Royal Marriage Market (19 page)

His dazzling grin resurfaces. “How was yours?”

“I can verify Mat and I didn’t discuss horses, either.”

His hands press together and lift upward. “Thank goodness for miracles, right?”

“The RMM is a terrible beast. Small talk at its worst.” Then, much more gently, “I think you’re growing on my sister.”

Isabelle did not refer to him as a Neanderthal this morning, nor did she issue any pointed comments about her required meal with this prince. In their place was a resigned quietness, a sense of duty no longer verbally laced with animosity, which was unnerving, leaving me to stew about an acceptance that may not have not been there before.

My observation wipes the amusement off Christian’s face, albeit slowly. And I regret saying anything, because bloody hell, is his laughter addictive. “Ah.”

I bite my lip. Watch him, wondering if I misspoke.

“I’ve done my best not mislead her, but Els, while I believe your sister to be a lovely woman, I . . .” He runs both hands through his hair. “I can’t say she is growing on me.”

Logic suggests I let this line of conversation go. Duty argues I must elucidate why Isabelle is the perfect choice to be his future Grand Duchess. Tradition begs me to go and make peace with Mathieu, rather than secretly delight in how my sister’s intended sounds wretchedly unhappy at the prospect of a relationship with her.

Tradition, I am learning, is not always the easiest road to walk upon.

I discreetly clear my throat. “You must rue not proposing to someone back home prior to this week.”

His puff of quiet laughter smacks of just as much bitterness as his last words. “As do you, I suppose.”

Has Isabelle mentioned her devotion toward Alfons yet? I cannot break my sister’s confidence, but if Christian were to know . . .

No. Some traditions must stand, even if I wish they wouldn’t.

I reach out and gingerly touch his arm. Delicious warmth seeps through the pads of my fingers. “I am certain you’ve been exceedingly clear with Isabelle, but I would still ask of you to be gentle with her.”

His attention lingers on my fingers; seriousness colors both face and tone. “You think I ought to be humoring her as well as Prince Gustav?”

“No,” I assure him. How odd he did not mention the Grand Duchess. “Because if you were, I would have to knee you soundly in the balls.”

Ah. There’s his smile again. Good.

It then strikes me how what I’ve jokingly threatened could potentially be misrepresented as jealousy rather than sisterly loyalty. At this rate, I will soon rank as one of the least articulate royals. So I clarify, “You know, for leading my little sister on and all.”

The upward tilt of his lips grows.

“Because, obviously, sisters before . . .” Oh, hell. Proper articulation truly does abandon me. What is the saying? I am unnaturally flustered.

“Is there a female equivalent to
bros before hos
?”
he muses.

I snap my fingers. “Sisters before misters!”

One dark eyebrow lifts, amused.

Another snap follows. “Chicks before dicks!”

Rich laughter returns as an entirely insincere shudder wracks his shoulders. “For the love of all that’s good in the world, don’t ever say that again.”

I lean back against the black railing lining the outer wall, mimicking his position. In this tiny stairway, our feet overlap on the steps. “Are you scandalized?”

I ought to be, standing in such close approximation to him.

“Why should I be?” he says. “I’m not the one shouting about dicks, am I?”

My fingers trace the bumpy ridges on the concrete walls as humor wells within my gut. “Honestly, Christian, I promise that, despite how I present myself, I wasn’t raised in the wild.” The corners of my lips creep upward. “Or a brothel.”

He pushes off the wall, chuckling. And then, before I know it, his body leans into mine, one hand bracing against the wall to my right.

Oh my.

Little fairies sprint laps within my chest as his head ducks toward me, dark hair spilling across his forehead.

Time stands still as I stare into his amber eyes. Desperate thoughts and wishes consume me.
Kiss me.
For the love of all that’s good in the world, kiss me.

Instead, he tsks. “How very judgmental of you, Els.”

Ah. No kissing, then. Why does that disappoint? It’s the smart move, after all.

He continues, “Do you know for certain that all . . .” He pauses, no doubt to choose the right word. Or at least, the most respectful version of what I think he is to say.

I offer helpfully. “Ladies of the night?”

He chuckles again, shaking his head. His mouth is a mere five inches away. It is a beautiful mouth, one I dreamed about quite vividly this morning.

“Fine. Prostitutes?”

“My point is,” he continues, “do you know for certain that all such ladies would go around shouting about dicks in stairwells?”

My fingers itch to pull him closer, to brush the hair from his eyes. “You make a valid point. They are probably so exhausted by male genitalia that they refuse to discuss such matters outside of business hours.”

A pause fills the scant space between us, one so charged bumps sprout across my arms.

He murmurs, “I think if I were to reach my life span’s century mark, I would never be able to guess what all goes on in here.” One of his fingers taps gently against the side of my head. “Or what you’ll say next.”

I am unable to repress the delicious shiver that overtakes me at his touch. “Sweet talker. I bet you say that to all the women you find yourself in stairwells with.”

“I don’t find myself in such situations often.” He pauses once more, eyes intent as they bore into me. “Actually, I’ve never found myself in this situation.”

My mouth opens, a snarky comeback on the tip of my tongue, when he traces my lower lip with the same finger that traced my temple. Another shiver ripples through my body, one a thousand times stronger than before.

When Christian says, “Els,” my name is softer than the bird songs outside.

His head dips lowers still, attention focused on where his finger rests on my lip, and I think to myself,
could this moment be real
? Because I very much wish it to be.

Tradition be damned.

Our breaths mingle, warm and unsteady in the silence of the stairwell. My hands move forward with a mind of their own, fingers curling around the cotton of his shirt.

His heart hammers just as strongly as my own, and it steels my resolve. I want him. To hell with logistics.
I. Want. This. Man.

Our mouths are so close I think his lips graze the finger still held against the delicate skin of mine. My grip on his shirt tightens as I urge his body closer. A soft groan spills out of him, one I yearn to eat up. His other hand clasps my waist, and it’s my turn to moan.

To hell with my father, his mother, and the RMM.

I’m about to throw caution to the wind when my name is uttered again, louder and from the floor above, and by someone else.

Bloody hell. It’s Mat of all people.

Christian’s hand drops and he pulls himself away until his back collides with the wall. Wrinkles mar his shirt from where I clutched him, ones I feel rather possessive toward.

I made those. I’d like to make more.

Mat materializes, his retro tennis shoes squeaking on the stone steps. A quick glance at Christian, who is running a hand through his hair, precedes, “What are you two doing here?”

Almost kissing, I think stupidly.

Christian’s more tactful than I, as he says, “Hiding again. How about you?”

If Mat notices how tight his friend’s voice is, he doesn’t show it. He drops to the step right above us, a hand I do not want touching me coming to rest on my shoulder. “They’ve opened up the outdoor pool for the afternoon, and Prince Gustav . . .” He swallows, obviously uncomfortable. “Suggested I find you so we might enjoy a swim together.”

As he says this, the prospect of doing so sounds as welcome as bashing his skull into the roughened walls around us.

“It’s sixty degrees outside,” Christian scoffs. “And both pools are unheated.”

We nearly kissed. Worse, I wanted it, which is colossally suicidal. He made it crystal clear he is completely uninterested in giving his mother the satisfaction of sweeping any girl off her feet at the RMM—not my beautiful sister, not any of the others girls on the Grand Duchess’ list (if there is such), and most certainly not myself.

He and I are friends. Allies.

I hate that I am so utterly attracted to my friendly ally.

“They brought heat lamps out after several monarchs complained,” Mat says. If he is trying to sweep me off my feet with charm, he fails miserably.

Which is fine by me. “I’m afraid I must decline my father’s suggestion as I did not bring my swimsuit.”

Predictably, Mat is not heartbroken in the least by my refusal. To Christian, he says, “Did Lukas let you know there are plans for the heirs and spares to skinny-dip at midnight?” His attention reverts to me. “No bathing suits needed for that extracurricular activity.”

Uh . . .

“There you all are.”

And now, Isabelle is in the stairwell with us, ascending from the floor below. Fantastic. Perhaps we ought to invite all our parents, too.

When she reaches the step below us, she says, more than a bit irritably, “Elsa, I thought we were to meet for luncheon.”

Well, shite. That clearly slipped my mind whilst nearly kissing her intended, didn’t it?

Rather than waiting for an answer, Isabelle asks, “What are all you doing in a stairwell?” A sweeping glance precedes, “It’s cramped in here.”

Mat is the one to answer. “I was informing them about the midnight plans for skinny dipping in the Neptune pool currently making the rounds.”

“Uh—” I say at the same time Christian mutters, “We—”

Isabelle overrides us both. “How delightful. A whole horde of naked, royal bums all in one place. Wouldn’t the paps have a field day with that?”

Princess Isabelle of Vattenguldia, staying true to form.

“That said,” she adds in an oddly determined yet steely voice, “I’m in. Because heaven knows we need some entertainment around here.”

Now I have heard everything. My reserved sister wants skinny-dip with strangers and acquaintances? What in the hell?

“One of the Danes sent their man to fetch some decent liquor for the gathering. Oh, and any cell phones or cameras brought are promised to be promptly sunk into the deep end.” Mat leans his hand against the wall, right where Christian’s was just minutes before, leaning next me as if we are officially a couple.

I attempt to picture Mat naked. While there is no doubt he is beautiful, all lean, sculpted muscles, no tingles accompany such a vision.

The heat emanating from his body even feels different than Christian’s.

“Who came up with this idea?” Christian asks.

I am a masochist, because once more, images of
this
man naked flit throughout my mind, prompting far too many tingles to account for. I fear I am blushing, but it cannot be helped. Witnessing a naked Christian must be a religious experience. Pun intended.

Jesus, I am going to hell for that one.

Mat rattles off names of the instigators, and it solidifies my resolve that there is no possible way my naked self will join any of them in that pool at midnight.

I assume my sister’s typical role as I visualize the headlines covering such a soirée:
Naked Royals From Across The Globe Drown In Famous Neptune Pool.
Followed by the subheading:
Toxicology reports indicate extreme inebriation.

Isabelle edges up a step near Christian. I watch how discomfort tightens his muscles, but he is much too polite to move away from her as I know he wishes to. Much like how I yearn to with Mat leaning in to me. And then she startles me, as she grimly reaches up to brush the dark hair out of his eyes I’d wished minutes before to touch.

I have never wanted to slap at my sister’s hand before like I do now.

While Mat and Isabelle hash out the known details for the skinny dipping expedition, I force myself to remember my sister is clearly still reeling from whatever happened with Alfons. She normally would never partake in such an activity like skinny-dipping or even willingly stand so close to a man chosen by our parents rather than her heart.

That’s the thing, though. This isn’t just some man. This is someone our father wants her to marry. A very handsome, funny, lovely man I would really rather she didn’t put her hands on because I am selfish enough to be the one who wishes to do all the groping. I mean touching. No—hell, who am I kidding? I mean full-on
groping
.

I surreptitiously glance at Christian; his eyes are unfocused as he stares off at one of the walls. He is listening to them as much as I am.

I attempt to imagine what life would be like with Christian as my brother-in-law. And then I imagine where to find whatever Dane located those good, stiff drinks to ask for some, because it is a terrible thing to envision Christian and Isabelle together.

Before I glance away, his attention shifts to me. Our eyes meet in this tiny stairwell, as we’re trapped between our supposed intendeds, and . . . he is
looking
at me again, as if we are the only two people in the entire castle, a pinpoint focus of time and place that charges the molecules and atoms within my body.

It is a look I cannot deny I crave. And that is a shame, because he is not mine to love.

chapter 25