by Romy Sommer
When I stride into the drawing room my mother is waiting for me, and I can tell from her face that she’s heard the news.
Krisztyna Eszterháza de Erdély Hatton doesn’t look like what you’d expect of a princess. There are no twinsets and pearls in her wardrobe. She’s short and plump and maternal, prefers jeans and riding boots to ballgowns, and tends to smell more like the horses she breeds than Chanel. I have absolutely no clue what drew her and my vain, Savile Row-suit-wearing father together but, whatever it was, it clearly works. They’re headed for their fortieth anniversary.
Her over-excited beagle starts to yap and dance in circles as I approach. My mother rises and holds out her hands. “You’ve been out riding?”
I squeeze her hands, then, out of habit, bend to scratch the dog’s head while she pours tea for us both from the fresh pot that is steaming gently on its silver tray – though I could do with something a great deal stronger. “I was. Until Uncle Lajos sent for me.”
She frowns as she settles back in her favourite armchair and accepts the teacup I hold out to her. “János just called with the news. Sonja must be devastated! I tried to call her, but her secretary said she was sleeping.”
“They sedated her.”
“Miklós was always so headstrong.” She always insisted on calling Nick by the name on his birth certificate, even though he hated it and even his parents called him by his Anglicised name. “And he wasn’t fit to be crown prince. He had no interest in Erdély’s culture or traditions, let alone current policy. But what will my brother do now? Mátyás is a money-grubbing leach who’ll probably sell everything of value in the country to the highest bidder. But if there isn’t an heir, then Erdély defaults back to the crown of Hungary.”
“Which hasn’t existed since Hungary came under Austrian rule in the fifteen-hundreds,” I point out, rather pleased with myself for having remembered that, and equally keen to divert her from this line of thinking.
“Exactly! What will become of us?”
I shake my head. She’s lived in the UK her entire adult life and yet still thinks of herself as Erdélian. Besides, does it really matter what happens to some tiny, backward country halfway across Europe? It could become a province of Hungary for all I care. Not that I’d say that out loud anywhere my mother can hear.
She sips her tea, then looks at me sharply. “Why did Lajos want to see you?”
Damn. I really hoped she wouldn’t ask, and she knows me too well to let me get away with a lie. I clear my throat. “He offered me the opportunity to be his successor.” Not that it’s much of an opportunity. More like a life sentence.
My mother’s eyes shine. “Yes. That would be an excellent solution. My sister won’t like it, of course, and Mátyás will be spitting mad, but that would be the sensible thing to do.”
Sensible for who? Certainly not for me! And I am no different from my cousins. I am vain and selfish enough to put my own interests ahead of Erdély’s, and I’m not going to pretend any different, not even to spare my mother’s feelings. But I choke back my retort and instead I say, “He has asked me to think about it, and to give him an answer by the time of Nick’s funeral.”
Her gaze sharpens on me and she frowns again as she senses my lack of enthusiasm. “Promise me that you will at least give his offer serious consideration.”
Shit. I really don’t want to make that promise. “I promise,” I say.
Chapter 2
Khara
“I want you to be my bridesmaid.”
“Am I experiencing déjà-vu, or is this for real?” I’m stretched out on a towel beside the local public pool, my textbook open in front of me. Though it’s a weekday and the place is pretty empty, there’s a kids’ swimming class on the go and the kids are screaming and laughing. I have to cover my other ear so I can hear my friend’s reply.
“For real. Big white dress, cathedral, the whole nine yards.”
I have to pinch myself. My friend Phoenix is married to a prince. About to marry a prince. I’m one of only three people other than the happy couple who know that they married in secret a year ago and this big royal wedding is just for show. It’s a long story – the kind that can only happen right here in Vegas.
“Let me get this straight: you want me – a waitress who still lives with her mother in a double wide – to be your bridesmaid at a royal wedding?”
Phoenix’s chuckle doesn’t sound at all princess-like. “Of course I want you to share this moment with me. You were there for me first time round, and you should be there this time round. The only difference is that this time you’ll need a passport.”
Yeah, sure. As if a royal wedding is going to be anything like the quickie Vegas chapel wedding Phoenix and Max had first time round. For one thing, I don’t think any cathedral will allow glitter guns.
Luckily, the crackle of the long distance call (or is it my cheap, bottom-of-the-range cell phone?) masks the fact that my laughter is really hysteria. I am so not the kind of girl who should be a bridesmaid at a royal wedding. I’ve never been outside the state of Nevada, let alone out the country. I don’t even own a passport.
“It’s all taken care of,” Phoenix says. “We have an embassy in DC. They’ll help you get a passport, visa and sort your travel arrangements. The invitation’s for you and your brother, since you were both there to witness our first wedding. And his girlfriend, of course.”
“Calvin won’t come. The baby’s due around then, and he won’t travel without Aliya. But he’ll be so thrilled to be invited.” Certainly more thrilled than I feel right now. Nope, the emotion I’m feeling is terror.
“Just you then. Come spend the rest of the summer, until school starts. You’ll love it here! Westerwald is unlike anything you can imagine.”
She’s told me a lot about the little fairy tale kingdom tucked in between France and Germany, a place of castles and vineyards and rivers, and I’ve dreamed of one day seeing it for myself. I just didn’t think ‘one day’ would come so soon. Or ever.
“I can’t take all that time off work,” I protest. “Frank’s a sweetheart, but he’ll never be able to hold my job open that long.” And I can’t afford to lose this job. I still have a final semester’s tuition to pay for, and every day I spend in Westerwald will be a day I won’t be earning.
“You won’t need to work. We’ll take care of everything while you’re here, and I promise you won’t need to worry about your tuition when you get back home.”
My back stiffens. “I won’t take your charity.”
On the other end of the line, Phoenix huffs out an exasperated breath. “Don’t be an idiot. This isn’t charity. This is me, needing your help to get through what is going to be the biggest and most nerve-racking month of my life. I need you here, and I’ll do anything to make that happen. Please, Khara. For me?”
Even though I only knew her a few months before she met Max and traveled to Europe, Phoenix is the closest friend I’ve ever had. I’d jump through a ring of fire for her.
“How many other bridesmaids will there be?” I ask. If it’s a royal wedding, surely there’ll be a big entourage. Maybe I won’t stand out so much if I can hide in a crowd.
But when was I ever that lucky? “It’s a European-style wedding,” she says. “One bridesmaid, one best man, a couple of flower girls. We want to keep it simple and classy.”
Classy. I choke on that word. My idea of class is paper napkins. “This really isn’t a good idea. Isn’t there a duchess or something you could ask?”
“You can’t seriously turn down an all-expenses-paid trip to Europe and free board in a palace, now, can you?” Phoenix continues. “Consider it an educational experience.”
I press my eyes shut. Her invitation is tempting. So tempting. But … whoever heard of a royal bridesmaid with blue hair?
“Think of it this way: one whole month away from your mother,” she says.
And that right there is all the argument I need. “Okay. But I’m still paying
my own tuition.”
***
Love is a lie we tell ourselves. It’s really nothing more than chemistry. That tremor we feel when we meet someone’s gaze and think ‘This is it’? Yup, that’s just hormones. What it really means is that we’re looking at a guy and thinking ‘Yeah, I’d like to do him’ – and then, to make ourselves feel less slutty, we tell ourselves we’re in love.
But I’ve never been one to lie to myself. So in this moment I’m looking at the best man and thinking ‘Yeah, I’d like to do him.’
You can call me slutty if you like. I don’t care. At least I’m honest.
He hasn’t seen me yet, which is just as well, since I wasn’t expecting company and I’m not wearing any make-up. What I am wearing is a ratty old Vegas 51s sweatshirt and tracksuit pants. It might be summer, but Europe is chilly compared to Nevada, and this palace’s heating system must be at least two hundred years old. The creaks and groans of the pipes at least make me feel a little less like I’m inside a Disney fairy tale.
Unlike all the other girls I grew up with, I never wanted to live a fairy tale life. I never dreamed of fame and fortune; all I ever wanted was to belong right where I am. I believe in honest hard work, not glass slippers and fairy godmothers. Besides, I’ve seen what chasing unrealistic dreams does to people. No, my dream isn’t to live in some draughty palace with a prince, but rather a three-bedroom bungalow in the suburbs with its own yard and a garage, with an honest, steady, dependable man. And don’t tell me men like that don’t exist, because they do. Men like my stepfather and my brother. And like Max.
The two men on the level below me move to sit in armchairs close to the empty fireplace – high-backed leather armchairs, the kind I’ve only ever seen in the movies. Behind them is a glassed-in wall of old-fashioned books, all in matching sets, which look as if they’re just for show.
I’m up in the gallery, a carpeted walkway above their heads which circles the enormous high-ceilinged library. Phoenix suggested I look here for entertainment if the jet lag kept me awake and since my body has no idea what time it is and clearly doesn’t want to sleep, here I am. And she was right – these books hidden from public view are definitely more my kind of books. They look just like the shelves in my favorite second-hand bookshop.
Neither of the men has looked up and noticed I’m here, and I plan to keep it that way. I crouch down behind the wooden railing and edge over a little so I can see them better. The back of Max’s armchair is turned to me so all I can see of him is his fair hair catching the low yellow light. That same light falls directly onto the man seated in the armchair across from him. The best man.
He looks vaguely familiar, like a TV actor you know you’ve seen before but can’t quite place. Thick dark hair that I’m sure would be curly if he let it grow longer, strong cheekbones, and a pointed chin sporting two days’ worth of scruff. He’s wearing a black leather jacket that makes him look like a biker rather than a stockbroker, or whatever it is Phoenix told me he does. She spent much of the drive between the airport and the palace telling me about him, but I have to admit that as soon as I realized he was one of those spoiled trust-fund types I tuned out. I am so done with entitled men and their groping hands. Looking at him now, though, I wish I’d paid a little more attention. After all, I’m young and single and a girl has needs.
“Have you made a decision yet?” Max asks.
His best man shrugs, slinging one leg casually over the other. “What’s there to decide? I don’t want the responsibility. My life would have to change, and I rather like things exactly as they are right now – easy, commitment-free, and no one else to think about except myself.”
And just like that he stops being sexy. I don’t care how good he looks in a leather jacket – or out of it. Any man who shirks his responsibilities so he can keep having fun isn’t worth a dime in my book.
“How did your family take the news?” Max asks.
The best man looks down, as if he’s concentrating hard on swirling the golden liquid around in his tumbler. “I haven’t told them yet.” Then he glances up at Max. “I was kind of hoping I could lie low here with you in Westerwald until after the wedding.”
And a coward to boot. Seriously not a sexy look on any man.
He leans forward, his elbow on his knee. “But I’ll also understand if you no longer want me as your best man. With all the media speculation since Nick’s death, it might detract attention from your wedding. Wouldn’t one of your brothers be better for the job?”
“Hmm, talk about Hobson’s Choice: my mother’s bastard or my father’s bastard? Either way, the press would be savage. Thanks for the offer, but you’re still my safest bet.”
I grin. Yup, Westerwald’s royal family takes dysfunctional to a whole other level. Makes mine look almost normal.
“Who would have thought I’d ever be considered a safe choice?” The best man sprawls back in his armchair, oozing the kind of self-assurance I only wish I had.
Max laughs. “Yeah, well, I asked the Duke of Cambridge but he was busy, so you’ll have to do.”
“Any hot bridesmaids to sweeten the deal? That’s supposed to be a perk of being best man, isn’t it?”
I shrink back into the shadows. This is definitely not a conversation I want to be caught eavesdropping on.
“Only one bridesmaid, and yes, she’s hot, but she’s not your type.”
I make myself even smaller, which is about the size I feel. No, I don’t suppose a girl like me would in any way be considered the right type for a man like him.
“One is all I need,” the best man says. “And I don’t have a type.” Even from here, I can see he’s smirking. The expression makes him look even more familiar, as if I’ve seen that expression before.
Max chuckles. “Good luck with that. Khara will have your balls and eat them for breakfast. And I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but you do have a type: easy.”
I’m not sure whether to be flattered that my best friend’s husband doesn’t think I’m easy, or insulted that he thinks I’m a ball-breaker.
“The women I date only look easy because no woman can resist my charm.” The best man takes a sip from his tumbler and smiles. Forget self-confidence. What he’s oozing is arrogance. And right now the only thing I want to do to him is smack that smirk right off his face. The white-hot anger that rises up in me reminds me where I’ve seen him before, of that other time when he made me feel small and insignificant, as if I was nothing more than an object, something that could easily be his for the taking. He has even less chance with me now than he did a year ago.
Slowly, I unclench my fists. I really don’t want to hear any more of this conversation. I’ll have to do without a book to read tonight. As silently as I can, I creep away toward the narrow door in the wall of books that will lead me out into the upstairs corridor. I leave the door open behind me. I don’t want to give away my presence with squeaking hinges.
I may be leaving without the bedtime read I came looking for, but I’m still glad I came looking. I wasn’t expecting this wedding to be a picnic, but at least now I’ve been forewarned of one danger.
Chapter 3
Khara
When I wake I have to pinch myself. I still can’t believe the last few days weren’t just a dream. The three flights I had to take to get here were thrilling and scary in equal measure, but those emotions were nothing compared to the joy of seeing Phoenix when I got off that last plane. I admit, there were tears. She hasn’t changed a bit, still that same warm, friendly person I knew when we worked together in the casino bar, not a princessy air or grace in sight. Then there was the luxury car ride through a town that looks like something out of a picture book, even if the sky was gray and overcast and threatening to rain. This palace is something else too! Phoenix gave me a tour that made my head spin – breathtaking state rooms, the royal family’s private apartments, guest rooms that look like they belong in the pages of a Condé Nast magazine, and an entire wing
of offices.
“Sometimes it feels more like living in an office building, with people coming and going all the time, and official government meetings,” Phoenix told me. “Our real home is the castle in Waldburg where we usually spend weekends. You’ll get to spend some time there after the wedding.” She said it so casually, like everyone has a medieval castle as a weekend holiday home.
We had to skip a tour of the gardens (yeah, there’s more than one!) as it started to rain, but that’s just as well since my head was already about to explode.
And then this room! I really have stepped into a fairy tale. Any moment now I expect a fairy godmother to appear and offer me a magical ballgown. My guest room is massive, big enough to fit two sofas, a writing desk, a dresser, an antique cabinet which I discovered last night conceals a flat-screen TV, and enough floor space left over for me to waltz in, if I knew how to waltz.
The bed isn’t one of those fairy tale canopied ones with drapes, but it’s still super-impressive: solid, with wooden bedposts topped with giant carved acorns. Compared to the single bed which is all I can fit into my room back home, it’s big enough to throw a party in, and feels like sleeping on a cloud. I really must remember to ask Phoenix what thread count these bedsheets are.
I stretch, looking around the room, absorbing every detail just in case this is a dream and I wake up back in the same bedroom I’ve slept in the last thirty years. The walls are papered with a simple pattern of broad stripes in pale green and cream. No paintings or decoration, but on the ledge above the white-painted fireplace are two porcelain figurines of dancing couples. I slide out of bed and cross the cool, patterned parquet floor to the windows, pulling back the floral drapes that feel like silk under my fingers. The windows on this side of the palace are bigger, Phoenix explained last night, because they overlook the royal family’s private garden, so this wing has more privacy than all the others.