Royal Marriage Market (10 page)

“You have a seed in your front teeth,” is Christian’s response.

“You are a veritable Prince Charming, publically pointing out women’s flaws. How chivalrous of you.”

It is annoying how much I like that he refuses to appear properly chastised.

I slowly, discretely lick across the enamel to search out the seed; and then, my eyes once more meet his amber ones, and I am dizzy and—

“There you are!”

—mortified. His Serene Highness materializes next to me, alongside a man. A man close to my age, to be precise. One I have seen in magazines and on the news. A royal man. A single, royal man, albeit one without a country thanks to his wealthy, powerful family being deposed years ago.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus,
no
. It has been less than twenty-four hours.

“It pleases me greatly to introduce you to Mathieu,” my father is saying.

My mother’s sacrifices and voodoo spells must truly be powerful, because there is no way I ever would have predicted my parents would select the
Chambéry prince
as the one to secure our line. It isn’t that this man is bad to look at; in fact, he is quite handsome in a hipster sort of way, with his black-rimmed glasses, a skull-covered bowtie, and black Converse shoes accessorizing his unconventional velvet tux. But that is neither here nor there, because I am simply going to kill my father. Kill him and assume the throne at a young age.

Mathieu notices Christian and gives a small nod. His attention returning to me, he says, “Your Highness, I cannot tell you how pleased I am to meet you.” A hand extends toward me; I reluctantly stick mine out and wait for him to kiss it, only he doesn’t. He pumps it up and down, nearly crushing the bones beneath my skin.

My thoughts are uncharitable.
I wish I could say the same
. And also,
my father has finally lost his mind. Alzheimer’s? Dementia, perhaps? The Cambérys?!
Out loud, I say graciously, “The pleasure is mine.” Except, it most assuredly is not.

Whilst I envision my all too sudden ascension to the throne due to patricide, not to mention regicide, my father exclaims, “Aiboland! I’ve been on the hunt for you, as well.”

I am impressed that, while offering His Serene Highness a polite bow, Christian shows no signs of panic. Because, surely he must know what just such a statement means here at the RMM.

“You’ve grown into quite a strapping young man. I don’t think I’ve seen you since . . . hmm. You were probably still in nappies.”

Only my father could utter something so disparaging and consider it a compliment. Christian handles it well, though, murmuring how pleased he is to renew their acquaintance.

Parker once more discreetly melts into the crowd.

My father is nowhere close to being done with the Hereditary Grand Duke, though. “I’ve had a nice talk with your mother just this afternoon—”

Alarm finally materializes in Christian’s eyes.

“And I would very much like you to meet my daughter.”

Ladies and gentlemen, Prince Gustav goes in for the kill in record time. Also, I have apparently been insulting my future brother-in-law, which is painfully, bitterly hilarious as I acted the fool and now I am to know him the rest of my life as family.

Christian inclines his head toward me. “I have had the pleasure of conversing with your daughter for the last half hour, sir.”

Haha. Pleasure. Right.

“Not this one.” My father shakes his finger. “My heir’s off limits to you, as I’m sure you well know. No crown heirs are allowed to match.”

Humiliation. Oh, so very much humiliation. And yet he offers an excellent reminder. Attraction or not, this is not to be.

      
“I meant Elsa’s sister, Isabelle.” He gestures into the distance, as if Christian is able to intuit precisely which woman on the other side of the pool is being singled out as a future wife. One who is already secretly engaged to her riding instructor back in Vattenguldia.

As Christian subtly attempts to extract himself from my father’s clutches, Mathieu steps into my line of sight. “I’ve heard quite a bit about the enigmatic Elsa of Vattenguldia today.”

“That sounds so sinister.” I lower my voice to match his. “
I’ve heard things about you
. Shall I prepare myself to be blackmailed?”

He flinches in what appears to be genuine shock. But then he laughs, albeit a tad bitterly.

What an odd yet curious response.

His voice is strained. “Are there things you can easily be blackmailed for?”

My father is now steering Christian across the courtyard toward Isabelle. I send silent wishes for luck; the Hereditary Grand Duke is going to need them. “I most certainly would not admit them to you if there were.”

“Blackmail is a nasty business, isn’t it?”

I can’t quite interpret the look in his eyes. They are not so free with emotions as Christian’s are. “Prince Mathieu—”

“Please call me Mat.” Bitterness fades into wryness. “Any time I hear Mathieu, my governess’s voice comes to mind, reminding me of some transgression I’d just committed. And believe me, there were plenty to be reminded of.”

“All right. Mat.” I smile in return to try and offset what I’m about to say. “Let me be honest with you. I am no fan of the secondary objectives of the Decennial Summit.”

Surprise, hesitation, and then amusement crinkle the corners of his eyes. “Is that so?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Head tilted to the side, he tsks. “You don’t sound so sure, Your Highness.
I’m afraid so?
Own your disdain of the RMM, if that’s how you truly feel.”

Interesting. Even more interesting—or perhaps, reassuring—is how our banter inspires no fevered feelings within.

“If it’s any consolation, I’m not here to sweep you off your feet.” He’s quiet, though. Hesitant.

And yet I am skeptical. “Is that so?”

“Your father seemed . . .” His attention briefly shoots across the pool at the person in question. “I don’t want to say desperate, because that would be disrespectful toward you and he, as in these short minutes we’ve known one another I highly doubt anyone could ever dub you desperate about anything, but Prince Gustav was most certainly determined I not deny him the pleasure of an introduction.”

“Determined is such a kind way of putting it.” I trace his line of sight and watch my father repeatedly slapping my chagrined sister and her freshly robotic intended so hard on their backs that it’s a miracle they don’t topple over onto one another and shag like bunnies right out in the open as he probably wishes.

“His Serene Highness is nothing if not tenacious.”

“Another bit of diplomacy,” I tell the man next to me.

He tugs at one side of his bow tie. “Don’t let the skulls fool you. I can be as much a smooth talker as the next.”

“Unfortunately, my sovereign doesn’t share my view of the RMM.” And hopefully his? I move to get another chocolate covered strawberry, but the fear of seeded teeth ultimately keeps my fingers away. “I imagine it comes from being the head of a constitutional principality that just so happens to be a microstate, too. He wants to be useful. Have some kind of historical impact in a world filled with industrial super powers.”

Mat signals one of the waiters for a drink. “He views setting up his children as a way to do that?”

“Don’t your parents feel the same way?”

His newly acquired glass rises in a bizarrely grim toast but he doesn’t say anything further on the matter. For several awkward seconds, his attention leaves me and settles in the distance. Which is absolutely fine by me.

Right before I excuse myself, he asks, “Do you think your sister will fall for Aiboland’s charms?”

Of course she’ll fall for his bloody charms. I did, didn’t I? He’s Prince Charming, after all. “I believe I just got whiplash from the change of subjects.”

Another silent toast in my favor.

      
“To answer you, though, I’m sure Isabelle has already identified escape routes. She’s no more interested in being auctioned off than I am.”

Mat nods in their direction. “Perhaps she decided otherwise?”

I glance back over to where Isabelle is standing with Christian. Our father is no longer present, which means—

Wait. My sister is actually conversing, and while I can tell she is not exactly what I would dub comfortable, there is genuine determination filling her face as she looks up at the Aibolandian prince. Worse, she breaks decorum and touches his arm while she talks to him.

Oh, hell no. My sister is not going to give into the RMM so easily, not when her happiness resides back in Vattenguldia with a dimwitted riding instructor. “Sonofabitch!”

Mat asks dryly, “Am I to take it you’re not one of Christian’s groupies?”

“
No
.” Shite. That sounded vicious. I allow, with less vehemence, “Most definitely not.” Like that man needs more groupies in his life. With all his too-ness, he probably has more than one could ever count.

“From the way you two were talking when I came over here, I would have guessed you were . . .” A lopsided smile slides my way. “Close.”

“We—” There is no
we
between Christian and myself, just like I pray there will never be a we with this man in front of me. “He and I met today, which makes us acquaintances at best.”

One of Mat’s fingers taps against the rim of his glass. And then, with a very straight face, “Not my groupie then, either?”

“Alas, I am not.” I sigh dramatically. “I hope that does not crush your delicate feelings.”

He sniffs, a finger pretending to swipe away tears.

A reluctant bubble of amusement escapes me.

“Actually, I’m surprised you and Christian haven’t met before. Your countries are in such proximity I’d have assumed you two practically grew up together. In nappies, no less.”

Oh, haha. “Boarding school is a fantastic way to hide royals from one another. What about you? Do you know him? I thought I saw one of those bro nods when you came over.”

“Bro nod?”

I lift my chin quick and short, and he chuckles.

“We resided in America for awhile at the same time and socialized here and there. He’s a good guy, if that’s what you’re worrying about. Not the kind who’d normally go out of his way to seduce stray princesses into marriage. Or sisters.” His glass lifts toward his lips. “Although, I suppose it doesn’t really matter what his intentions are or not, does it? Not at the RMM, at least.”

Isabelle’s tight yet giggly laughter, so often admonished by our mother, floats across the pool and into my ears, all nails on a chalkboard. As she’s also been inducted in the
laughter is not the best medicine
frame of mind, my curiosity burns like wildfire. What could my sister and that man possibly be talking about? I say quietly, “I don’t think any of our intentions are of concern.”

Mat’s lips press together as he inclines his head in agreement.

“So you’re honestly not willingly here to bag yourself a princess?”

“I think,” he says, more gravity in these words than any uttered between us so far, “that the RMM is an antiquated, abhorrent notion that nobody in the twenty-first century even ought to consider to entertain. My affection and loyalties should not be arranged by parents, no matter what they might otherwise believe.”

It’s my turn to toast him. “Hear, hear. Welcome to the rebel alliance, Mat.”

chapter 12

Christian

All I want to do is go to bed, even if it’s in a room shared with the She-Wolf and Lukas. Instead, I’m trapped in the midst of another monarch’s snare, pretending I find Isabelle interesting as she talks about . . . well, hell. I actually don’t know what she’s talking about. I guess I ought to listen for a moment.

Horses. She’s talking about horses. She might as well be talking about topsoil, I’m so fucking disinterested.

It’s not as if she’s uneasy on the eyes. She’s pleasant in a bland, royal way that we’re all trained to be. I assume she’s accomplished, too, or at least it sounded like she might be from the litany of achievements her father bombarded me with as she stood there like a statue. It’s just, there isn’t the sharp strike of match to petrol between us, no burning flash of attraction that could ever make me reconsider my stance on willingly leaving the Summit a free man. It makes me sound like an arsehole, but all I feel around her is boredom.

The sound of a throat clearing sharpens my focus, only to find Isabelle waiting expectantly. Bloody hell. She’s asked me something, hasn’t she? I search her face for some kind of clue, but I’ve got nothing. Is she still talking about horses? I know next to nothing about equines, nor do I care to know much.

When the silence stretches too far, she prompts tightly, “Do you ride?”

“We have a few Arabians stabled in Norslœ, but as I’ve been out of the country so often these last few years, I haven’t had much time to ride them.”

That’s being generous. I can’t even think of the last time I went to the stables. Those horses are my father’s, not mine.

Isabelle’s eyes narrow, like she can’t imagine a world in which there’s a person who doesn’t drool over the beasts like she does. “Do you play polo?”