Free Royal Marriage Market by Heather Lyons

When we, uh, ran into each other. For that, I apologize.”
    For a long moment, amidst the clinking of glasses around us and light chatter and sweet music, Christian is slack-jawed in the face of my bluntness. Even Parker is acting as if two heads protrude from my neck. No matter. The Hereditary Grand Duke may take what I offered as he will. I pivot on a high heel at the same time as Christian blurts, “I wasn’t proposing. Or propositioning you. Or whatever else it was you assumed I was doing.”
    I make the very poor mistake of focusing on his mouth as he says this to me. His lips are too perfect, shaped too much like those statues carved by the masters.
    “Bloody hell, I don’t even know you,” he continues hotly. “Besides, you’re to inherit your throne. Why would you ever think I would propose to you? Narcissistic much?”
    This is enough to tear my focus from his delicious mouth back up to his eyes. He’s outraged right now, in the middle of an elegant party, no longer attempting to hide behind required yet feigned civility. And this anger from him only piques my interest tenfold, because what kind of perfect man snarls at a woman in public?
    Parker hisses in scandalized horror, “Your Highness!”
    Apparently I am not the only royal with a language problem in public. Oddly, the similarity leaves me yearning to chortle.
    Christian waves his secretary off as I battle to contain the grin desperate to tug my lips upward. No longer the paragon of perfection, not at least in temperament, I allow a few more charitable thoughts about this prince.
           Unable to resist the perverse pleasure stemming from such repartee, I say smoothly, “You gave me a look . What else was I to think?”
    My jab hits its bull’s-eye, because Christian’s eyes widen in comical dismay. “There was no look!” he barks.
    Chortling, according to my mother, is vulgar and completely unattractive. It simply is not to be tolerated from the heir of the Vattenguldian throne. Nor am I allowed to laugh long and hard. I’m permitted polite, quiet mirth that is minimal at best. But goodness, if I don’t want to laugh right now in the face of such exasperation, especially when champagne physically spurts out of Parker’s nose.
    Taking pity on Mr. Amused, I fetch a napkin from the buffet table. And still, I cannot help but volley another round. “There most definitely was a look.”
    Christian invades my personal space. “By look, you mean a polite acknowledgement of strangers alone in a hallway. If there was a look, that was it. Nothing more!”
    Hot damn, outrage is a delectable look on this man. Unbidden images of him, righteous in his convictions as he talks to the Aibolandian Parliament, taunt me until I curse my newly tingling lady parts.
    Stupid lady parts. They never think logically.
    I cannot be attracted to him. I cannot . Attraction at first sight is a fairy story, not reality. Enjoying banter is one thing, but discovering a physical attraction is entirely different. Therefore, I force the foulest memory I possess to the forefront of my mind, of when I discovered my father mid-coitus with someone other than my mother. His Serene Highness was as nude as the day he was born; worse yet, wiry hair sprouted from his surprisingly tan arse.
    Appeased at the burgeoning urge to escape to the loo and vomit out what little bit of dinner I managed to consume without popping seams, I offer Christian a, “You may think that.”
    But then my lady parts rally anew when a delightful flush steals up his neck. How is it possible that my father’s hairy arse cheeks are not enough to overcome this man’s charm? “As the looker,” Christian says, once more crowding my personal space, “I can verify it was the only intent possible.”
    Hairy arse. Hairy dimpled arse. Hairy dimpled arse that rippled when (SHUDDER) my father shoved himself (SHUDDER) into that woman—from behind, no less. I force the scene to loop in my mind as my shoulders