance? Didn’t they understand how important this was, how seriously he took it? He’d already thought this party was a terrible idea, but now he was considering canceling it entirely. Maybe he could conduct interviews via Skype or something.
He stepped into the darkened garage and the residual noise from the party petered off into cricket chirps and the occasional hoot from a nearby owl. Phillip rolled up his sleeves, basking in the quiet. Here and the stables were the only places where he could truly relax nowadays. The smell of oil and rubber and horses and hay calmed him like nothing else could. Thank God he would at least be able to ride on the House grounds by himself for the next two weeks without dragging a trail of bodyguards or eligible ladies along with him. Looking forward to some alone time, he wheeled the vintage Indian bike out and swung a leg over it—and stopped.