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I hand him a to-go cup of coffee.
“This is not necessary,” he says.
“Don’t be so formal. Take the coffee.”
He nods, and his smile grows. “Thank you, Madam.”
“Please, just call me Kala.”
“I wouldn’t want to get used to addressing you as a familiar. I’ll wait to escort you as soon as you're dressed.”
…Get used to addressing me as a familiar? What could that mean?
In Gravenland, lords, ladies, dukes, and duchesses are granted titles by birth or by the ruler's whim. However, unlike other monarchies, we are not addressed as such. It’s a tiny island country; if we all enforced our titles on each other, half the nation would be aristocrats. The other half would never be able to get dinner reservations, and the country would descend into chaos and bloodshed.
“Right. Royal blue dress, then? Torben’s favorite color?” I ask in a blatant attempt to get Uther to explain more about this breakfast.
Uther stammers. “The queen did mention she always favored you in yellow, Madam.”
Right. On the occasions that the tabloids have included me in their coverage of royal events, the most complimentary comments have been when I’m wearing sunny yellow. I’m still what they call a “royal hanger-on,” but the tabs are nicer about it when I’m in the right color.
Hanger-on my foot. More like at the royals’ beck and call.
“Yes,” I say. “Yellow it is, then.”
I’ll defer to the royals. Not only because of who they are but because my father owes them.
No one knows that the books are in shambles about Frost Bay Beverages.
And so, of course, I’ll consider whatever the monarchs propose today.
If Torben will have me? Fine.
Although I’ve always harbored a lust for Etienne, none of the three princes are what I would consider a healthy match for me.
If an engagement, any engagement, helps me untangle the financial mess my father left me when he retired and hightailed it to Spain?
So much the better.
3
Etienne
I stumble into the royal breakfast room, the sun blasting straight to the backs of my eyeballs, temporarily blinding me.
I blink and rub the meat of my palms into my eye sockets as I slump into my cushioned chair.
My stomach rumbles.
The cooks outdid themselves this morning: eggs Benedict. Bacon. Waffles. Chocolate croissants. Those little pastries with almond filling.
Perfect for soaking up the whiskey.
After the airport appearance, where the press lapped up our happy, supportive sibling act, I’d zipped straight to the confines of my palace chambers, where Rolf had a whiskey cocktail waiting for me.
I always need to unwind after a public engagement.
And I needed sleep after a night of drinking with strangers, which oddly didn’t even garner a single headline. All anyone’s talking about is Torben.
