My Best Friend's Royal Wedding (ARC) Page 15

  I’m not so sure who needed protecting. Geez, but you’re mean,” Khara says, shifting away from me.

  I rub my head, still not letting go of her hand which is trapped beneath my other. “I’ve had

  about as much as I can take of women kissing up to me because of my family name or my family’s fortune.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Poor little rich boy,” she mocks, pulling her hand out of my grip. “If you didn’t exploit your name and fortune to get into women’s pants in the first place, maybe you’d have better luck.”

  That’s the kind of thing my sister would say.

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  I blow out a breath. “You are nothing if not honest.”

  “And you’re not.”

  I arch an eyebrow, waiting for her to explain.

  “What is this inheritance that everyone wants to get their hands on?”

  I don’t want to tell her. Is it because I’m afraid she’s going to turn out to be like every other woman and suddenly find me more desirable? Or because she won’t?

  I blow out a long breath. “The inheritance my cousin left me is the opportunity to replace

  him as crown prince of Erdély.”

  I search her face for the sudden piquing of interest I’ve seen in the faces of so many other

  women, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she looks at me steadily, the same way she did when I flashed my credit card, and something pulls tight in my chest. It’s that feeling that twisted my gut for the first time in Vegas a year ago; the fear that everything I have, everything I am, means nothing.

  “I haven’t heard of Erdély,” she says, tone thoughtful.

  “You, and at least nine tenths of the planet. It’s a tiny micro-state on the border between

  Austria and Hungary.”

  “Like Westerwald?”

  “Even smaller. It’s about a third of the size, and only has a population of about a hundred

  thousand people.”

  “What’s it like?”

  I can rattle off the country’s GDP, the key dates in Erdélian history, and name every ruler

  since the 1600s (backwards), but that is the one question I can’t answer. I shrug. “I don’t know. I haven’t been there in at least twenty years.”

  She arches an eyebrow at me. “And that’s the big decision you face, the one you’re trying to

  avoid - whether or not to take your cousin’s place?”

  I nod, and she purses her lips in a way that reminds me of Uncle Lajos. “But you don’t want

  to, because it’s too much responsibility and will put a dent in your self-indulgent lifestyle?”

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  It’s not really a question, more of an answer. How the hell does she know that?

  “What’s the alternative, if you say no?” she asks.

  “I go back to my job schmoozing clients for my father’s firm.”

  “I meant the alternative for Erdély.” Jemmy could take lessons from Khara in how to put me

  in my place.

  “Then my cousin Mátyás will inherit when my uncle dies.”

  She holds me pinned with that steady gaze. “Is this the same Mátyás you said would be a

  perfect fit for Baroness Elena?”

  I nod again.

  “And you think the people of Erdély deserve that?” There’s a glimmer of humour in her

  eyes now, as if she’s enjoying baiting me, enjoying my discomfort.

  “I think Erdély deserves better than me.” That feeling is back, making it hard for me to

  breathe. I stretch and rise. “I’m done with this event. Want to blow this joint?”

  “I need to go back out there and pretend to be the perfect bridesmaid.”

  “You already passed with flying colours. Let’s go play tourist some more.”

  #

  The Hatton-Eszterháza name opens a lot of doors. At Chantilly’s chateau, it opens very

  literal doors. The curator falls over herself to give us a private tour, even escorting us through rooms that aren’t usually open to the general public. The elegantly-furnished state apartments are even more lavish than those in the palace in Neustadt, with walls decorated in ornate gold leaf, and the collection of artworks is second only to the Louvre. As our guide leads us from one gallery to the next, Khara is speechless again. There are masterpieces by Raphael, Poussin, van Dyck and

  Giotto, an endless list of the masters which means little to me, but clearly means a great deal to her.

  “Does your family have a palace like this?” she whispers as we stroll down the Psyche

  gallery, a long hall displaying the forty-four stained glass windows depicting the life of the goddess Psyche.

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  I shrug. “There’s a recent nineteenth century castle, and an older seventeenth century

  hunting lodge, but I’m going to guess neither is as elaborate at this one.” Nick used to call the castle

  ‘the farm’ and did everything in his power to avoid spending time there.

  Khara laughs. “I think your idea of ‘recent’ is a little different to mine.”

  In the chateau’s Reading Room, which is not nearly as impressive (or as comfortable) as the

  palace library in Neustadt, the curator shows us the collection of ancient illuminated manuscripts.

  “This belonged to one of your ancestors,” she says, donning gloves, and opening a glass cabinet to retrieve a Book of Hours, a religious devotional richly decorated with gold leaf.

  “Wow,” Khara breathes. Then she glances up at me. “I guess that makes your ancestors kind

  of important?”

  I shrug. “I remember one of my ancestors married into the Bourbon-Condé family, though

  that had to be at least four centuries back.”

  I study the yellowed pages, bright ink and burnished gold of the manuscript. I have no idea

  which of my many, many forebears this belonged to, but I’m struck suddenly by the sense of that life, lived centuries ago, still remembered in the pages of this book, this tangible reminder of a life once lived. What legacy will live on when I’m gone? Will I be like Nick, nothing more than an

  embarrassing memory best forgotten?

  “All the royal families intermarried, so of course you’re related to a lot of important

  European historical figures,” the curator says. She probably thinks she’s being helpful, but please, please don’t let ancient history do what a black card and a title couldn’t. Please don’t let it turn Khara’s head. It’s suddenly very important that she sees me, not my history.

  Khara gazes at me thoughtfully. “Now I know why you are the way you are. From what I

  recall of European history, most of those old time royals were complete douches. It must be in the genes.”

  The curator gasps, a horrified look on her face, but I laugh, relieved. “Spoken like a true

  American,” I say, taking her hand. “Shall we go look at the gardens?”

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  The chateau is surrounded by a French-style water garden, immense geometric mirrors of

  water reflecting the sky and formal fountains. Beyond that lies a parkland, and the less formal Anglo-Chinese garden with its dense vegetation and quaint cottages, and the romantic English

  Garden, with its temple of Venus and Island of Love where an afternoon wedding is in progress.

  We hover, watching from a distance as the bride and groom exchange vows beneath a bower of

  roses.

  “A dream wedding,” I comment.

  Khara shakes her head. “Not mine. I want a wedding just like… like one I attended in Vegas

  last year. Simple, no fuss, just a handful of close friends sharing a magical moment.”

  “How can you sigh over art, but not have a romantic bone in your body?”

  “It’s not romantic to sp
end your life savings on a dress you’re only going to wear once, and

  on feeding a whole lot of people you’re not even that close to. There are much better things to spend money on, like college tuition, or a mortgage on a new home, or the chance to travel like…”

  She bites her lip, and I wonder what else she was going to say.

  “What if money wasn’t an obstacle? Would you want the big, white wedding then?” I press.

  She turns on me. “What does it matter? I’m not going to marry someone rich, so there’s no

  point even going there. All I want is someone kind and good and dependable.”

  “Do the two have to be mutually exclusive?”

  “In my experience, they usually are.”

  I arch an eyebrow at her. “This is more than just feeling left out at school, isn’t it? What

  happened to make you so cynical?”

  She narrows her eyes at me, as if I should already know the answer. Then she blows out a

  breath and shakes her head. “The first time I met a man like you, I was in high school. You know the type: super rich family, the popular kid in school, good at sports, a little bit dangerous.”

  She’s right. That does sound like me.

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  “I was so thrilled when he noticed me. Me, the girl that no one ever saw.” She blushes and

  looks away. “I was thrilled right up until he told the entire school he did it as a bet to get into my pants.”

  Did he win the bet? I’m too afraid of what the answer might be to ask.

  “The worst of it was that I really should have known better. I’ve had a lifetime of watching

  my mother date men like that. You want to know what I learned from her?”

  I shake my head.

  “Men like that don’t marry women like us. They’ll happily screw us, but when they marry,

  they choose women from their own social circle, and they break our hearts.”

  “Max is marrying Phoenix.”

  She laughs softly. “Max is different. Besides, Phoenix blends into his world. She knows the

  right things to say, how to act in social situations. She wasn’t always a cocktail waitress, and she doesn’t live in a trailer.”

  I want to deny it, to tell her that the men I know aren’t all like that. That I’m not like that.

  But I can’t. I’ve screwed my way through enough waitresses, receptionists, hotel front desk staff whose names I haven’t even bothered to ask, to recognise that I’m one of those men. She has every right to call me a douche.

  The vows are done, and the wedding guests stand and clap as the bride and groom walk

  down the petal-bestrewn aisle hand in hand.

  As the guests move to the reception marquee set up on the lawn, Khara smiles up at me

  cheekily. “I told you my deep, dark secret. Now you tell me yours.”

  “I don’t have any secrets,” I lie.

  “Ha! Tell me why you really offered to tutor me.”

  Ouch. Do I have to? But fair is fair… “My friend Charlie died a few years ago. His parents

  donated a new sports centre to our old prep school as a memorial, and this week was the dedication.

  I wanted an excuse to get out of it.”

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  She eyes me, and it’s that moment in the grotto all over again. She wants me, but she

  doesn’t like me. I can imagine what she sees: a self-centred man who’d do anything to avoid taking anything seriously. I can’t blame her.

  And yet I want to prove her wrong. Madly, desperately, I want more than just to get Khara

  into my bed. Don’t get me wrong, I still want to sleep with her. I want to see her hair spread out across my pillows, and I want to see her eyes go wild and dark, and I want to lick Chantilly cream off her skin.

  But there’s something else I want even more: I want her to prove to her that I’m a better

  person than she thinks. Better than that jock in high school who humiliated her.

  She turns away and starts walking back in the direction of the chateau. I have to hurry to

  catch her up.

  “What do I have to do to convince you that I’m not like every other rich man you’ve ever

  met?”

  She pauses to look at me. “Care about something or someone other than yourself. Do

  something real and useful with your life. Something that involves rolling up your sleeves, not the kind of job that involves taking a pay check for doing nothing.”

  She mistakes my silence for disagreement, sighs and shakes her head. “I thought so. You

  know, most of the population goes to work every day. It’s really not that hard.”

  It’s not holding down a job that’s hard.

  That old, dark fear raises its ugly head again, and this time I know what it is. It’s the fear that if I care about anything or anyone, if I invest too much of myself in anything, then I will be vulnerable again. It is easier to be shallow, to hide behind the external trappings, behind the gloss of my family’s wealth and reputation, than to let anyone or anything in. That is why I can’t accept Uncle Lajos’ offer. Because then I will have to care about an entire nation.

  I cared about Charlie. I cared about Nick. I can’t, I won’t, let myself care about anything

  that way again.

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  Chapter Fifteen

  Khara

  By the time we get back to the hotel, which now seems incredibly modern after seeing the

  18th century chateau it’s modeled on, Phoenix and Max are already in the hotel bar, surrounded by what seems like an impromptu party.

  “Where did you two disappear to?” Mateo shouts over the music and voices, drawing the entire

  room’s attention to us. Maybe not the entire room. Their younger teammate is on a sofa in the

  corner, a blonde in his lap, and they’re not paying attention to anyone but each other.

  “We went to look at the art at the chateau,” I answer.

  “Looking at art - is that what you’re calling it these days?” Phoenix asks with a sly wink.

  Max has his arm around her, and they’re both smirking. I’ve never been more convinced that

  they’ve deliberately thrown me and Adam together, than I am right now, though I can’t figure out why. Wasn’t Max the one who told Adam I wasn’t his type?

  Deliberately misunderstanding Phoenix, I launch into a description of everything we saw at

  the chateau. It’s not hard for me to gush, and the way their eyes glaze over gives me immense

  satisfaction. But I’m also talking too much to cover the fact that Adam has barely said a word since we left the chateau’s English garden. He barely looks at me.

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  “Poor you, mate,” Max commiserates with Adam when I pause to draw breath. “After all

  that art and history, I’m sure you could use a drink.”

  Adam grins, but it seems forced. “Whatever it is, make it a double.”

  If anyone thought we left the polo match early to hook up, they sure aren’t thinking it any

  longer. Adam takes the drink he’s handed, and without even a glance at me, moves to join Mateo to admire the glass trophy their team won.

  Phoenix looks at me enquiringly, and I shrug. I have absolutely no idea what’s gotten into

  him. All I suggested was that he invests himself in something. Was that really so bad, and why did he ask if he didn’t want my opinion? It’s probably yet another one of those etiquette ‘rules’ I just don’t get.

  I look longingly at the woman serving drinks behind the bar, and wish we could trade

  places. Back there, mixing drinks, serving customers, staying invisible, I know what I’m doing. Out here on this side of the bar, everything is just so complicated.

  As soon as I can do so with
out looking like a party pooper, I slip away to my room. But it’s

  a long, long time before I fall asleep.

  #

  Adam doesn’t join us for breakfast next morning. The concierge brings up the Sunday

  morning papers and Phoenix flicks to the society page (I didn’t even know that was a thing). There are color pictures from the polo match - Max and Adam on the field, Max and Mateo accepting the trophy, Phoenix and I in the VIP enclosure. I breathe out a sigh of relief. I look just like everyone else at that polo match. Better yet, I look like a royal bridesmaid.

  “Of course, there’ll be pictures all over the internet as well, mostly fashion sites,” Phoenix says, “but I never bother with those.”

  My heart thuds at the thought of strangers all over the world speculating about my clothes or

  my hair, and then I laugh. One of my high school tormentors runs a successful fashion blog. It’s

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  going to kill her, seeing me in the VIP enclosure at a high society event, all dressed up in designer clothes. That thought just made this entire trip to Europe and losing my job worthwhile.

  The return drive to Westerwald later in the day is much quicker than our initial trip. Max

  claims that the cracking bruise he received on his shin during the polo match has made him an

  invalid, so he and Phoenix take the back seat, and Adam drives. It’s immediately obvious that Max and Phoenix only wanted the back seat because they can’t keep their hands off each other. I catch Adam’s eye, and he grins.

  He seems determined to keep things light and casual between us. He doesn’t refer to his

  inheritance or his family once, and instead I find myself talking to fill the void. By the time our little cavalcade draws into Neustadt, I’ve had more practice at making small talk than any one person needs for a lifetime, and I also have a headache from trying to figure out what’s going on with him.