Free Royal Marriage Market by Heather Lyons Page A

square, allowing myself a tiny, nauseated breath. “As I have no desire toward marrying anyone in this godforsaken place, let alone . . . doing anything else, such information is comforting.” And then, wholly unable to resist a bit of cheekiness, “ Capiche? ”
    His mouth opens. It is a dangerous mouth that offers far too many promises. “Noted, madam.”
    My father’s arse fails me for the first time.
    I must be ill, perhaps even with the flu plaguing the Lichtenstein cousin. I am warm and dizzy and clearly not in the right frame of mind, because sharp delight over how this prince isn’t fawning surges through my bloodstream.
    “Perhaps I ought to stress I have no desire in marrying anyone at the RMM, either, let alone . . . doing anything else.” He mimics my cadences. “Present company included.”
    My mother would be utterly shamed, because I nearly burst out into genuine laughter. It arrives as a snort, but still. I quickly cover my mouth. Right before dinner, I overheard several ladies discussing what they would do to Prince Christian when, not if, they get him alone, and none of the suggestions were innocent. “Good luck with that.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning, if you escape the Summit with your bachelorhood or virginity intact, it will be a miracle. Besides, protests aside, you know as well as I that none of us have any say in the matter anyway.”
    He gapes at me once more. My lady parts find his astonishment adorable, which is intolerable. This man is a Hereditary Grand Duke. I am a Hereditary Princess. A match between the two of us is not an option, not even at the RMM. I must do something to shut this inappropriate attraction down once and for all. I inhale deeply and say, mentally cringing as I am patently aware of just how blatantly rude and awful this will sound, “You’re not a virgin, are you?”
    Gaping transitions to sputtering. Parker quickly excuses himself under the guise of finding more champagne.
    Well, at least that makes one less person I must humiliate myself in front of, although I am certain the damage is long done. “It is all right if you are,” I continue.
    Christian stands so close now we share the same, toasty air from nearby heat lamps. “I am thirty years old.”
    I clearly overestimated him. Asking such a boorish question would send normal, polite folk running. But here this prince is, closer than ever, forcing me to desperately root around for another awful memory to combat his unwanted effect on me. Maybe that of Nils shagging my ex-BFF? It’s a nice, angry memory that serves me well in times of need. Only, every breath is filled with Christian, and stars in the sky are twinkling. and my head is swimming, and my bloody lady parts are dancing and crying all at once.
    I need someone to shake some sense into me right now. Charlotte would gladly do so if present; perhaps Isabelle will stand in her stead? Because this prince is not meant to be mine. Ever. Not that I would ever want him and all his too -ness, anyway. What a hassle it would be, being with a man far more attractive than one’s self. Hell, he probably has a different woman for each day of the week. And that is not what I want or need. I would rather have nothing than something that isn’t true.
    I despise how judgmental I am being. How much I’ve allowed an attraction to warp my thoughts. I must be ill. I must.
    This is unacceptable.
    I swallow hard and, pleased my voice is level, say, “There are plenty of thirty-year old virgins. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”
    His head dips toward mine; dark, wavy hair falls into his eyes and all I can do is watch in utter fascination as an outraged breath sucks sharply into him. “Not that it is any of your business, but I am not a virgin.”
    Silence fights for space between us amidst the din of the party for nearly a full, agonizing, hot minute, during which we simply, warily study one another. I think I would gladly pay a million euros to know what he thinks