“Is more hiking okay?” she asks, her shoulders hunching closer to her ears. “Am I crazy to choose hiking over drinking?”
“Not at all.” I shake my head. “I just don’t want to wear you out before dinner. My mother and brothers are usually fairly well behaved, but they’re awfully excited that you’re here. You might need a nap to prepare for the interrogation. They will want to know everything about you. Absolutely everything.”
“I probably should nap,” she says with a sigh, “but it’s just so beautiful out here.” She turns to gaze out across the softly rolling hills where vineyards, fruit trees, and farmhouses dot the landscape of the most beautiful place on earth. I’ve always felt that way—this yellow mud flows through my veins—but I like that she seems to appreciate the humble perfection almost as much as I do.
She turns back to me, her nose wrinkled and a mischievous light in her eyes. “I just want to keep exploring, you know?”
Oh, I do know.
I spent my childhood slipping away from my nannies and security detail and running wild through these hills. It became such a problem that my mother broke down and bought me a smartphone so my guards would have an easier time tracking me down after I ran off.
But this isn’t something I expected to hear from a woman famous for staying locked up in her tower all day. I don’t know the older gentleman I hired to be my eyes and ears in Rinderland all that well, but I don’t see that he has any reason to lie to me.
And these are the things he swore to me were true about Elizabeth Rochat ’s situation:
Elizabeth is a shy, frail woman who rarely leaves the house.
The former King and Queen of Rinderland are hopelessly eccentric oddballs who have never adjusted to “normal” life and phoned in the care of their offspring to such a degree that it’s amazing the triplets survived infancy.
The three girls were raised and educated by a series of bargain-basement nannies, one of whom still lives on the property and raises edible insects that are one of the family’s primary sources of income. (Also odd as hell, leaving little wonder why Elizabeth prefers to stay in her tower, away from it all.)
Elizabeth makes a fair wage designing lingerie, but not enough to support two dependent parents or fund the care and upkeep of a massive aging estate.
The Rochats’ only other significant source of income comes from the eco-retreat that Sabrina, Elizabeth’s twin, built on the mountain behind the family castle and leads during the mild summer months.
Eco-retreats…
Complete with hiking and camping and all kinds of adventuring through the Alpine foothills.
It hits me like a bucket of ice water tossed in my face, making me feel like the world’s biggest, dumbest royal fool.
Holy shit, and fuck me up the ass with my pointiest crown.
I should have seen through her the moment she faced me down on the tarmac with defiance in her eyes. Or at the very least when she was orgasming over the roses in the garden.
Elizabeth never expressed an interest in flowers—not a single time during the hours and hours of awkward conversations we’ve had through the years—but I bet a woman who spends her life teaching happy campers about plants would get pretty turned on by a rare rose breed. And then there’s her robust health, her love for hiking, her vanishing stutter, her way with words, and the fact that I’m actually attracted to this woman when there’s never been the slightest flicker of erotic feeling for my fiancée.
But this woman?
This woman I would like to press up against a tree and kiss until she’s soft and pliant in my arms. Until she’s breathing fast and begging me to touch her, take her—right here on the hilltop with the beauty of my kingdom spiraling out around us.
But of course, I won’t.
Because not only is she not going to be my wife, she’s not even the woman I’m engaged to marry.
She’s a fucking imposter, and it seems I’m not the only one running a con game.
The thought makes me smile.
“Does the grin mean you want to keep exploring, too?” she asks, laughing as her brow furrows. She reaches out to touch my arm. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fabulous,” I say honestly.
I am fabulous. Playing chess with a worthy opponent is so much preferable to torturing an innocent woman with my bad behavior.
In fact, this might end up being fun.
“You seemed awfully far away for a minute there,” she murmurs.
“I’m fine,” I insist, my smile widening. “Better than fine, and I’m right here with you. Nowhere else I’d rather be. Let’s keep going. I’m game if you are.”
“Great,” she says, her cheeks flushing with pleasure as she turns and practically dances onto the trail and down the next hill.
Oh yeah, I’m game, Sabrina.
The game is fucking on, and now that I know the rules, I intend to win.
Chapter Twelve
Sabrina
My poor sister.
I’ve always felt for her—her stutter has made life difficult for her in so many ways, from making friends to securing employment—but this is the first time I’ve truly felt what it’s like to walk a mile in her shoes.
And they’re awful, anxiety-inducing shoes, even more uncomfortable than the three-inch heels I slipped on for my first official dinner with the royal family.
“Th-thank you so much,” I stammer with a tight smile for the rosy-cheeked maid clearing my dinner plate and replacing it with a small fruit tart for dessert.
Thank God the dinner is almost over.
I’m almost free to change back into my sneakers and escape outside with Andrew. It’s shocking how much I’m looking forward to it, and not just because I’ll finally be able to speak normally once we’re alone.
I had a blast with him on our hike this afternoon. When he suggested we meet up after dinner and take a turn through the maze, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. I’m dying to get into that maze, and Andrew is better company than I ever imagined.
At least when he’s not eating…
Which he isn’t tonight. Apparently, he filled up on a late afternoon snack and is too stuffed to fit in another bite. He’s stuck to wine, water, and peppermint tea while the rest of us moved slowly through the five elegantly presented courses. The food has been fabulous, and Andrew’s family seems very kind, but thanks to my obligation to struggle with conversation the way my sister would, we’ve barely covered the basic “getting to know you” questions.
I’ve told them a few bare-bones things about my family, my home, my village, and my online degree in fashion design, and that’s it. Queen Felicity and Prince Nickolas, Andrew’s youngest brother, have done most of the talking, graciously taking up the slack for me, the unusually quiet Andrew, and the downright stoic—and slightly scary—Jeffrey.
As I dig my fork into my tart’s gooey center, I shoot a glance Jeffrey’s way, struck again by just how large the man is. His shoulders are so broad I bet he has to turn sideways to fit through the palace’s slim, eighteenth-century doorways. And his forearms are bigger than the roast turkey leg he took down so quickly he was finished with the main course ages ago, leaving him plenty of time to shoot piercing, vaguely distrustful looks my way.