Royal Catch, page 2
A servant approaches, a thin man in his fifties with a neat comb-over. “Your Highness, I’ve been instructed to see you to your room.”
A small snort escapes at the Your Highness, and then I remember I’m supposed to be a princess. “Please call me Polly. What’s your name?”
“William, ma’am.”
“Nice to meet you, William. Just give me a minute.” I grab my wheeled suitcase from where I left it by the palace doors, turn, and nearly run into William. He reaches for my suitcase handle, and I jerk it toward me. “I can do it myself.”
He holds out a palm. “If I may, ma’am? I am here to serve.”
The butler stares from across the entrance hall, watching my every move. Is he judging me? Does he suspect I’m an imposter princess? I probably should’ve gotten more of a princess tutorial before arriving, but the real Polly was so stressed all she gave me was an urgent plea to get the inheritance as quickly as possible and hightail it back to Florida. “Dress in your best outfits and smile demurely” was the extent of her advice. Oh, and always call the king and queen Your Majesty; everyone else is Your Highness.
I wiggle my fingers at the dour butler and give him what I hope is a demure smile, turning my head slightly away, though I can’t manage to break eye contact because his eyes have me in their judgey tractor beam.
He turns away.
Okay…I guess demure is tough to pull off.
I turn to William, who’s still waiting patiently for permission to take my suitcase. “Thank you.”
He inclines his head and takes the suitcase.
I follow behind him through the entrance hall, turning the corner to a long hallway. I throw a last glance over my shoulder at Phillip in profile.
He rakes a hand through his thick hair, his expression grim. He seems overwhelmed, probably because he was so surprised by my arrival.
I stop walking and hurry back to reassure him. “Relax, Butler Phillip. You won’t even know I’m here.”
His expression remains grim, his voice gruff and tired. “I sincerely doubt that.”
I give his arm a reassuring squeeze and meet granite. He’s that tense. And muscled. What exactly do butlers do to get this buff? Powerlifting the throne for dusting? Maybe he lifts the royal dining room table with one hand while he vacuums under it. I stifle a laugh at the thought. “Try to sneak in a nap. It’ll make all the difference in the world.”
He stares at my hand on his arm and then lifts his head. His aquamarine eyes are glittering and hard.
I gulp, my heart pounding. I can’t help it. He’s incredibly intimidating. Like I’m a hair’s breadth away from bolting kind of intimidating. And I’m no shrinking violet. I thought servants were supposed to be more…deferential or something.
I drop my hand and try again. “Anything I can do to make things easier on you, let me know. I’m very handy.”
Butler Phillip’s lip curls. “Royals don’t serve staff. I am here for your needs.”
I smile demurely at him, just a small lift of the lips. I should probably practice in the mirror to make sure I’m not looking psycho. Or constipated. “Of course. Thank you, Phillip, and have a good day.”
He looks down his nose at me.
A flare of annoyance has me lifting my chin. I’d heard butlers could be a little stuffy, but that was just rude.
“Wow.” I shake my head and walk at a sedate pace in my leopard-print pumps (a rare splurge, shoes are my weakness). William is waiting for me in the long-ass hallway. Even their hallways are grand—tall frosted windows, white wood paneling, and the ceiling features gorgeous paintings with intricate plaster frames.
I’m about to ask William how old Amalie Palace is when I hear a roar of male laughter break out in the entrance hall. I turn, drawn by the fun, and see Butler Phillip stalking off in the opposite direction.
Poor guy needs to get laid.
I turn demurely back to my journey to live the royal life. For a short time anyway.
Chapter Two
Gabriel
I stalk to my parents’ suite of rooms in the west wing, giving up on sleep. On top of the wedding travesty and my worry over the future of the kingdom, now I have to deal with potential brides showing up at the palace door. I may never sleep again.
The servants had a good laugh over Polly actually believing I’m the butler. I grumble to myself over impertinent women wearing skintight dresses and long legs meant to wrap around…fuck. It’s been too long if that brash woman is appealing to me. I blame it on sleep deprivation. I should set her straight, but I have more pressing matters. Like what my mother is up to with this bizarre plan to draw in bridal candidates with the promise of a small inheritance. Surely this will only attract the most money-hungry desperate nobility. Bottom rung for the heir. Fucking hell.
My steps slow as I approach their suite. My father is not well, late-stage pancreatic cancer, and it’s painful to see him becoming weaker by the day. He’s only fifty-four and used to be larger than life—vital, powerful, a proud king. Now with this damn disease, he’s wasting away. My mother has been under a strain, rarely leaving his side. Theirs was an arranged marriage that turned to love, a powerful union. She doesn’t want to rule without him. I worry what will become of her without her anchor.
I take a deep breath and knock. My mother’s longtime maid answers the door, bowing her head as she does a deep curtsy. “Your Highness, the king is sleeping. Please let me show you to your mother’s sitting room.”
“Thank you, Joan.”
I follow her to my mother’s sitting room done in shades of pale blue with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the sea she loves so much. My mother, Queen Alexandra, is seated at a small mahogany table by the window. Her dark brown hair is in a chignon, her hazel eyes sharp, her skin pale. I don’t think she’s spent any time outdoors in months. Her expression remains strained from her constant vigil at my father’s side. We share the same hair color, same sharp cheekbones, and straight nose. My blue-green eyes are from my father. According to him, the sea color of our eyes shows we were meant to rule on this pretty island. As do our bloodlines tracing back to the original Viking tribe with their Irish wives.
The table is already set for tea for two as if she was expecting me. The servants would’ve passed along the message quickly of our visitor, probably gave her all the details on Polly too.
She smiles up at me, a crafty smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She has secrets, I can tell.
“Mother.” I lean down to kiss her soft cheek.
She gestures to the chair across from her. “Have a seat, Gabriel. Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you.” I sink heavily to the cushioned chair. “I had just declared the palace closed to visitors when your guest arrived.”
She takes a sip of tea, hiding her smile.
I lean forward and lower my voice. “Obviously the small inheritance she thinks she’s getting is becoming my bride and inheriting Villroy. Why not just do it the traditional way quietly through royal channels?”
“What fun would that be?”
I stiffen in shock. “Fun?” My parents have drilled duty and obligation into me since birth. At no time was fun ever on the agenda.
She sighs and quietly asks the servants to give us privacy. I wait, a sense of foreboding pressing down on me.
“Your father is doing worse,” she says once we’re alone.
I swallow down the lump in my throat.
She blinks back tears. Emotions are private, and she keeps hers on a tight leash. “I haven’t left the palace besides hospital visits in more than a year. Your bride is too important to leave it to the usual way. Gabriel, you will be king soon.” Her voice catches and she takes a sip of tea. “Your wife will be queen, and the future of our kingdom depends on your mutual leadership.”
I suspected as much. I hate that it’s come to this, but I understand the urgency of the situation as well as my parents’ need to have peace of mind that the succession will go smoothly. I only wish she would’ve allowed me a say in the screening process. I want a woman who brings class, dignity, and a sense of propriety to the role of queen. Not a brash impertinent rude woman in cheetah heels. Jesus.
I press my lips together, stifling my complaint over my mother’s first inappropriate selection. Please tell me there are better options heading my way.
I steeple my fingers together on the table. “How many candidates did you invite?”
She brightens. “There are ten eligible single royals.”
“And what will you do with them?” I’m thinking some kind of god-awful reception or royal ball, either of which sounds tedious as hell.
“We will put them to the test.”
I shift in my seat, not liking the sound of this. “How?”
She looks out the window for a moment before turning back to me. “We need fresh blood, fresh ideas to help Villroy thrive again for generations to come. So we will see who is best up to the task.”
“And then I will choose one?”
Her hazel eyes gleam. “The last survivor will be the one.”
I jolt. She couldn’t possibly mean…I lean close and whisper, “Survivor as in a battle to the death?” I know we have Viking blood, but we’ve been the height of royal decorum for centuries.
She rolls her eyes. “It will be like Survivor, that reality TV show. Your father and I have been watching a lot of TV since he’s been bedridden.”
My jaw drops. She’s cracked under the strain of my father’s illness.
She goes on in an animated voice. “There will be a series of challenges designed to eliminate those candidates not up to the task.” She cocks her head. “Or maybe it will be more like that show The Bachelor, where we’ll narrow it down by compatibility.”
My gut churns as I picture women clawing their way through whatever barbaric challenges my mother has concocted, desperate to win. Only the most aggressive woman could make it through all that, and then I will have to marry her. I need a helpmate, not a hellion.
I open my mouth to protest, but then she smiles, the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her in a very long time, and I nearly smile back to see it. If I wasn’t being bandied about as a prize in this insane competition, I might manage it.
“Let’s call it both!” she exclaims cheerfully. “Survivor meets The Bachelor royal style!”
I have to ask. “Are you feeling okay? Have you been sleeping?”
“I’m fine. I’ve already told your father, and he is all for it. He says it’ll bring some life into the palace, and besides, this will help prepare you to be king. You’ll need to use grace, diplomacy, and keen judgment to make the right choice.”
This never would’ve happened before my father was ill. I cling to the only thin thread of reason left to me. “So it is my choice. Ultimately.”
“Subject to royal approval.” Which means the king and queen must also agree with my choice. King and queen trumps prince. Hell. What if I end up with the wildly inappropriate cheetah-heeled Polly as my queen because she resembles some reality TV contestant my parents like? This is madness.
I’d like to howl my displeasure, but I take one look at her rare beaming smile, and I cave. “So be it.”
She squeezes my hand, a rare display of affection. “I knew you’d understand. The other women will be arriving shortly. The games begin tomorrow.”
I don’t even want to know. Lack of sleep, this insane competition, my father’s declining health, the future of the kingdom—my brain shuts down in protest.
I politely take my leave and make my way to my third-floor suite without a thought in my head besides sleep.
I dream of a cheetah heel clocking me on the jaw, her ankle propped on my shoulder, her body shuddering around me.
I wake in a cold sweat.
Chapter Three
Anna
I have a maid! Her name is Anna, which freaks me out because that’s my name too. I fear they’re onto me, but Anna is so calm and eager to please, I’m forced to conclude I’m being paranoid. As it turns out, that’s the least of my concerns because now Anna is walking me to the audience chamber in the west wing to meet Queen Alexandra for the first time about the inheritance. The queen! I’m sure I’m supposed to bow my head and curtsy. Beyond that, I’m at a loss.
I smooth clammy hands down my dress, the last of my tropical wardrobe selections. Polly is from the tropical Beaumont Islands in the Caribbean. The dress is fuchsia with a bright white and yellow flower pattern, halter top, cinched at the waist, ending mid-thigh. Too bad Polly didn’t bring her royal clothes with her to Tampa or I might’ve matched her better. She’d shopped at Target for her new princess-in-hiding identity.
The only good news in this screwed-up situation is that Polly wore hats with veils when she was in the public eye (as required of single royal women in her homeland), so I could pass for her. We’re both curly-haired brunettes, both early twenties (I’m twenty-three), similar average figure, and nearly the same height (I’m five feet nine). Polly assured me she’d never met the Villroy royalty. Her social circle was stiflingly small.
Anna gives me a tight smile as we approach the double doors of the audience chamber, which makes me nervous like she’s worried for me. Maybe it’s because she urged me to wear a white shawl over my shoulders and I declined. Too granny for my tastes. She also wanted to do my hair up, but who’s the certified hairdresser here? I left my hair down; my curls are impossible to tame. The only thing to do with it is prevent frizz.
Not to brag, but I did put myself through beauty school and worked my way into a ritzy salon with a buttload of happy clients. My plan has always been to scrape together enough funds to buy the salon from my boss when she retires in seven years. Owner of my own salon by thirty. I’m a big believer in manifesting your own destiny. I’ve got a vision board and goal Post-its all over my studio apartment. I repeat my goal like a mantra the moment I wake up: I will own my own salon by thirty. Some might say it’s a little woo-woo. I say screw you, what can it hurt?
And didn’t my destiny manifest in the form of a princess offering me a gift that could make my dream come true? Sort of. Polly and I have got a ways to go on that.
I take one step into the ornate audience chamber, nearly seize in shock, and turn to Anna. She’s already out the door, which shuts neatly behind her. I turn back and take a deep calming breath. The massive room makes me feel small—gold trim on everything, a ceiling that looks like it dates back to the Renaissance with elaborate paintings of ethereal beings, an enormous crystal chandelier shining over glossy inlaid hardwood floors. Scores of royal ancestors look down their noses at me from oil paintings along the walls, and at the very end of this massively intimidating room is a huge antique wooden double throne. Queen Alexandra sits there, alone, in a powder blue long-sleeved dress with matching heels, pearl necklace, pearl earrings. She is the definition of regal class, and I’m suddenly feeling like I should’ve worn something less tropical and more in the pastel family.
As if that isn’t intimidating enough, nine women flank the throne in a sea of pastels and straight glossy hair, standing in two neat arcs like a royal beauty pageant is about to take place. My only chance is Miss Congeniality.
I seriously consider bolting. My wild curls and tropical dress stick out like a giraffe at a petting zoo. Before I can make my escape, a servant is at my side, urging me to take my place with the other women. Is Polly’s small inheritance to be split ten ways? Because I don’t think that’s going to cut it for lawyer’s fees.
I’m nearly at the end of the line on the left when a man in a crisp white shirt and black pants announces, “Princess Mary Louise Lyon of the Beaumont Islands.”
I gulp. That’s me. My pulse pounding in my ears, I pray I don’t screw this up for her. I take three steps forward, bow my head to the queen, and do a deep curtsy. I’m not sure how long to hold it. Three seconds seems right. I slowly straighten and address her directly, “Pleased to meet you, Your Majesty.”
The queen smiles, a gentle smile. “Thank you for traveling all this way, Mary. Please join the others.”
I comply, sensing some serious side-eye from the other women.
The queen addresses us and drops a bombshell. “I’ve asked you all here on false pretenses.”
A shocked silence falls. Crap. No inheritance?
The queen continues. “You’re not here to claim a small inheritance.” She pauses, and the tension is so thick it makes me want to shout Go on! Finally, she does. “You are here for riches beyond your dreams. However, only one of you will be granted these riches.”
The women murmur quietly to each other.
The queen doesn’t elaborate further. Welp, somebody has to ask.
I raise my hand. “How do you decide who gets it?”
The queen’s eyes narrow, her lips pressed tightly together.
“Your Majesty,” I add belatedly.
The queen addresses the room in a crisp tone. “Before we go further, I must ask you to sign a nondisclosure.” She gestures toward a small table, where a man in a charcoal gray suit is waiting to witness the signings. “If you choose not to, you may leave now.”
Not one person leaves. We form an obedient line, because who doesn’t need riches beyond their dreams? Though I suspect some of us might need those riches more than others. I have to hand those riches over to Polly, but she assured me a portion would go toward my foster dad, Mike’s care.
I cleared my schedule and took two weeks’ vacation time to make this happen. You know when the last time was that I took a vacation? Uh, never. My goal always in mind—own my own salon by thirty—means I always work. Even at home, I’m on call for whatever a tenant might need. I’m the super for our apartment building and live rent-free because of it. I can fix lots of stuff thanks to Mike, who was a handyman. I don’t mind hard work. It gets me where I want to go.
