Royals of Danovar: The Complete Series Read online

  He gave up and handed the cutting off to one of the royal gardeners, completing his duty with a bow and another smile, which he had to force a bit more than he had the first. The audience applauded again and then began wandering toward the refreshment tables as Simon peeled his gloves off with a sigh. He was sure that Danovar would need more from him than ceremonial flowers soon. He just had to bide his time, serve his country as best he could in whatever capacity it needed him in the meantime.

  Although lately, he had to admit it did seem like he was only slated for small, relatively unimportant duties like this. Which was another thing that had kept him up so late last night; what if this was as meaningful as his life got? He had so much more he wanted to do—help with policy, spread information about programs that would benefit the people of Danovar. But if the trend of the last year or two continued, soon he would be as good as shelved while those closer to the throne took over all the jobs he wanted so badly to help with. And what would he do then? Leave? He’d only ever trained to be a royal, had devoted his whole life to his current path. What business would need a man with full knowledge of the law and also the appropriate method of pulling the national ale? Plus, the palace had always been like a second home to him. If he no longer served at the behest of the Crown, would he lose that belonging, that security?

  He tried to push the thought down as an elderly woman with a walker approached him. She leaned toward the dahlia bulb, a frown slashing across her face as she squinted at it from several different angles. After a moment she stood straight and her frown eased a touch. “Decent work, young man,” she said, though her sour voice made it sound like an insult. Hearing her tone, a tiny, fluffy, gray-and-white head poked out of a giant bag hooked to the front of her walker: a Shih Tzu, glaring at Simon as if plotting how best to bite the man responsible for its owner’s irritation.

  Careful to keep his fingers out of range of the dog’s tiny teeth, Simon shook the woman’s hand. “Thank you, ma’am. This is my first cutting ceremony but I’m proud to be a part of such a beautiful tradition.”

  Her frown eased a few more notches and she eyed him. “Which part of the garden do you think they’ll plant today’s cuttings in?” she asked, with the same look Simon’s tutors used to have when they sprung a pop quiz on him.

  Luckily, Simon had never been caught unprepared for a test. “Oh, the cuttings won’t be ready for full planting for a while,” he answered. “They’ll put them on a tray with a heat mat first, wait for the roots to grow a bit.”

  Her frown turned into a thin-lipped line, and he thought he even saw one corner of it curl up the tiniest bit as she nodded her approval. The Shih Tzu made a noise that sounded like a grumble and disappeared back into the bag, probably upset it wouldn’t get to bite anyone after all.

  Beyond the woman’s shoulder, someone waved to get Simon’s attention, and he glanced toward the back of the audience area. A young, official-looking woman in a black dress coat with a pin of burnished gold and ruby red stood at the back, beckoning to him. He tilted his head, immediately intrigued. She was the only other person present who wasn’t a child, a guard, or geriatric, and unless he was mistaken that pin marked her as a representative of the Esconian government. What business could she possibly have at this ceremony?

  Another elderly woman, this one in a wheelchair, had approached him while he was distracted. “You cut too close to the growth point,” she said, a chiding note in her voice.

  The first woman’s almost-smile slashed back into a frown and she glared at the intruder. “I’ve already checked, Madge,” she said, pushing herself in front of Simon. “He did fine.”

  The Shih Tzu popped its head back out, hackles rising.

  “Hmph. As if you’re a reliable source. I’ll see for myself, Clementine,” Madge argued, trying to scoot her wheelchair closer. Clementine “accidentally” stuck one leg of her walker in the wheelchair’s spokes, locking them up.

  Simon’s attention snapped away from the Esconian representative and back to the swiftly escalating problem at hand. Madge was now yanking the tennis balls off the feet of Clementine’s walker and tossing them into the bushes. Clementine’s dog, its loyalty overridden by the sight of the balls, leapt out of its bag and started happily tearing them apart. Clementine shrieked and yanked her walker out of the wheelchair’s spokes, but the motion threw her off balance, and she tumbled backwards into the table holding Danovar’s irreplaceable original dahlia bulbs.

  Thanks to reflexes honed by years of rugby, Simon darted sideways and caught the table with one hand, steadying Clementine with the other. “Ma’am,” he said as graciously as possible. “Perhaps I could have a guard retrieve your dog and help you find some replacement balls? And Ms. Madge, if I might be so bold, there are some delicious scones at the refreshment table.”

  Another minute of diplomacy and the intervention of two helpful guards saw both women on their separate ways, and the dahlia bulbs taken back to the greenhouse by a thankful gardener. Smoothing the front of his black, practical suit, Simon went to find the Esconian representative.

  “I apologize for taking so long,” he said when he found her in a smaller, more private side garden. “I had to take a moment to deal with some… unforeseen circumstances.”

  The woman smiled slightly. “I saw.”

  “How may I be of service to Escona?” Please be something official and important, he prayed silently, but really, he’d settle for anything that didn’t involve manure and feuding octogenarians.

  The woman got straight to the point. “I’m here to extend you an invitation,” she said briskly. “The royal family of Escona has been impressed by your stability and record of dutifulness, and would like to ask you to marry their new queen.”

  He blinked a few times before responding. “Marry?” he asked, not sure whether he’d heard her right. He’d hoped his stability and dutifulness might net him some better jobs, but he never thought he’d hear the terms bandied about in a marriage proposal. If that was indeed what this was—in which case, this ceremony had just gone from boring to bizarre. Normally royal proposals involved quite a lot more pomp and circumstance than an unscheduled meeting at a flower cutting.

  “Yes,” the representative confirmed. “I apologize for not going through the normal channels for this sort of thing, but I’m afraid there’s a bit of a time issue at hand.” She handed him a thick, cream-colored envelope sealed in red wax with the official seal of the royal Esconian family. “This has all the details,” she added. “If you agree, we’ll need to know within forty-eight hours so that we can set things in motion.”

  Numbly, he accepted the envelope, turning it over in his hands. The seal was legitimate. This was actually happening. Escona actually wanted him to marry its new queen. Penelope, he thought, only knowing her name from the recent headlines. She’d inherited the throne after the prior king, Nathaniel, had abdicated in order to join some sort of alternative community in Oregon—something about becoming a “citizen of the world” and “freeing his mind from its Earthly anchors.”

  The representative was waiting for a response, but Simon hesitated. He’d never even met Penelope, had only seen her face on the evening news. He had no idea if their personalities would mesh, if they would get along. Hell, he didn’t even know if she was fully on board with this proposal, which after all had been sent under the official seal of her family and not from her personally. This could very well be a terrible idea.

  But then he glanced up at the palace over the representative’s shoulder. Lately he’d felt so unnecessary here—as if he were being humored with busy work rather than actually needed and used to his full capacity. He loved Danovar… but what if he could actually make a difference in Escona?

  “Thank you for the invitation,” Simon said at last, tucking the envelope in his pocket. “I’ll be in touch regarding my decision.”

  2

  Penelope Alcott, the soon-to-be-Queen of Escona, sketched a treehouse while she waited to
meet her husband.

  Fiancé, she reminded herself, clutching the pencil a little more tightly. He was just her fiancé. He wouldn’t be her husband for a few more weeks. She still had time to back out of this whirlwind of an arranged marriage, she could even back out of ruling if she wanted. And she couldn’t say she wasn’t tempted. She loved the life she’d lived up til now—owning a toy store, putting smiles on kids’ faces, designing new and better toys. In her store, she knew who she was and what she was doing. On a throne? Not so much.

  She sighed as she shaded in the roof of the treehouse and wrote down its rough dimensions. It wasn’t like she was the only one who had doubts about her leadership abilities, either. That was why her family had shipped in the Duke, after all. Technically “Strict Simon”—as the press were fond of calling him—was supposed to bring stability to her rule, but she wouldn’t be shocked if her mother half-hoped he could take the reins himself. The guy certainly had the pedigree for a throne. The training for one, too. And Penelope, she was flighty, unreliable, too quirky to be a queen. Of course, she’d carefully cultivated that persona so as not to be involved with the crown, but after the deaths or abdications of the last four monarchs in a span of just over a decade, she wasn’t left with many options. It was either take the throne herself, or leave it to her nine-year-old cousin. When King Nathaniel had finally abdicated she’d felt some small desire to rule, thinking maybe she could find a way to translate her skills as a small business owner to running a nation, but now she was wondering if handing all of this stuff over to her cousin might be the better option.

  The treehouse was nearly done now, except for a problem with the roof she’d have to figure out later. She stopped sketching and stared down at her handiwork. If she was honest, this was the only reason she was even considering sticking around. As Queen, she could help the children of her country in a far bigger way than she’d ever dreamed. That would make all the rest worth it, right?

  A knock sounded at the door. She yelped and leapt off the couch, nearly snapping her pencil in half. The guard stationed at the far end of her sitting room—well, the Queen’s sitting room—glanced over, and she gave him a weak smile to let him know she was fine. Terrified, and suddenly doubting her sanity for even considering this plan, but fine. She cleared her throat. “Come in,” she called, turning her bracelets around and around on her wrist as she often did when her nerves got the better of her.

  The door opened, and her fiancé walked in.

  And holy hell was he hot. His lips were full and one-hundred-percent kissable. He had gorgeous, wavy brown hair that she instantly wanted to run her fingers through, though it would look even better if he let it grow out of that boring sensible cut. He wore a single piece of jewelry, a rustic-looking iron signet ring. He moved with a decisive gait, the same way a soldier might walk—and he was a ranking officer in Danovar’s navy, judging from the intimidating full dress uniform he was wearing. The way he held himself made her think he might be buff beneath that starched shirt. But it was his eyes that hit her hardest. They were warm brown and crinkled at the corners like he was thinking about smiling even though his mouth was flat and serious, and it put her just a little bit more at ease.

  “Hi,” she squeaked out, and then winced. She was supposed to be a damn queen soon, for crying out loud. Queens didn’t squeak.

  He stopped, catching sight of her, and she waited to see what he would do.

  His eyes swept up and down her figure. She mentally went over her outfit: a loose Bohemian-esque ivory dress that basically looked like a pile of lacy fabric, silver bangle bracelets and dark red lipstick, with her wedge sandals across the room instead of on her feet because she hated wearing shoes indoors. Was it too much? Did she not seem royal enough? She’d thought she’d dressed up for the occasion, but standing in front of him she suddenly felt underdressed and a little bit childish.

  “Your Majesty,” he greeted her in a voice as smooth as melted chocolate. She melted a little herself—until his words registered. Your Majesty. It was the first time anyone had ever called her that. Oh God, what was happening? She couldn’t be a Your Majesty. Most of her life she’d barely qualified as a Hey You. She had no idea what she was doing. She didn’t want him to call her by such a lofty title when she didn’t even know yet if she truly wanted to stick with this.

  “Um, call me Penelope, please. Or… just Pen is fine.”

  He smiled then, and it crinkled those beautiful eyes even more, but this time it didn’t relax her. “Pen it is,” he answered, stepping closer to her as the guard moved quietly outside and closed the door, leaving the two alone for their first meeting. “You can call me Simon,” her fiancé added.

  She stuck out her hand for him to shake and then immediately felt ridiculous for it, but didn’t know what else to do. A nod seemed too distant, a kiss on the cheek too forward. They didn’t even know each other and yet they were engaged. Or they were about to be, as soon as Simon officially proposed.

  He kissed her proffered hand graciously, easing her anxiety over the stupid handshake idea—and then as if on cue, went down on one knee. He pulled a large box he’d been carrying from under his arm and held it out to her.

  “Oh my God, surely the ring isn’t that big,” she gasped, and then blushed furiously. But seriously—the thing was the size of a shoebox. She had dainty hands by any measure, and if the rock he’d gotten her was big enough to need that sort of a box, it would eat her alive.

  He coughed, sounding like he might be trying to hide a chuckle. “No,” he said, and opened it, showing her a pair of embellished leather clogs inside. “This is the traditional Danovian gift from a man to his future bride. I’d hoped you might wear them during the wedding, to honor the traditions of my country.”

  No wonder it had looked like a shoebox. “Oh,” she said, feeling even more ridiculous than before. “Of course.” The clogs weren’t bad, actually. A little old-fashioned, but they’d look funky and chic with the right maxi skirt.

  Simon dug in the corner of the box and pulled out a much more normal-sized ring box. He opened it to show her a rock that, while still fairly massive, at least didn’t need its own postal code. “Penelope Vanessa Anne Maria Rinaldi Alcott, will you marry me?” he asked, and, feeling like she was in a dream—one of those super-stressful ones where you were trying to give a speech while naked, not the good fairytale kind most women hoped to feel at this moment—she extended her left hand. He slid the ring on. It was way too loose and fell off immediately, clinking delicately to the floor.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry…” She trailed off as he gallantly swept his hands across the floor, searching for the ring on the patterned tile.

  “No worries, here it is,” he said, coming back up onto his knees, ring in hand. “Take two?”

  She swallowed and held her hand out again. This had to be an omen. She clenched her hand into a fist to keep the ring from falling off again as they sat on the couch, a solid two feet of space between them. Simon went on about the arrangements and ceremonies they’d have scheduled over the next few days. He rattled off the customs of her country better than she could’ve, which was more than a little unsettling. Just how much research had he done on her—and why hadn’t she done more on him? She really didn’t know him at all, this man she was about to marry.

  Well, she did know a few things. Like the fact that he was in a full military dress uniform and had memorized the next two weeks’ worth of events, while she didn’t even remember exactly where she’d put her shoes and was about to have a panic attack if he mentioned one more speech they’d have to make, tradition they’d need to fulfill, or stack of paperwork they’d have to sign before their big day.

  This was all wrong. She’d been willing to give this arranged marriage thing a shot, but she could see now that the two of them could never work. He was so strict, so down-to-earth with his perfectly trimmed haircut and his formal small talk, and she craved creativity. She wasn’t silly enough to think she
should hold out for Prince Charming or love at first sight, but she and Simon were just a plain bad match. They were simply too different—plus she wasn’t even sure she wanted to be queen anyway, and was it fair to lead him on if she really thought she might abdicate? It would be horrible of her to allow him to tie his life to hers when she felt this uncertain about her own future.

  She had to get him out of the room, out of her life. Right now.

  She stood. “Simon, look—” she started, but he interrupted her.

  “Is that a treehouse?” He’d caught sight of her sketch on the table, and the surprise and delight in his voice broke through his earlier formal veneer.

  “Uh… yes,” she said, caught off guard. “It’s a new design I’m trying to work out for my toy store. I keep running into a problem with the roof, though.”

  He picked it up, examining it for a moment. “Oh, I see. Hm… Have you thought about pitching it a little steeper? Maybe 45 degrees or so? And give it a wider overhang on the sides. See, like this.” He picked up her pencil and then stopped and looked up, waiting for her permission to tweak the sketch.

  “Um, sure, go ahead.” She watched as he erased part of the roof’s line and drew in the new angles. His strokes were bold, smooth, certain. There was a warm sort of joy in his eyes as he worked, completely at odds with the all-business Duke who’d been rattling off schedules at her a moment ago.

  “There!” he said, presenting the paper with a flourish and a grin. She took it gingerly and sat back down, taking the pencil from him, writing in the new dimensions and doing the math to make sure they’d work out.