Royal Marriage Market (23 page)

His mind is made up, as is my mother’s.

So is mine. “Arranged marriages are an antiquated notion. Plenty of other royals marry whom they want without destroying their countries.”

“You give too much heed to the media.” His Serene Highness’ fingers lower to tap against the wooden arm of his chair as my mother says this. “Most of those marriages were arranged through bargaining behind closed doors. Politics and necessity have always been the driving forces in royal relationships, whether you want to acknowledge it or not.”

Anger and despair seer through my veins. “Mat doesn’t even have a country—”

“The
Chambérys
are four times wealthier than we are. They are influential throughout the EU. A union between you and Mathieu will allow Vattenguldia access to funds and relationships not seen before.”

My father adds to my mother’s rationalizations, “Ones that will also help establish premier technological infrastructures in our shipping fleets, ensuring our registries are the most sought after in the world.”

“Surely we are not in need of their money. Vattenguldia’s coffers are—”

My mother interjects, “Politically, we are on a much more miniscule scale than our Nordic counterparts. I would have us be a sought after destination on many fronts—shipping registries is just the beginning.”

I throw down my cards. “And if I refuse?”

My father immediately calls my bluff. “Then I will regrettably ensure you never wear the crown.”

Rage spikes through my bloodstream. I cannot believe he is even willing to entertain such a thing. “Vattenguldia is a constitutional principality! My removal from the chain of inheritance would take a parliamentary act.”

“Just whom do you think I discussed this with prior to the Summit, Elsa? The Prime Minister and the ruling factions in Parliament all agree. Vattenguldia must take steps forward to grow alongside the rest of the world. After perusing candidates, we concluded that Prince Mathieu and the
Chambéry
family’s means would suit best.”

I am horrified. I foolishly had no idea that it ever went this far.

“You two seem to get along well. Mathieu is . . .” My father’s head cocks to the side. “Unique and a bit rough around the edges, but I have faith he will fall into line and do what is necessary.”

I force out the next words. “And Isabelle?”

“The terms of her engagement have already been decided.”

I am sick to my stomach. Last night, I went skinny-dipping with Christian, and our time together was one of the most magical, beautiful experiences of my entire life. Afterward, I floated back to my room, my hand in his after a long hug in the poolroom that left me wishing for the kiss we’d nearly indulged in earlier that day. I laid in bed, next to my sister, aching for hours as I imagined all the
what ifs
and
could have beens
, desperate to relieve the pain that wanting him brought on, yet knowing there was no way I could do so in a room shared that openly with my family.

And now today, I summarily learn that there are to be no more
ifs
,
ands
, or
buts,
let alone the elusive
maybes
. Christian and Isabelle will marry.

And I will wed Mat.

Shite. Fuck. Bloody hell. Crap. Bollocks.
There are not enough curse words to describe what I feel.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you and Isabelle’s intended have spent much time together this week.” The room’s temperature lowers at the sound of his voice. “I expect you to utilize that relationship to solidify his acceptance of a match with your sister.”

The hell I will.

“Plans have been scheduled for you and Mathieu to rendezvous in Paris in several weeks to stage several public trysts to whet the press’ whistles. Afterward, he’ll journey to Vattenguldia in order to officially pursue you during the following month.” To my ears, my mother’s voice mimics bells of yore heralding the arrival of Black Death. “The
Chambéry
press secretary is already in contact with our office; you not need concern yourself with the details. Simply be your delightful self for the photographers and remember you like this fellow.”

I like Mat, yes.
Like
.

And my sister will marry the man I am falling for, and somehow I must talk him into it.

I head down to breakfast after my father departs. I am garbed in a yellow coatdress, nylons I abhor, and sensible heels. My hair is in a sleek ponytail. My makeup is subtle yet flawless. I am the picture perfect example of a modern princess when in reality I am nothing more than a controlled piece of chattel.

When I enter the dining room, I spot Isabelle sitting with Christian, Lukas, Maria-Elena, Mat, and his sister. Parker is nowhere to be seen. Due to the crowded room, there is precious little space between my sister and her intended, and I flash back to mere hours before, when my body was pressed up against his, and it was one of the best goddamn feelings in the entire world.

Soon, when we hug, it will be as brother and sister. And all my late night hugs, if they ever do miraculously happen, will be reserved for the man sitting on the opposite side of the table from Christian, the one with his back to me.

I don’t know why I am so disappointed. So crushed. Christian and I could never be anything, anyway, considering our roles to our countries. Not that he would want to, despite an attraction to me; he made it blatantly clear that he had no interest in picking up anyone at the RMM. Besides, I was the one who drew the line in the sand first.
Save your proposals and propositions for someone else
, I told him.

And yet, he is all I can think about. All I think I could ever want.

I ask a server for scrambled eggs, even though the thought of putting them into my mouth churns my stomach. And then I load up on dry toast in hopes that it will settle my nausea, because dutiful princesses do not vomit all over dining rooms.

I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. I can do this. I will do what I must. I will do what I am told. My life is one of service. Tradition trumps emotions.

I have officially lost my love for tradition.

A hand settles upon my shoulder; my eyes fly open to find Christian beside me, a half-filled plate in his hand.

Undoubtedly like mine, many tangled emotions cloud his eyes. “I wasn’t sure you were going to come down for breakfast or not.”

I have twenty-four hours left in California. What I ought to do is smile kindly yet distantly. Unravel whatever cords we’ve fashioned between us and walk directly over to Mat. And yet, as I stare up into amber eyes that hypnotized me on more than one occasion, I realize all I want to do is spend every minute of my last hours here with His Royal Highness, the Hereditary Grand Duke Christian of Aiboland. Even if it is pure torment to do so.

Even if done as mere friends.

Even if we will never be anything more.

“His Serene Highness requested a meeting,” I murmur. Over his shoulder I spy my sister, her brows knit as she studies us. Lukas is watching us, too, but more thoughtfully. Thankfully, it doesn’t appear as if Mat or his sister have noticed my arrival. “Thus my delay.”

Upon request, a server slides a slice of ham on Christian’s plate when there is already still half a piece remaining. “Is everything okay?”

My pathetic attempt at a laugh is more akin to a gurgle. “It was crown business.”

He sets his plate down slowly. Exhales quietly. “I had just such a meeting this morning myself.”

I want to throw the china in my hand against the wall and watch as it smashes into thousands of satisfying pieces.

Christian fails to glance back at the table he deserted when he says, “We have an hour or so before our next meeting. Let’s take a walk. Get some fresh air. Unless you’d prefer to sit and eat?”

There is no hesitation; I pass my plate to a nearby busboy. And then we exit through the gated doorway without another word.

Minutes later, we wander onto a tiled patio behind the largest of the guesthouses, one featuring two fountains. The air, cool and crisp, is hushed; whispers of wind through palm and oak trees and bird songs are the only sounds to dare challenge the delicate silence.

I stare up at the first fountain as we pass by. There is a golden girl atop the marble, smelling a rose. The second fountain is a bit different—the girl there leans forward to kiss a frog in her palm.

I know this story. Unfortunately, my ending will not be as happy as hers.

Christian motions toward a seat carved into the wall facing the princess and her frog prince. The space he puts between us as we sit is miniscule compared to that between him and my sister just ten minutes before.

“So.”

My word is just as quiet as his. “So.”

But he is as reluctant to discuss his meeting with his mother as I am about my parents’ edict. Instead, he asks, a hint of a naughty smile curving his lips, “Have you recovered?”

Oh. Perhaps I was wrong? “Um . . .”

“From the cold,” he clarifies. “You were in a chilly pool in the dead of night. I worried about you afterward.”

Gratitude over how his efforts to make this as normal as possible loosens the lines around my mouth. “I might have inched a bit closer to my sister for warmth, but I was soundly kicked back to my side of the bed and informed my feet were ice blocks.”

He laughs, all rich and warm and honeyed, prompting an image of him, in my sister’s bed, going through the same motions.

It is a terrible thing to imagine.

“I’m lucky I don’t share one with Lukas. One or the both of us would most likely end up with a black eye and a sore back from sleeping on the floor.”

“I was surprised to see him this morning,” I admit. “He is more elusive than not, it seems.”

A sly grin is thrown my way. “Luk got in even later than I did, looking like he’d been at the party of the century.”

“Ah. How very interesting. Who do you think he was cavorting with at such a late hour?”

“I think the better question is, who
wasn’t
he cavorting around with?”

“Me.” I smile brightly. “And you. Our cavorting was limited to a very exclusive party of two.”

“Is that what we were doing? Were we cavorting?”

We were falling in love, I think. Wonderfully, miserably, tragically, beautifully falling in love. Or at least, I was. But I say, “Of course. You and I are natural cavorters.”

Bittersweet amusement sparkles in his eyes. “I thought our thing was to run amuck.”

“That, too.” I gently touch the back of his hand. “We run amuck and cavort.”

The smile on his face softens. “Only with each other, though. We cavort best when it’s with the other.”

“Shall we make a deal then? Shall we swear to the other that, when it comes time to cavort, we must only do it together?” My words are light, so is my tone, but part of me crumbles within, knowing what I jokingly request will never come to be.

Gravity invades his face as he shifts on the seat toward me, knees brushing up against one another. I am trapped by his gaze, motionless with his leg pressed against mine. “That’s a promise I can easily make.”

I am still as the golden princess before us when he slowly, gently pushes stray hairs freshly escaped from my ponytail behind my ears. The feel of his fingers, light as breezes against my cheeks, leaves me hot and desperate.

“Shall we shake on it?” I whisper.

The muscle within my chest ceases its rhythm when he shakes his head. He stares at me then, as if he is unraveling all my atoms, rendering me exposed and vulnerable.

But then he leans forward, lips caressing one corner of my mouth and then the other. “All the best agreements,” he murmurs, words just as soft as mine, “are sealed with a kiss.”

I consist only of nothing but exposed nerve endings when I replicate his promise. My lips tingle, my heart hammers, and tears swarm my closed eyes. “You have my promise in return.”

He tilts his head up, mouth pressing against my temple before resting his forehead against mine. “I’m going to hold you to that, Els.”

chapter 33

Christian

I ought to be focusing on what’s being discussed, but it’s impossible. It’s about . . . shite, I think the roles of modern monarchs in constitutional governments, which is actually something I’m quite keen on. I’ve got loads of opinions on the matter, but my attention is shot. It’s been shot all week.

Fifteen minutes before I came down to breakfast, the She-Wolf took me aside. Said, “It’s been officially decided, Christian. You’re to marry the Vattenguldian girl.”

For one small, idiotic, yet bloody fantastic moment, I thought she referred to the woman I’ve spent all my nights this week with. But then reality sunk in. Not Elsa. Never Elsa.

She meant Isabelle.

I was so pissed I told her there was no fucking way I would marry that woman. In return, the She-Wolf informed me in the iciest tone I’ve yet heard that, in no uncertain terms, I most certainly would. Terms that included Parker’s future, Lukas’, even my father’s. How they would be rendered penniless or exiled, in my secretary’s case.