Royal Marriage Market Read online

  Heather Lyons

  Also by Heather Lyons

  The Collectors’ Society Series

  The Collectors’ Society (#1)

  The Hidden Library (#2)

  The Forgotten Mountain (#3)

  The Collectors’ Society Encyclopedia

  the fourth and final book is coming soon!

  The Fate Series

  A Matter of Fate (#1)

  Beyond Fate—a novella (#1.5)

  A Matter of Heart (#2)

  A Matter of Truth (#3)

  A Matter of Forever (#4)

  The Deep End of the Sea

  Royal Marriage Market

  Copyright © 2015 by Heather Lyons

  http://www.heatherlyons.net

  Cerulean Books

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9966934-1-7

  First Edition

  Cover design by DCP Designs

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Dad, I had so much fun

  talking with you about Scandinavian

  geography and history.

  This one is for you.

  chapter 1

  Elsa

  Whenever I am faced with my full name in print, strung out in letters and words like clothes whipping on a line, my visceral reaction is the same had somebody raked rusty nails down a dusty chalkboard. Years of careful practice were cultivated in order to prevent me from physically recoiling at the sight or sound of Elsa Victoria Evelyn Sofia Marie.

  Most girls are given a first and a middle name—two middle names, perhaps, if the parents are feisty or bound by family tradition. Or even a hyphenated first name, such as Lily-Anne or Ella-Mae. My name, the one my parents bestowed upon me, the one that informs the world who and what I am, is three bloody names too long and hangs around me like a noose rather than the garland surely envisioned. “You are a princess,” my mother rationalized when I queried as to why she and my father went vindictively bonkers come naming time.

  Fair enough, but my sister (also a princess) has only three names: Isabelle Madeleine Rose. Still lengthy, but far more tolerable. Even my father, the illustrious Prince Gustav IV of Vattenguldia, does not lay claim to so many names; his tops out at four. Indeed, no one in my acquaintance—royal or no—possesses such a lengthy appellation.

  Just me.

  “You are the Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia,” my mother clarified when pressed further. “Someday, you’ll be sovereign over our great land.”

  Sovereigns apparently have hideously long names, even in tiny principalities like ours that rest in relative, yet fairly wealthy, obscurity in the Northern Baltic Sea. I often wonder if I will be as cruel when I have my own children, if I will saddle them with a name so convoluted and extensive that air must be drawn in between syllables. I like to think not, but the truth is, I’m partial to tradition, especially when it pertains to the throne in Vattenguldia.

  Correction: most traditions. Because I am most certainly not in favor of the one my father’s private secretary is delivering to me.

  By letter from the Secretary of the Monarchs’ Council to allow a formal invitation to be extended to Her Royal Highness The Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia Elsa Victoria Evelyn Sofia Marie.

  Sighing, I extract the surprisingly heavy missive from Bittner’s age-spotted hands, like a bomb expert under the gun to sever the correct wire or risk the entire building disintegrating around them. Which, considering what waits within, might be a preferable situation. “Gee, thanks.”

  His smile would be best described as a shit-eating smirk, only that would make me sound uncouth and not very princess-like, or so my parents claim. They’ve taken it upon themselves to attempt to rein in my so-called foul and inappropriate language as “sovereigns, let alone Hereditary Princesses, do not speak like common sailors.” It ought to be mentioned they do not personally know any sailors; the ones I have met working in our shipping industry are quite articulate.

  An audible thunk sounds when the envelope hits my writing desk. “Has my father seen this yet?”

  “I delivered His Serene Highness’s shortly before I came up here.”

  That’s to be expected. “Upon viewing it, did he uncork a bottle of his finest champagne?”

  Bittner’s exceedingly perfect manners prohibit him from acknowledging this was most likely the case, so he instead says in the crisp, cool, yet distinctive voice of his that would render him perfect to narrate movie trailers, “Prince Gustav was most amenable to receiving his invitation.”

  I can only imagine. A whole week set aside for hobnobbing with his peers? He’s probably frothing at the mouth over the prospect of getting the hell out of the country and away from my mother.

  I eye the envelope on my desk, envisioning a baby asp inside, ready to strike the moment I release its apocalyptical contents. “I suppose he will insist upon us attending.” Which is inane of me to say, because there is no doubt my father’s orders for packing and travel have already been issued. Whether or not we attend has never been up for question, because royals never decline attendance to this particular event.

  I wait until Bittner departs before I pick the invitation back up. I have an appointment at a favorite local children’s hospital within the hour, so it is now or never. As my silver letter opener hisses quietly through the paper, I remind myself that none of this would be a problem right now if I were already married. Still single at twenty-eight years old, I am considered one of the most eligible women in the world. Being the next in line to a throne, even an insignificant one, will do that to a lady. It’s not so much that I despise the thought of marriage, because I do not. Done right, it is an alluring temptation that could provide comfort and companionship in a life such as mine, only none of my experiences so far have led to anything close to persuading me to join my monstrosity of a name and family baggage to another’s. Finding the right person to share my life is no easy task; my last few efforts at romantic entanglements all blew up in my face.

  Most recently, I made the mistake of fancying decided to sex up a former schoolmate—in public, no less. The press had a field day when Nils and Trinnie were photographed groping one another upon the slopes while I was skiing elsewhere. Much to my chagrin, Popular Swedish Count Cheats On Vattenguldian Princess—Will They Weather This Storm? ran in local newspapers, glossies, and on television for weeks. Pre-Nils, there was Theo and his fervent yet wholly unexpected decision that the church was a better fit for him than a palace. Pre-Theo, there was my teenage crush Casper, who wasn’t even an option. None of the other gents in my history are worth a mention.

  Why do you have to be so picky? my mother often laments. And that amuses and disheartens all at once, because one would assume Her Serene Highness would wish the Hereditary Princess to marry a man of upstanding character. Personally, I would never term a lady who found her arsehole of a boyfriend en flagrante with her so-called friend and summarily dumped their cheating arses from her inner circle picky, though. That was pure practicality.

  Although I am sincerely
grateful—perhaps relieved is a better word—over extracting myself from such relationships before serious damage could occur, part of me rues not getting engaged (even temporarily) to some nice local before the madhouse of horrors known as the Decennial Summit were to commence. I naively assumed I had time. Time to fall in love. Time to find somebody on my own. Time to grow into my role in the principality.

  Yet, time is nearly at an end, because the Royal Marriage Market (or as the unfortunately unattached like myself often refer to it, the RMM) is close at hand.

  Irritability skitters down my spine when I finally rip the papers out of the envelope.

  Lord Shrewsbury,

  on behalf of

  the Monarch Council,

  requests the pleasure of your company at

  the Decennial Summit

  at Hearst Castle, beginning 23rd of April

  I lean back in my chair, staring at the words in front of me until they fully sink in. Three days? THREE BLOODY DAYS before His Serene Highness and fellow royal cronies go hard-core, full-press in their quest to ensure my ilk and I are popping out sanctioned heirs in the very foreseeable future?

  An inner Doomsday clock roars to life, each second a searing reminder of the utter tragedy that lies ahead. A mild panic attack settles into my lungs and chest, and I am gasping like a dying fish as I claw hungrily for air.

  Calm down, Elsa. You are a Hereditary Princess. You will act like a Hereditary Princess. You do not let anything touch you. Not even this.

  I focus on the details of the missive, ones to bottleneck my fears escaping in wide berths down to a manageable load. I breathe in and out. Fine-tune my focus until it is honed laser sharp upon the silver words clutched within my hands. Deep breath in. Twenty-third of April. Deep breath out. Hearst Castle. Deep breath—

  Hearst Castle?

  I mentally flip through the names of palaces and castles inhabited by fellow royals throughout Europe. Maybe it’s . . . no. Maybe . . . not that one, either. I move on to various seats of nobility, combing through name after name, but none match. In a fit of annoyance, I relent and open my laptop.

  The results come in fast. Hearst Castle is not a real castle. At least, not a European one and certainly never inhabited by royalty. Technically, it is a mansion in California, surrounded by several guesthouses.

  Sonofabitch.

  I click on one of the links and read up on the location. It was previously owned by someone in the newspaper business, a rich and influential man, which I suppose makes him the equivalent of American royalty. Currently, the building is a United States Historical Landmark and open to the public on a daily basis.

  I nearly shred the invitation as I grapple to take all this in. The Monarch Council wishes to send the entirety of the world’s reigning sovereigns and many of their heirs to a popular tourist destination in California?

  Has the MC gone insane?

  I storm out of my suite in a righteous fit of indignation, gripping the linen in my fist. Propriety dictates I call ahead, or knock at the very least, but as there are precious few days between the Decennial Summit and my freedom, I bypass manners and decorum and wrench the door to my father’s office open. Bittner is in there with His Serene Highness, but that matters little. He has worked for the House of Vasa long enough to know just about everything there is to our quirks, including my occasional warm-to-the-touch temperament that flares to life during the most inconvenient times. Like right now, when I am so upset I can barely unfurl my fingers from the invitation to shake it properly in my father’s face.

  “My word, Elsa. You appear quite vexed.” My father is smooth as butter as he smiles faintly up at me. “Bittner, I wonder what in the world could inspire Her Highness to lose sight of her manners.”

  Before Bittner can respond (not that I think he would), I slap the paper down onto the antique desk that dominates the room. “Is this a joke?”

  Although I guarantee he already knows what I have brought to him, His Serene Highness slides on his reading spectacles and peers downward. “I hoped you’d finally gotten over your . . .” His lips purse as he most likely attempts to assign the most diplomatic phrasing he can to what he considers my ravings. “Hesitancy over the Summit. You knew that it was coming at some point this year.”

  Not only The Prince of Vattenguldia, but the Prince of Tact—because I’ll admit to offering (behind closed doors, of course) my sincere feelings concerning the Decennial Summit on more than one occasion. I must clarify that it is not the Summit that has me in fits, it is the infamous RMM. Because, for nearly five hundred years now, alliances forged through arranged marriages concocted at a Summit hosted every decade have often overshadowed legitimate diplomatic work achieved. In essence, single heirs older than twenty-five rarely depart the Summit unattached. Both male and female are lambs to the slaughter.

  It is a tradition I desire no part of, one I cannot find it in my heart to embrace.

  But that terrifying, archaic possibility is neither here nor there at the moment. The Prince knows my view on this, and, as he sharply pointed out the last time I attempted a debate, I’ve had my say. Currently, I have other battles to fight. Calming oxygen floods my lungs while I slip on a cool smile. “Not that.” I tap on the paper. “This.”

  Dark blue eyes, so much like my own, squint behind his reading spectacles. “I’m afraid I’m not—”

  “Do you know where Hearst Castle is?”

  His bushy eyebrows rise ever so slightly, aging caterpillars whose micro-movements illustrate volumes of emotion.

  Shite. I barked at him; father or no, he is still my sovereign and deserves my respect. Another deep breath is required for me to continue. “My apologies.” I assume a more respective, ladylike stance, one hand folded over the other in front of me. “I simply wish to know if you are aware of pertinent details of the location?”

  As he leans back, the creaking of a chair sounds in the surprisingly modest yet elegant personal office.

  “It’s a bloody tourist destination in the United States!”

  At this, a small, choking cough escapes Bittner. I quickly apologize again. If I don’t get myself under control, Hereditary Princess or no, I’ll find myself on the other side of the door in no time.

  My father’s fingers form a steeple in front of his face, long fingers once elegant and now marked by time and arthritis. “I am well aware of what Hearst Castle is and where it is located, Elsa.”

  Ah. Of course he is. After all, he serves upon the Monarch Council, although in a much reduced capacity nowadays, what with two heart attacks in three years. Still, I never would have thought my father this naïve about sending so many monarchs and their heirs to such a public location. “What about terrorists?”

  When I was younger and lost control of my emotions, my father reminded me that such passion does no monarch any favors. The key to being an effective sovereign is to remain calm and clear-headed. Never make crucial decisions or arguments when your emotions get the better of you. Productivity and goodness cannot stem organically through heightened feelings, even if crafted under the best of intentions.

  It is a lesson I fail to prove mastered, for another lift of eyebrow is meant to remind me continued outbursts will not be tolerated. “Terrorists?”

  “I am concerned about safety logistics that might arise during the Summit. While most of our kingdoms and principalities are constitutional monarchies, it would still be devastating if something were to happen to any of the royals present. What if someone were to catch wind of the Summit? Target us?”

  A tiny smile bends one half of his thin lips. “Someone like a terrorist?”

  “I cannot possibly be the only one to believe it is a monumentally terrible idea to convene every monarch in the world, alongside their heirs, in a single location, let alone such a public one.”

  “And yet, we have convened every decade for centuries without incident, Elsa. Nary a terrorist attack, let alone a single a
ct of crime, has ever touched us during a Decennial Summit.”

  He’s right. For all our romantic failings in the press, royals are exceedingly excellent at keeping their shite locked down tight. Even still, I cannot let this go. “Respectfully, my point stands in consideration of twenty-first century politics. There are many countries whose citizens wish to abolish monarchies, viewing them as archaic and unnecessary in light of democracy and socialism. The Summit is an excellent opportunity for the disgruntled to—”

  “Are you sure your true concern hinges on our safety?” His tongue clicks quietly in reproach. “Or, is it more likely you are fretting over the RMM?”

  Well, yes, but . . . “I am simply saying—”

  “Must I remind you that your mother and I were betrothed at the RMM?”

  It is a far cry from a selling point. My parents, brought together by politics, are no love match. Other than myself, Isabelle, and Vattenguldia, they have little to nothing in common and do not speak unless in public or necessity dictates more than a written note or a message sent via their private secretaries. As much as it disgusts me to contemplate, I am fairly confident words were not even spoken during the conception of their children. A note was most likely written and delivered: Let’s make an heir. Eight o’clock tonight, my room. Best to be drunk beforehand.

  So, yes. Maybe my mother has a valid point. Perhaps I am picky, because I desire that, if and when I attach my life to another’s, it will be to someone I can at least talk to. And like as well as respect. Is it so wrong that I would not mind a storybook tale? Not the horrible bits—no poisoned apples or sleeping spells. I do not even require a prince, let alone a charming one. My life is one of service. Responsibility. Importance. When the day comes and I assume the throne, I simply wish somebody I love to be in my corner. And if I cannot find that, I would rather not marry.