Page 4 of Royal Catch
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.”
