Page 1 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

Queen’s Winter Wedding Charade

CHAPTER ONE

‘HERROYALMAJESTY, Queen Isabelle of Androvia is ready to see you now, Mr Lord.’

Travis Lord turned from the spectacular view of spruce and pine forests and virgin snow through the mullioned window, to find an old guy in fancy velvet knickerbockers and enough braid to sink a gunship standing behind him.

About damn time.

‘Cool,’ he said, hiding his mounting irritation behind a relaxed smile, because he guessed itwascool, in a weird way.

When was the last time a guy from a trailer park in Snowton Colorado got an audience with a queen? Even if he did have more money now than the oldest of Alpine monarchies.

‘Let’s go,’ he murmured.

The guy bowed then directed him out of the antechamber he’d been waiting in for a solid twenty minutes and into a large salon, which, according to Travis’s research, was just one of the White Palace’s ten staterooms.

Luckily Travis had spent his whole life not being impressed by unearned wealth—and the sort of people his mom had once cooked and cleaned for—so he managed to contain his awe. But it was more of an effort than usual. Because the collection of antique furnishings, the vintage oil paintings adorning every wall, and the fanciful gold-plated plasterwork—not to mention the even more stunning view of the Alpine gorge the palace perched on the edge of through six enormous floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows—made one hell of a statement. In fact, the impressive décor looked like something out of a Disney princess’s palace. Probably because this bastion of old-world elegance—a six-hundred-room, three-centuries-old ice-cream castle, which towered over Androvia’s pristine slopes—was the real-world equivalent.

After walking the length of the gleaming parquet flooring, the courtier led Travis up a wide marble staircase. ‘You have been briefed on the etiquette when greeting Her Majesty, sir?’ the man asked as they stopped in front of a carved mahogany door.

‘Sure,’ Travis replied, humouring the guy.

No way was he executing the bow he’d been advised to do—he was an American, and his ancestors had fought a war so they didn’t have to bow to anyone—but he wasn’t about to get booted out before he’d met the woman he’d flown eight thousand miles to see.

He wanted to buy a piece of her kingdom for Lord Culture’s first European resort and from their research Queen Isabelle might be in the mood to make a deal. She had wealth, and lots of it, but it was all tied up in historic properties like this one, fancy bits of jewellery and the other antique collectables that came with a legacy dating back to the sixteenth century—all of which cost a fortune to maintain and operate. What she didn’t have was disposable income. Plus, his intel suggested she was also having a spat with her Ruling Council over the future of the monarchy itself. They wanted her to ‘merge’ with the heir to a neighbouring kingdom—one of those Eurotrash princes who played hard and didn’t seem to work at all—while she was holding out. Travis Lord could take the pressure off by bringing jobs and investment to her country.

This was a business proposition between equals—so no bowing was required. But he kept that to himself as the courtier nodded, then tapped on the ornate door. A muffled voice told them to come in.

Travis stepped into a large library, which smelled of old paper and lemon polish, the walls covered in bookcases, with an antique desk at the far end.

The young woman sitting behind it, her blonde hair pinned up in a ruthless updo, was a surprise—especially when she stood and walked towards him. Instead of velvet and ermine and the crown he had been expecting, she wore a tailored pantsuit which was probably supposed to look businesslike but hugged her figure as she moved. She was also tiny. Or he guessed the word was petite. She barely reached his collarbone. She looked a lot taller in her press pictures. Her heart-shaped face, wide, slightly sloping green eyes and porcelain skin also made her look younger than her twenty-two years. Her make-up was subdued, conservative even, but instead of making her appear regal and reserved it made her seem oddly innocent—like a teenager who wasn’t yet ready to advertise her charms, instead of a woman in her early twenties, who had to be well aware of the effect she had on men. His gaze tracked to her mouth—the pale pink lip gloss couldn’t disguise how lush her lips were... A bolt of lust shot straight into his groin. And he tensed.

What the hell?

‘Your Majesty, Mr Lord to see you as requested,’ the courtier—who Travis had forgotten was there—announced while executing another deep bow.

‘Mr Lord, we meet at last,’ the Queen said in perfectly accented English, her voice a soft purr of privilege and purpose.

She didn’t offer him her hand in greeting.

Travis yanked himself out of the fugue state he had lapsed into unintentionally, and managed to stop fixating on her lips long enough to figure out she was probably waiting for him to bow, too.

Yeah, not gonna happen.

The courtier cleared his throat, obviously thinking Travis had been struck dumb by his first encounter with royalty—which, annoyingly, wasn’t far from the truth.

Travis ignored the prompt. ‘Your Majesty, you’re a hard woman to get an audience with,’ he said, then offered her his hand. ‘But it’s good to meet you at last.’

The courtier gasped. Travis ignored the guy some more.

The Queen glanced at his open palm. If she was surprised, or even annoyed, by his refusal to follow protocol though, she managed to contain it and hesitated for less than a second before accepting the handshake.

Her palm was cool, and her fingers long and elegant, but her small hand disappeared in his much bigger one. Her tiny jolt of surprise, the little frisson of electricity, echoed in his groin.

Was he getting turned on? Weird, but kind of intriguing, too.

He released her hand, but then caught a lungful of her scent—and wondered how something so subtle could be so intoxicating.

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