Page 2 of How Not to Marry a Prince

Yawning, he took his hot toddy, which seemed to be almost entirely whiskey, with a touch of lemon and honey, and went to the doors that led, as he'd hoped, to a balcony. It overlooked a modest sized courtyard that was, predictably, redolent in roses, spilling and piling around enormous trees. There were discreet lights and benches. The whole thing must be absolutely beautiful at night, the perfect spot for a secret rendezvous.

Sadness twinged in his chest, furling into a knot of longing. It would be nice to whisked out to a garden for a secret rendezvous. Or even a non-secret one. That required standing out in some way, though. Being witty and charming. Ridiculously attractive. Brilliantly intelligent.

Instead, he was about as average and dull a prince as it was possible to be. His greatest skills were lame attempts at humor and micromanaging everything. He could also run very fast if he so much as thought Ottokar might be in the vicinity.

In everything else, his skills ranged from appalling to strictly average. Honestly it was a mystery to no one why he wasn't married yet. Why he thought he could convince the most elusive bachelor of the season to choose him, of all people, was simply the desperation talking.

Stifling a sigh, he leaned on the balcony railing and tried to count how many different roses were present.

Movement caught his eye, however, immediately distracting him. Oh, a royal gardener. Amador would love to ask the gardeners countless questions about what went into attending what must be a million roses, all so varied in size, shape, and color. Did they use the same soil? Different soils? Where did they obtain fertilizer. Were there roses year round? Did they find or specifically breed winter-hardy roses? How many hours a day were spent on just the roses? Was their specific staff for them, or were all the garden staff trained? What were the costs? Did they sell any of them to recoup some of that? How many varieties were edible? How many went off to perfumers and the like?

Blathering on incessantly, his brother would call it. Acting like a servant instead of a prince, his parents would say. Stop embarrassing us, his sisters would say.

Why was it so strange he wanted to know things? Shouldn't they understand all the inner workings of the place they called home? If he did somehow wind up marrying the elusive Prince Nazaire, shouldn't he know all the details of the roses that were so central?

Amador stifled another sigh as he watched the gardener work, mind tumbling with questions he'd probably never get to ask anyone.

He'd just gone back to counting rose types when a new figure appeared… and there was no mistaking the clothes and bearing of a fellow royal. Nazaire. Hard to capture details at a distance, but he was handsome, striking, even better than the sketches and single painting that Amador had been sent. He had the soft brown skin common to the kingdom, and his ink-dark hair was pulled back in a short tail, ruthlessly made straight but with the curls fighting their way back out.

"Léonce!" Nazaire said as he spied the gardener, and added with a laugh, "What in the world are you doing all the way over here?"

Léonce looked up, then scrambled to his feet and stood, wiping sweat from his face, but only succeeding in adding dirt. He tipped into a hasty bow. "Your Highness! Um, to be perfectly honest, I'm avoiding Didier. He has some loud opinions on the new maple trees that I disagree with, and I thought it best to avoid the argument altogether."

"Him again?"

"Don't you dare do a thing, Your Highness," Léonce said with a laugh. "I can handle Didier."

Nazaire pouted, of all things. How charming. "Fine, but one of these days, you're going to have to let me terminate that bastard."

"He does his job well, Your Highness, he's merely not pleasant about it. That's hardly a terminating offense. What are you doing all the way out here? I thought you had… um, someone else to meet today."

Sighing with a force that would impress Amador's mother, Nazaire dropped onto the nearest bench and rested his chin in one hand. "Tonight at dinner. I was told he has arrived, but that the weather left the poor bastard a right mess." They both looked up at the sky—rather, the glass dome protecting them from the rain still pounding down relentlessly. Thankfully, neither noticed Amador.

"You don't sound enthused, Your Highness. Is this prince no good either?"

"Everything I've heard says he's perfectly fine. Same as all the rest. I'm simply not interested in marrying. I don't care what the stupid council insists upon."

"I'm sorry none of them have worked out, Your Highness." Léonce rose from where he'd been weeding a patch of pink roses and sat slowly, carefully on the bench as well, so close to the edge he'd tumble right off if he wasn't careful.

Amador narrowed his eyes. Léonce didn't sound sorry, not even a little bit. If Amador didn't know better, he'd say Léonce sounded relieved. Well, well, well. How delightfully intriguing. Was the charming little gardener smitten with the prince?

Given how familiar the two seemed to be…

"Could be worse," Nazaire said with another sigh. "Sohan could be forcing the matter, but all he's done is ask me to not reject this one immediately."

"Seems crueler to play along for a time."

"That's what I said, but Sohan and his politics," Nazaire replied. "The least I can do is accede to his request. But I shouldn't be out here whining and bothering—"

"Léonce!"

The two men jerked apart like they'd been caught in some smoldering tête-a-tête instead of just sitting at a normal distance having a normal conversation. This just grew more and more delightfully intriguing.

A guard came into view, dressed in armor that was expensive and well-maintained, even at a distance, over it a surcoat of emerald green trimmed in blue and orange. She had skin so pale that snow would look colorful by comparison, and hair nearly the same orange as the trim of her surcoat. "Here you are, you scapegrace! Oh, Your Highness, I beg your pardon." The woman tipped into an elegant bow, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword. "I did not see you there."

"It's fine, Vladlena," Nazaire said. "Why are you hunting down my favorite gardener?"

"Master Didier is wanting to speak with him, Your Highness," Vladlena replied. "Something about the location of the new hydrangea?"

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