Page 7 of Royally Matched

“Marco,” he warns in his best older brother tone.

I shoot him my most serious of looks. “I do solemnly promisenotto have a good time tonight under any circumstances, even if the princess turns out to be the most fun human in the country.”

It’s an easy promise to make, even if I’m only teasing him. Princess Sofia, although beautiful, is known for being serious and rather dull, always immaculately presented in prim and proper skirt suits, pearls at her neck, her hair tied up neatly.

She’s about as far from the kind of women I fancy as someone afraid of heights is from becoming an astronaut.

Total opposites, that’s what we are.

I wonder what she’d look like without her princess armor? Her hair is always so tightly controlled. What if she let it loose, maybe even undid the top button of one of her jackets to reveal a couple of centimeters of flesh? Her collarbone, perhaps. Shock, horror! Although the only things I know of her are from the media, she’s always struck me as someone who could do with letting loose and having a good time.

Not that I’ve exactly spent a lot of time in my life thinking about Princess Sofia.

Far too many more interesting things to do.

We walk down the long, red carpeted corridor, following a group of men in dinner suits. It’s hard not to be impressed by the sheer size and opulence of the place. Of course, like all Ledonian children, I came here on a school trip when I was about ten, but I didn’t appreciate it the way I do now.

As we reach the end of a corridor that was probably an entire kilometer long, we enter the ballroom, simmering with gold and elegance. Oh, and men. Lots and lots of men.

Seriously, someone call the city’s mayor because all the male citizens of a certain age are trapped here in this very room, nervously looking around like a mass of herded sheep filling a paddock to its brim.

“This is a lot of men,” I remark, pointing out the obvious.

“Behave,” Enzo growls under his breath.

“I am behaving,” I retort.

We make our way across the polished parquet floor, and as I look around at all the eligible bachelors, I notice every single one of them is in a perfectly cut dinner suit. I tug at my dinner jacket as though it could miraculously grow in size to fit me. Clearly, it does not.

“Duck!” a voice calls, and I look over to see a guy I went to school with, Austin Hargreaves. He bounds over to us, the drink in his hand sloshing onto the skin of his hand, a grin on his face.

“Austin. Good to see you,” I say as I shake his hand. He was in my year at high school, and I remember he was always loud and opinionated. “This is Enzo, my brother.”

Austin greets Enzo, who conveniently spots some of his own friends and peels off to chat to them.

“Where have you been? Wait. Don’t tell me.” He balances his glass of whiskey against his chest as he pulls his phone from his jacket pocket. It’s a bold move for someone who looks like they might have had a few too many already—and with no princess yet, the ball hasn’t even begun.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking your Instagram for updates.”

“I think you’ll find it says I’m in Villadorata,” I say on a laugh, because isn’t it obvious, what with me standing in front of the guy? “I came back from India a couple of months ago. Been here ever since.”

“India? Never been. Far too hot, and I’m not a fan of curries. Too spicy.”

“It’s an amazing place, actually, the curries included. The Taj Mahal is so delicately beautiful, and I got to go on the most incredible camel safari through the Thar Desert, sleeping under the stars, nothing but the sound of nighttime bugs in the air. Very romantic.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Romantic? Were you with some hot bit of totty on this safari?” he asks.

I’ve never loved the way some men refer to attractive women as “totty.” But that’s Austin for you. Not exactly classy.

“I bet you were, you old dog.” He shoves me a little too hard.

“Not in the being in love sense. I’m still a bachelor. Clearly.” I gesture around me at the sea of men.

“Far too many fellows here for my liking,” he sniffs before taking another swig of his whiskey. “I hear camels are horribly smelly, gassy beasts. True?”

“Best to stay upwind of them.”

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