Royal Catch, page 1
Table of Contents
Royal Catch
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Royal Catch
© 2019 Kylie Gilmore
Gabriel
I am the crown prince of Villroy, heir to a kingdom, bound by duty to marry and produce an heir.
I expected a quiet arrangement through royal channels; instead I got a palace full of women vying for my hand. And how do they “win” this barbaric game set up by my crafty mother? By figuring out how to save the kingdom’s faltering economy through a series of challenges. This undignified circus is beneath a man of my stature! Proof being that a saucy, ill-mannered woman wearing body-hugging clothes is in the lead. I could never love someone like that, let alone marry her.
Anna
The plan sounded simple.
I pose as my friend, pick up her inheritance, and return with the cash to keep her out of jail. (Apparently, being a princess in hiding is no excuse for identity theft.) So, yeah, I’m not exactly royal. I’m an orphan, a self-made woman, and proud of it. Suddenly I’m in a battle royale with a bunch of crazy competitive women for “riches beyond our dreams.” I’m in a time crunch, which means I need to win this competition fast. Only, that means winning over the judge, the smoldering hot grim-faced Gabriel. And now I find myself wanting to compete for more than just the money. But could a royal prince ever fall for a commoner like me?
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Chapter One
Gabriel
And don’t let the door hit your furry ass on the way out!
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I cannot believe my life has come to this. Me, Gabriel Rourke, the crown prince of Villroy, heir to a kingdom, kicking a furry menagerie out the palace doors. Yes, furries, people who enjoy wearing stuffed-animal suits. The kangaroo bride, koala groom, wombat minister, and way too many dingoes to count (I swear, they were multiplying) were here for a furry wedding. This is all my brother Phillip’s fault. He was determined to turn the palace into a destination-wedding venue in a misguided attempt to save our faltering economy. And what happens? Furries.
Worse, every furry detail was captured by reporters from two prestigious bridal magazines, who were here to cover the inaugural non-furry wedding (that was completely botched due to the double-booking with the furries). I shudder to think what those reporters will say. This whole wedding business is an abomination to the royal tradition, and I knew all along it was a mistake.
I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours—still in my tux from the horrendous wedding travesty of last night—so when Phillip strolls into the marble entrance hall on this hellish morning, looking bright-eyed after a good night’s sleep, I bark, “Where’s Bonnie?”
Phillip holds up his palms. “Relax, the guards are taking care of her.” I can’t relax until that grossly incompetent wedding planner is gone. Clearly, Phillip can. That is the difference between being the heir and the spare. He’s one year younger—the friendly, easygoing version of me—same dark brown hair and blue-green eyes, same sharp cheekbones and build.
I blow out an exasperated breath. “The woman is unhinged. You’re the one who hired her. See to it she’s on the next ferry.” Last night I banished her from Villroy Island and ordered her to be on the first ferry out this morning.
Phillip leans in, his voice low. “Do you think there’s any truth to Bonnie’s story that she has royal blood? Her great-grandmother had the bastard of our great-grandfather?”
“No!” I don’t want to rehash the sordid twisted story with him. Bonnie is clearly not right in the head. “I want her gone.”
He lifts a hand in greeting at the non-furry bridal couple, who’ve just arrived in the entrance hall with their luggage, about to leave on their honeymoon. He speaks under his breath. “I need to go apologize to the happy couple for their imperfect wedding.” That’s putting it mildly.
I clench my jaw. Apparently, I have to do every frigging thing around here. What is taking the guards so long with Bonnie?
I stalk upstairs to the east wing, where Bonnie spent the night in a guest room with two guards posted outside her room. At this rate she’s going to miss the ferry. Only one guard is waiting.
“What’s taking so long?” I demand. My manners left along with my formerly dignified life.
The guard, Louis, does a quick head bow. “Your Highness, it should only be a few more minutes. Viktor had to get a few maids to help dress her.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “She’s taking a ferry off Villroy forever and she must dress for the occasion?”
Louis actually blushes. “She was naked. She thought to seduce us.”
“Both of you?”
“Yes, sir.”
The woman must be desperate. I’d almost feel sorry for her if it weren’t for the terrible publicity she’s brought to our family. This is the absolute last thing we need with my father, the king, in such poor health.
The door opens suddenly. Bonnie is fully dressed and subdued, her shoulders drooped as Viktor escorts her out of the room, his hand wrapped around her arm. I follow the guards downstairs. They will ride the ferry with her to ensure she leaves the island. I’m too aggravated to go to bed, so I will see this through to the bitter end.
We arrive in the entrance hall, where Phillip is still talking to the poor couple whose wedding was ruined.
The moment the palace doors close behind Bonnie, I turn to Phillip and announce loud enough for the footmen, butler, and remaining security guards to take note. “The palace is now closed to outsiders for good!”
“Gabriel, it was only one—” Phillip starts.
I cut him off. “No more weddings. No outsiders period.”
The palace doors creak open and I whirl, expecting Bonnie to come racing through the doors, screaming for her right to the throne. My jaw drops at the sight before me—a young woman I’ve never seen before with a wild mass of dark brown curls, huge white-framed sunglasses, wearing a tight sleeveless dress with giant pineapples on it and cheetah heels.
I snap my gaping jaw shut as she leaves her wheeled suitcase by the door and hurries over to me, gesturing wildly, her voice clearly American. “I love this already!”
Before I can protest, she whips out her cell phone and snaps a picture with me.
“The palace is closed!” I bark. “And hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to take one’s photo without permission?”
She startles before muttering, “You’re the rude one yelling at a guest. Geez, I flew ten hours from Tampa for this?”
Another crazy woman has breached the palace walls. “Do not speak to me of feminine products,” I say through gritted teeth. “Now get out.”
Someone laughs quietly nearby. I don’t care. I’m too fixated on this rude intruder, who is one second from being physically removed from the premises. By me.
“Feminine?” the woman asks, cocking her head. “Oh! Ha-ha, not tampon. Tam-pa.” She enunciates slowly and clearly like I’m an idiot. She’s the one with the accent. “That’s where I just flew in from. It’s a beautiful place.” Her brows furrow. “I’m not sure anyone would dare call tampons beautiful.”
I’m momentarily speechless.
She cups her mouth and stage-whispers behind me to the only other woman in the hall, the bride about to leave on her honeymoon, “He’s a cranky butler.”
I stiffen. She thinks I’m the butler? Granted, I haven’t been in the public eye for several years for important reasons that I will not be going into with her, and I did shave my beard off, but I hadn’t thought I’d aged so much as to be unrecognizable. I’m thirty years old, virile and vital. In my fucking prime!
“Who are you?” I ask in my most imperious voice.
She tosses her mass of wild dark curls over one shoulder and thrusts her hand out. “I’m Polly Lyon and that’s no lie.”
I stare at her hand, and my lips twitch. She’s cute. Ill-mannered, but cute.
Her brown eyes flash, and she drops her hand. “You might be the hottest butler I’ve ever seen, but…that stick up your ass really kills it for me.”
I crack a smile because she said I’m hot. I am losing it. Lack of sleep must be making me loopy, because normally this kind of insult would never slide with me. To the dungeon! Oh, yes, we have one, though it hasn’t been used in centuries.
There’s a shuffle behind me as the newlyweds take their leave. Phillip and two guards leave with them. I remain rooted in place, staring at the woman who had the audacity to address me, the crown prince of Villroy, heir to a fucking kingdom, as a butler. We’re now alone in the entrance hall, besides the usual footmen, security guards, and the actual butler.
She plants a hand on her hip, saucy as all hell. “Are you going to tell me your name, or should I just call you Jeeves?” She winks.
“Butler Phillip will suffice.” I want to laugh, throwing my brother’s name into it.
She sm iles brightly, and I find myself wanting to smile back. “Just like Prince Phillip, the royal hottie!” she exclaims. “Much cooler than the heir to the throne. That guy, oh man, I heard he’s a dud.”
“A dud,” I echo, hardly believing my ears.
She looks around as if to be sure the dud won’t overhear. “Yeah, a real stick-in-the mud. He never leaves the palace. There haven’t even been pictures of him in years, he won’t allow it. I mean, get over yourself, right?”
My jaw tightens. I am the crown prince of Villroy, my birthright, my legacy. My duty is first and foremost to the kingdom. My righteous indignation gives way to the despair that kept me up all night. The kingdom is faltering. The fishing-based economy is shaky, and the younger generation is leaving in droves. As my father’s health declines and my mother refuses to take leadership without him, I know my time will soon come as king, and that means I must find a way forward for Villroy. Phillip wants to open up the palace. I, on the other hand, want to preserve our history and tradition for future generations, which means keeping the palace closed to the public. We can’t have tourists running around, trampling over everything and destroying centuries of history. We must find another way. Only what new venture wouldn’t involve outsiders? What would keep the younger generation from abandoning ship and offer them and the island a real future?
My frustrating lack of answers is the only reason I ask her, “Why exactly are you here, Polly who doesn’t lie?”
She laughs. “I am here, Butler Phillip, by order of the queen. I’m Princess Mary Louise Lyon of the Beaumont Islands. Though I prefer my nickname, Polly.” She taps a long red fingernail with rhinestones against her lush red lips. “I was told I’d be receiving a small inheritance.”
I blanch and my gut tightens because my crafty mother has always jokingly referred to the island as our small inheritance, which means her true purpose is disturbingly clear—finding me a wife. The inheritance will be a kingdom. Polly is surely only the first in a long line of handpicked candidates. My mother’s criteria for my bride will likely be a woman with big childbearing hips. I gulp and sweat breaks out all over my body.
I’ve always known I would be required to marry nobility, to continue the line.
I just didn’t know that time was now.
~ ~ ~
Anna
Why did I say I’m not lying? I’m Polly Lyon and that’s no lie. Stupid guilty conscience. I’m Anna Hebert, and the truth is I’m here under false pretenses. It’s for a good cause. I’m helping out my cousin Polly—a bona fide princess—who got herself in trouble back in Florida for identity theft. We’re actually very distant cousins with only a great-great-great-great-great-grandfather in common. She found me through the AncestryWise website, which was awesome for both of us. For her, she’d hoped to find an American relative on her escape-to-America adventure, and for me, I was thrilled to have a cousin after growing up an orphan with no family. Though I didn’t know she sought me out at first as a family ally. That all came later. She moved into the apartment next door, and we hit it off immediately. Not only do we resemble each other (we’ve been called twins), we’re both free spirits. We became really close.
After a few months, she told me the most outlandish story—she was actually a princess in hiding from a real old-school monarchy, where her parents were pressuring her to marry a sleazy man important to her kingdom. I was understandably shocked. She’d even sounded American to my ears. (Turned out she’d picked up the accent from her posh boarding school and college in the US.) Even crazier, she told me we were distant cousins and that she’d bought the apartment building I live in when she’d first arrived to give to me as a gift, so I’d have a secure foundation after growing up an orphan. Her only request was that I let her stay as a tenant because she’d spent the money she’d brought with her on the building, and getting more funds from her homeland would alert them to her whereabouts.
Honestly, I thought it was a scam. A princess in hiding who’s a long-lost relative is buying me a building? I did my research on AncestryWise and we really are related. I even got a little excited thinking maybe I could call myself a princess with my drop of royal blood, but she explained I was too far removed to be considered royal. Anyway, I accepted the gift, transferring the property to my name at her generous insistence, and I told her I’d owe her big time. I’d planned to sell the building and use the proceeds to pay for my foster dad’s home nurse and open my own beauty salon. It’s not a huge or luxurious building, but it’s enough for my needs. Unfortunately…
Always a catch, right?
Everything came to a screeching halt when the cops showed up and arrested Polly. She’d paid someone to get her an ID so she could get the ball rolling on her undercover life. She’d just wanted a year of freedom after college before settling down with the expected marriage and producing the royal heirs. Turned out the identity was from a deceased person, and she was found out by the very same website that had brought us together. The deceased person’s aunt was building their family tree only to discover her dead niece owned property in Florida, which Polly had only bought as a gift for me. A generous yet ultimately ruinous gesture of goodwill. How can I not be loyal to her? I love this cousin of mine.
Now Polly is waiting for her court date. She could face a year of jail time in Florida (there’s no diplomatic agreement with her country that could send her home to serve jail time). Her identity will be revealed with a conviction, exposing her. She fears her family will disown her. The other inmates and guards will give her a doubly hard time for being a princess. She needs a kick-ass lawyer to straighten it all out.
Neither of us has the money for a lawyer. She spent it all on the apartment building, and I can’t sell the building or even get a line of credit because the deed transfer may not be valid. It wasn’t her legal name on the deed. That building mess is on hold until the trial too. If I do get the building back with a primo lawyer’s help, it would be such a relief knowing I could pay for my foster dad’s care. It’s been a struggle on my hairdresser’s salary.
So here I am, claiming her inheritance to pay a shark lawyer to save the princess. (She has to stay in Florida while waiting for her trial; otherwise, she could’ve just gotten the inheritance herself.) I’m practically a knight-ess in shining armor.
Only it’s not all that glam. Polly kept a stiff upper lip, but she was clearly scared. If I fail, she’s only got a public defender for her trial. She’ll likely be convicted and suffer through a whole year of prison, a life she’s completely unprepared for after being so sheltered. She’s not tough like me. I learned from an early age to fight to keep what’s mine and how to defend myself from the scary-ass girls I lived with in foster homes. I fear it’ll break her.
Failing at my mission is no picnic for me either. If I get caught impersonating a princess, I’ll be wearing orange in a cinder-block cell faster than you can say fraud. I have too many people depending on me back home to let that happen.
I take in the two-story white marble entrance hall of Amalie Palace, with its gilded mirrors and silk damask wallpaper the color of the sea with gold-leaf pattern, and try not to gawk. I’m sure it gets more luxurious the further you get into the palace. Despite the risk, I’m actually excited to get the whole royal experience. It’s so far from my reality I imagine it’ll be pure bliss—the best, most luxurious of everything all set at my feet. A fairy-tale life. Magical.
Butler Phillip is speaking in a gruff and growly voice to some of the servants, gesturing like he’s giving orders. He’s the only one in a tux, which is how I knew he was the butler. Hey, I’ve seen enough BBC shows to recognize a butler. Plus he spoke very proper English with a slight lilt, maybe hints of French to it, which makes sense because Villroy Island is a two-hour ferry ride from southwestern France. The other servants wear white shirts with black pants. I guess Phillip is the boss man.
I give Phillip a once-over and conclude he’s too perfect. He’s six feet and change with wide shoulders, a barrel chest, narrow waist and hips wrapped in a tux custom fit to his frame. His eyes are a stunning aquamarine blue, sharp high cheekbones with hollows under them like you see on male models in cologne ads, five-o’clock shadow on a square jaw, and full lips. Add in his stiff formal posture and dour expression and it’s no wonder I was flustered. Something is off between the butler thing and the hot thing. Not that he’s my type. I like men from the real world who are fun. Like me.
