Surely, Prince Andrew had been warned by his grandfather to be kind to his future bride and her sisters, but he made a different choice. Sometimes people just turn out rotten, no matter how hard their parents and grandparents try to raise them to be decent human beings.
These days, Prince Andrew seems to be your average playboy prince, rambling around the globe with his brothers, drinking too much, partying too hard, and taking scandalous pictures with half-naked women. But I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s still got a mean streak.
Once a snake-hider, always a snake-hider.
And once they’re hitched, he’s going to be hiding his snake in my sister.
The thought makes my stomach turn. Lizzy deserves better. She deserves a man who worships her, a man she can’t wait to share her life and her bed with.
Which is why you have to do something, Sabrina. Now! Before it’s too late.
“But what?” I grumble as I head through the garden and into the afternoon shadows cast by the only home I’ve ever known. I talk a tough game, but I’ve never lived anywhere but here, with my parents. I was homeschooled by various nannies, got my botany degree online, and have lived a very sheltered life. I’m unfit to lock horns with a worldly opponent like Prince Andrew.
Or even my parents.
My parents mean well, but they’re from another age. They were raised to believe that children should be seen and not heard, that food magically appears at the table without any effort on their part, and that the cash to fund castle expansion and a lavish ball (or four) every year is their birthright.
By the time the royal bank account finally ran dry, my sisters and I were old enough to get part-time jobs to lessen the blow, but my parents have never fully recovered from the shock of learning that the heat would have to be turned off in the west wing for the winter and that there was no money for Brie, just cheddar, the cheap kind that can be bought in bulk.
The transition was especially hard on my father, a mild-mannered but largely oblivious man who was dressed by his valet until he was in his fifties and literally had to learn how to put on his own pants as a full-grown man. But he still awakens every morning and dresses in a three-piece suit from his vast collection, determined to keep the glamour of the old world alive.
He will never be an ally in the fight to keep Lizzy at home, no matter how much he enjoys having someone to talk art theory with at dinner. My father thinks this marriage is a good thing.
And maybe it is. Maybe my mother’s right and my mind has been warped by too much modern entertainment. Maybe love is a stupid reason to get married.
It certainly wouldn’t have worked out in my case. Thor, my first and only love, adored me, but only until an heiress with a bigger bank account (and boobs) entered the picture.
I often find myself wondering if it was the boobs or the money that sealed the deal, but it doesn’t really matter. Thor is gone; I don’t plan on taking surgical action to alter the flatness of my chest, and my bank account is perpetually overdrawn.
Living in an ancient castle that’s constantly in need of repair will do that to a girl.
As I mount the crumbling marble steps of the back veranda, I find my suited father at his easel, painting the sweeping Alpine view and the quaint village nestled in the valley below for the hundredth time.
“That’s lovely, Papa.” I pause to kiss his cheek and accept the usual pat on the head.
“Thank you, darling. And how are our guests? Settling in nicely?”
Initially, Papa resisted the idea of opening the estate for tourism, but framing the visitors as guests enjoying our royal hospitality won him over. That, and the steady income.
“They are. We’re hosting a group of American botanists this week. They’re looking forward to studying the early summer ferns.”
“The ferns are delightful,” Papa says, his gaze drifting back to the view. “I should paint them soon.”
“I’ll pick some for you on the hike this evening,” I promise, kissing his cheek again, comforted by the familiar scent of oil paint and turpentine clinging to his clothes. I pull in another deep breath, savoring the smell as I step through the open door into the Great Hall and make my way up the stairs to my sister’s tower studio.
He might be a little checked out, but Papa is always Papa, and there’s something comforting about that. If he’s excited about the royal wedding later this summer or sad that Lizzy will be leaving us, he hasn’t shown it.
Lizzy’s putting on a brave face, too—modeling her dresses for the engagement festivities for the family and helping Mother select gifts for her future mother-in-law—but I know better. I can feel her misery, a dark churning cloud that gets thicker and gloomier with every step I take.
By the time I mount the final stair, the sadness is oppressive.
So I’m not really surprised when I enter the room to find Lizzy lying spread eagle on the floor in the center of a circle of partially dressed mannequins with tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Oh, honey,” I say, my heart in my throat. “Just call it off. You don’t have to do this. You should only get married when you desperately want to be married, not to keep a promise made by your parents when you were too little to understand what it meant.”
“It’s not that.” Lizzy sniffs and drags a limp arm across her damp face. “It’s the collection. There’s no way I’m going to be able to finish by tomorrow. Not even if I work nonstop without eating or sleeping or peeing.”
“You do pee a lot,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
I pad deeper into the room, seeking a piece of furniture that isn’t covered in fabric or likely to be hiding a pin that will stick me in tender places when I sit down. My sister is a talented lingerie designer, but she’s also a messy artist who thrives in chaos and believes bloody pins help make the magic happen.
“It’s because I drink a lot of tea,” Lizzy says, her voice quivering. “But don’t make fun of me, Bree. Not now.”
“I’m not making fun, I promise. Just teasing.”
“Don’t tease. Help me,” she begs, before adding in a warning tone, “Don’t sit there. I spilled soup on the cushion at lunch.”
I abort my mission with a grunt, managing to reverse the bend of my knees seconds before my bottom hits the chair. “You should eat something other than soup.”
“I’m too busy for anything but soup.”
“You’re too skinny. You need more protein in your diet.”
“This isn’t helping, either.” She rolls her head my way, the rest of her body remaining limp on the floor. “I have to finish, Bree. I’m so close to landing a collection contract. I can feel it in my bones.”
I prop my hands on my hips and survey the room. “Well, it won’t be easy, but if we start now, we should be able to get everything packed and ready to ship tomorrow. Surely, they have a spare room in the castle for you to use as a studio. I mean, it’s going to be your home in a month, so—”
“And when will I have time to work?” Lizzy cuts in. “I’m booked solid with engagement obligations, and I’m sure Andrew will want to spend time together before the wedding.”
“He hasn’t bothered in the past twenty years. Why start now?” I mutter, not bothering to keep the disdain from my voice.