Royally Matched

“Then she cried. We both did.”

I feel Sarah’s hand on my jaw, her thumb brushing. Her face close to mine and her beautiful eyes shiny and sad. “I’m so sorry, Henry.”

I give her a nod. Then I finish the story.

“Later, I found out that the Queen had thanked Dr. Ramadi for what she’d done. And then . . . she promptly fired her.”

Sarah gasps. “What? But why?”

“I asked her the same thing. And my grandmother told me, ‘Dissention is not tolerated. You gave Dr. Ramadi an order—and a prince’s order is always to be obeyed. Even when he’s wrong.’ And then she said, ‘So be mindful of the orders you give, my boy. One way or another, they will have consequences.’”

Sarah’s breath rushes from her, tickling the hairs on my chest. “Wow. That . . . that’s . . . heavy.”

My mouth quirks up in a smirk. “It is.” I tuck a strand of silky hair behind her ear. “And that, love, is why we’re all so royally fucked up.”

AND THE SHOW GOES ON. It’s still a distraction, still entertaining and a hell of a lot better than nightmares and sitting in the library alone at night, poring over boring details and laws and obsessing about just how high the cliff is that I’m sure to drive my country over if they ever actually let me become king.

But . . . being on Matched has turned out so differently than I’d first imagined. Now I have Vanessa pick which ladies I should send packing—because I don’t really care. For all the filthy sex fantasies I thought I’d be acting out when this started, I’m not interested in any of the ladies anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m not interested in screwing the contestants silly anymore—not even a little. One particular sister of a contestant, however . . . that’s another story.

I send several of the ladies packing—including Libby and Jane Plutorch. Jane reacts predictably, which is to say she has no reaction at all. Princess Alpacca and Guermo sneak off and elope in a secret ceremony that we don’t find out about until we read it in the papers. Vanessa is thrilled—it’ll be grand publicity, she says, when the show airs.

After another week, we’re down to the final four: Cordelia, Laura, Elizabeth, and Penny. One morning I’m shooting scenes with Laura down at the beach. We’re supposed to be sitting in the sand and cuddling, searching for seashells—it should all be terribly romantic.

But there’s nothing romantic about sand coating your balls.

With the water rushing over my feet, I gaze down the beach, spotting Sarah in her baggy workout gear, going through her aikido exercises. And Laura catches me staring.

“She’s rather lovely, isn’t she?” Laura asks, standing beside me.

I squint, nodding.

“Whoever lands her will be a lucky bloke, I think.”

Her comment magnifies the hollowness in my chest.

“Yes.” I force a smile. “Lucky.”

“Henry—”

Before she can continue, a golf cart drives up and Vanessa Steele springs out and up the beach to us.

“Hey—we have a problem. You have some unexpected guests down at the gate. You should go check it out.”

Guests? Who would come here to see me?

I hop in the golf cart and drive down to the main gate. Just in time to hear Franny Barrister, the Countess of Ellington, tearing into a poor, clueless Matched security guard.

“Don’t you tell me we can’t come in, you horse’s arse. Where’s Henry—what have you done with him?”

Simon, my brother’s best friend, sees me approach, his sparkling blue eyes shining. “There he is.”

I nod to security and open the gate.

“Simon, Franny, what are you doing here?”

“Nicholas said you didn’t sound right the last time he spoke to you. He asked us to peek in on you,” Simon explains.

Franny’s shrewd gaze rakes me over. “He doesn’t look drunk. And he obviously hasn’t hung himself from the rafters—that’s better than I was expecting.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Simon peers around the grounds, at the smattering of crew members and staging tents. “What the hell is going on, Henry?”

I clear my throat. “So . . . the thing is . . . I’m sort of . . . filming a reality dating television show here at the castle and we started with twenty women and now we’re down to four, and when it’s over one of them will get the diamond tiara and become my betrothed. At least in theory.”

It sounded so much better in my head.

“Don’t tell Nicholas.”

Simon scrubs his hand down his face. “Now I’m going to have to avoid his calls—I’m terrible with secrets.”

And Franny lets loose a peal of tinkling laughter. “This is fabulous! You never disappoint, you naughty boy.” She pats my arm. “And don’t worry, when the Queen boots you out of the palace, Simon and I will adopt you. Won’t we, darling?”

Simon nods. “Yes, like a rescue dog.”

“Good to know.” Then I gesture back to their car. “Well . . . it was nice of you to stop by.”

Simon shakes his head. “You’re not getting rid of us that easily, mate.”

“Yes, we’re definitely staying.” Franny claps her hands. “I have to see this!”

Fantastic.

I give Simon and Franny the grand tour, filling them in on the rules and the contestants. When we walk into the great room, where much of the crew has gathered, Cordelia and Elizabeth back away from Franny like snakes making room for a cobra. Back in the day, Franny was Queen of the Mean Girls—but since she fell for Simon, she’s much nicer.