Page 14 of His Princess Brat
Those who weren’t royalty stood up when they saw me. Some who were stood up too. I recognized a few, mostly by their country. A rather geeky-looking fellow at the table right beside the one I chose to sit at even pulled out my chair to seat me.
“Princess,” he greeted.
“Thank you,” I said, pleasantly surprised by the courtesy. He was a robust fellow, not fat per se, but solidly built. His face was pleasant, his black curly hair cut very short, and his clothes rather formally informal. Like a pastor, or a librarian—tan trousers and white button-down long-sleeved shirt with a cardigan worn over the top. He even wore a dark blue bowtie.
“Do you remember me?” he asked, seeming quite excited to talk to me.
Had it got out that I was husband hunting already?
“You are very familiar,” I diplomatically replied. That he didn’t wear a sarong or coat that might help me place his family colors made it difficult, but he only gestured to an empty chair and asked, “May I?”
I didn’t groan or roll my eyes; I simply made room for him at my table. I was very proud of myself for that.
“Mswati,” he introduced.
From Lesotho, my brain instantly supplied. Now I could place the subtle accent, and where he stood on the family tree. He was the ninth son of a king, with no hope of inheriting naturally or without violence. Word was definitely out.
“Pita.” I offered him my hand and he surprised me by shaking it instead of caressing a kiss across my knuckles.
His smile turned slightly chagrined. “Y-you do still harbor a great dislike of all things courtly, correct?”
That surprised me. “I don’t think I can answer that in any way that won’t horrify my mother and yet still be honest.”
He grinned. “My father is the same way.”
“You could do better than a ninth son,” said a familiar voice behind my chair.
I swiveled in my seat to find Tamar and, God, Bethany behind me. Tamar was smirking; Bethany looked about as happy to see me as I did her. Mswati lost his smile.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, already feeling badly for Mswati who was withdrawing into himself now that we were no longer alone. “I don’t see much difference between a ninth son and the third of a hotel mogul.”
“A third son can and will inherit a portion of his father’s massive empire.” Smug, the pompous Middle Eastern man slid into a seat beside Mswati. “A ninth son gets nothing but a reserved seat at family get-togethers.”
“He gets me,” I said flatly, winning a grateful smile from Mswati and a nasty laugh from Bethany.
“Some prize that is.” She pouted at Tamar. “Why are we wasting time over here? You can’t possibly want to be associated with the horse queen of Bahar.”
“I like horses,” Mswati said.
I had to admit, I liked him for that.
“You wear a cardigan. What do you know?” Bethany shot back.
“I’m pretty sure he knows a gold-digging cunt when one sits down uninvited at his table,” I said, my temper already percolating to a heated boil.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she shot back in mock delight. “I didn’t realize it was his table. I thought it was yours, you horse-race, horse-haired, horse-breathed—”
“Horse,” I supplied, rolling my eyes. “Frankly, I’d rather be all that than a man-whore, sleeping with anything with a penis and a wallet.”
“Like your brother?”
Tamar held up his hands. “Ladies...”
“Stay out of this,” we both snapped.
“I never slept with Jabari,” Bethany declared.
“Liar!”
