Chapter One

Princess Genevieve Eleanor Marie, second in line to the throne of Moncriano, had to use all of her twenty-seven years of training not to do a spit-take. But she did allow the shock to pop her eyes wide open. “Your date threw up on you?”

“Well, he wasn’t my official date,” her sister Kelsey corrected. Amazing how she waved that off with the hand holding the last bite of a dill roll. “Brian Masur was just dancing with me. Nobody took real dates to the eighth-grade dance. We all went in clumps with our friends.”

It sounded dreadful. Genevieve couldn’t come out and say that, though. She’d done far too much cutting down of Kelsey’s American hometown since her long-lost sister had arrived two months ago.

Borderline snide bitchiness, actually.

Okay, probably quite a bit over the line with the bitchiness. But they’d brokered a truce from their rocky beginning, and Genny now endeavored to be at least respectful when hearing these stories.

In a studiously neutral tone, she commented, “The customs of small-town Michigan schools are indeed…different than those in Europe.”

“I’d say everything, not just the customs, are different. Except, of course, for you and me.” Kelsey grinned. “Physically, at least.”

It was true. Although two years apart in age, they looked similar enough to pass for twins. Same blond hair, fine bone structure, and the striking violet eyes of their dead mother, the queen.

So far? That was where the resemblance ended. They were like comparing apples to zucchini. Cats to worms.

But if the whole “opposites attract” thing worked for romance, surely it could bring two sisters together who very, very much wanted to find common ground.

“That’s why we started having these lunches.” Genevieve fluttered her hand back and forth. “To discover each other. Good and bad. Similarities and differences.”

Ugh. Was that too stilted and formal? Chances were, wondering that at all—it meant the answer was in the affirmative. Genevieve’s auto setting for strangers was to be polite, warm, but reserved. And Kelsey still felt like a stranger much of the time.

Maybe they needed to let go and get drunk together…

Kelsey lifted her glass of water with lemon in a toast. “To catching up on everything we missed over twenty-four years.” Her laughter broke out on top of the last few words. “That sounds ridiculous.”

Mmm-hmm. Rather impossible, too. Because her sister had been kidnapped as a baby, and only found by the royal family a few months ago. How did you recap and share an entire lifetime?

No matter how large the project, however, it always began with a single step. Genevieve’s tutors, whether in languages, politics, or riding, all had impressed that singular notion upon her.

And goodness knew that both she and Kelsey were more than stubborn enough to do whatever they put their minds to.

Lifting her own sparkling water, Genny said, “A ridiculously high goal? Perhaps. But a worthy one.”

“Yes.” Kelsey nodded emphatically. “I’m so grateful that you squeeze me in for these lunches twice a week. Truly.” Then she lunged across the table to take Genny’s hand, snagging the lace runner in the process. The Waterford vase of pale peach roses toppled over.

A footman clearing their plates managed to right it before any water puddled out. Genevieve shot him a look of thanks.

Her sister had a natural, ah, exuberance unlike anyone else in Alcarsa Palace. Or perhaps they’d all started with it until protocol drummed it out. Regardless, Kelsey kept the staff on their toes as she whirlwinded her way through the halls.

On the other hand, Genny appreciated how genuine her responses were to everything. No practiced platitudes, no polite-yet-meaningless nods and plastic smiles.

There were some days she envied her sister.

Not that she’d ever admit it.

“You’re family.” Genny beamed at her, relieved that she meant the grateful smile. It took Kelsey almost being killed by an assassin a few weeks ago for them to get past Genevieve’s initial…wariness. Okay, bitchiness. “I’d happily put off the prime minister to have lunch with you.”

“That’s because none of you like the snooty-ass prime minister.”

“No, that’d merely be the added bonus.” So true, though.

Sitting back down, Kelsey straightened the runner and gave an apologetic finger wave at the footman. “Sorry, Ivan.”

Amazing. She’d barely learned more than how to count to twenty—and how to swear—in the Moncriano language, but Kelsey made a point of learning the names of every servant, driver, and bodyguard in the royal service.

That, that was the mark of a true princess of the House of Villani. That bone-deep caring for their subjects.

Genny was so proud of her.

Leaning back to allow Ivan to serve the lime sorbet, Genny asked, “So the story of your first dance does not end well. Did things improve at the next one?”

Kelsey snorted. “No fair. It’s your turn. We’ll save my disastrous prom episode for another lunch. Who was your first real dance with?”

“Besides my dancing instructor?” It took a long stare out the arched window at the marble peacock fountain in the courtyard before the memory solidified. “I was twelve. It was the Harvest Ball, and I wanted the first dance to be with Papa.”

“Aww, there’s nothing cuter than a father-daughter dance.”

“Cute” wasn’t exactly the aim of the presentational dance of the royal family. “Tradition, however, meant that Papa had to lead off the dancing with the duchess of our biggest farming duchy. Christian was stuck with their fully-grown daughter, who’d just had her fiancé break their engagement so he could run after a princess of Luxembourg.”

Oh, the memory was flooding back now. Genevieve set down her spoon so she could prop her chin on her hands to properly dish the dirt. “Christian’s partner regaled my fourteen-year-old brother with a bitter diatribe about how all men were evil, cheating bastards.”

The woman hadn’t been invited back to the palace for five years.

Wincing, Kelsey said, “I get that she was bitter, but…what a rotten thing to unload on a teenager. Is it okay to decide right now not to like her? Or does she foster guide dogs now?”

Ah, such bone-deep loyalty to the brother she barely knew. Yet more proof that Kelsey’s inner princess had all the right instincts.

Allowing a tiny, barely there smirk to form, Genevieve said, “Lucia’s fortune-hunting down a third husband in Monaco.”

“Sounds like karma took care of her.” Kelsey rolled her hand in a circle. “Get back to your story.”

“I had the distinct non-pleasure of waltzing with the Minister of the Treasury.”

“Really? No dashing foreign prince? No dreamy school friend?”

She’d asked to send an invite to a boy she’d been crushing on—but received the standard lecture about Duty over Pleasure. “No other children were at the ball. The minister was chosen because he was so unfortunately short. In other words, the perfect height to pair with me.”

“Ouch. That must’ve been a letdown.”

Indeed. Genny spooned up sorbet to help palate-cleanse the memory. “He smelled of black licorice. He quizzed me on economics for the entire dance.”

Violet eyes wide with sympathy, Kelsey said, “Oh God. I think that might be worse than my puke-covered pumps.”

“But I got to wear a yellow Givenchy couture gown and pearls that the grand duchess let me choose from the Crown jewels. A little boring conversation was balanced out by the spectacular outfit. Something you’ll come to appreciate as a princess, I guarantee.”

A brisk knock on the door barely preceded the rushed entrance by her private secretary, Sir Stefano.

That didn’t bode well. He was a stickler for protocol, just like Genevieve. Unflappable, too, just like Genevieve. And yet a strand of salt-and-pepper hair drooped over his forehead.

“Is something wrong?”

“Your Highness.” He bobbed his head at each of them while he hustled across the parquet floor. Polished loafers slid to a squeaky stop at the edge of the table. “Pardon the interruption, but this couldn’t wait. It’s a missive from the royal auditors.”

There was a royal just-about-everything, from milliners to saddlers to cartographers. But… Genevieve raised an eyebrow. “That’s a new one. Did somebody’s great-great-nephew need a job?”

“This isn’t a joke, Princess.” Stefano brandished the papers he’d clutched to his gray-striped vest. “This is, in fact, a quite serious threat.”

“A bean counter?” Kelsey rolled her eyes. “They’re a pain in the ass, but hardly serious. Unless you count the serious time-suck of doing your taxes once a year. Oh. You probably don’t do your own taxes, do you?”

A few months ago, Genevieve would’ve snarked back with something, yes, cutting and bitchy about how the royals don’t trim their own hedges, either. Now? She had more empathy for the enormity of the life shift Kelsey was trying to wrap her head around.

So she’d help explain, not just snap out a response. “No. The royal family doesn’t pay taxes. That is, we didn’t. We’re going to start next year, so that we follow the same rules as our people.”

“Geez. When you put it like that, I know I can’t complain about taxes anymore. Pay up and shut up.” Kelsey mimed locking her lips shut and tossing the key. “That’ll be my motto from now on.”

Stefano cleared his throat. Which was akin to anyone else screaming while pounding a fist on the table.

Genevieve gave him her full attention. “Tell us about the auditor.”

“The audit is part of the vetting process to prepare to join the European Union. If that’s how the country votes. The royal auditor assigned to you has sent over a threat. A down and out, vicious diatribe.”

Stefano was riled. Nothing riled him—his ever-present composure was what made him such a good private secretary. Worried now, Genevieve thrust out her hand for the papers. “Let me see.”

“Perhaps I should just sum up for you, Your Highness.”

What on earth was he trying to protect her from in there? “I can read fluently in five languages, Stefano. I think I can muddle my way through a letter about my own finances.”

With a half bow to express his reluctance, he handed them over.

After only scanning the first few sentences, Genevieve’s head snapped back up. “Get him over here. Now.”

“The royal auditor?”

The Royal Pain-in-the-Ass was more like it. “Yes. Summon him to the palace immediately.”

“Right away, Your Highness.” Stefano bowed twice and hurried out of the room.

Kelsey ran her aquamarine pendant up and down its silver chain. “Uh, you actually pulled rank and just summoned someone? That’s so…”

“Regal? Imperious?”

“Ballsy.”

“I declare it necessary. This…” Genevieve flipped to the end to squint at the signature, the harsh, spiky scrawl that was redolent with a smug—and mistaken—sense of power. “…Sir Theo Holst has a lot to answer for.”

“Yikes. Is it wrong that I’m excited to watch an old-fashioned, royal dressing-down? I’ve only seen this happen in movies.”

Genevieve appreciated Kelsey trying to lighten the mood. But she wasn’t ready to let go of her anger yet.

Ire.

No, fury.

“He thinks he can order me around? Me, a blood princess of four undiluted centuries of the House of Villani? Trust me when I say I’ll disabuse him of that notion.”

“I’m dying of curiosity over here. What order did he give you?”

Genny folded her napkin. Which was a major victory given that she wanted to throw it across the room. Preferably with an ice-ball inside of it. And preferably at Sir Theo’s head.

Then she stood and allowed the tiniest portion of her vexation to set her cream-and-fawn spectator pumps clicking across the floor at a fast clip. “He demanded that I slash my budget. That I allow him to tell me how and when and what to spend for the next two months. That I make the myriad of cuts he’s outlined, without question or discussion.”

Kelsey pursed her lips. “Weeeeeell—I’ve seen your closet. You have an entire shelf of tiaras.”

Of course she did. This lifelong job she’d never asked for did have its perks. “I’m a princess. They come with the title. I didn’t buy them on a reckless shopping spree. I inherited them.”

“Did you ‘inherit’”—her sister put finger quotes around the word—“the custom-made red Italian pumps I drooled over last week?”

Those had been her reward for surviving a week-long, twenty-five-stop official visit to Sweden and the Netherlands. In January. “I repeat, I’m a princess. I have my own income. As do you,” she reminded, ready to drag Kelsey into her self-righteous snit.

“Oh no. I’ve never owned a pair of shoes that cost more than fifty dollars before moving here. And I didn’t buy any of that expensive stuff in my closet. It just keeps appearing.”

Kelsey’s mindset was still stuck where they’d found her—in the fourth-floor walkup in Manhattan that, in its entirety, was smaller than her bedroom here in the palace. And buying toilet paper in twenty-four packs, for some reason. She hadn’t accepted the birthright of her royal fortune yet.

Fine. Her sister didn’t have to be mad on her behalf. Genevieve had enough of a head of steam worked up. “My wealth doesn’t come from taxing our people. I should be able to spend it however I please.”

“Absolutely.”

She stabbed the tip of her French manicure against the paper. “He says I should cut out all my stationery. ‘Emails are free.’”

Spooning up the last of her sorbet, Kelsey clucked her tongue. “Impersonal, though.”

“Right? People don’t treasure emails for decades. They don’t print them out and tuck them in a drawer or the family Bible. Handwritten letters show you’ve made an effort, that the recipient is worthy of your time and respect.”

“Agreed. I hate writing thank-you notes, but I do it every birthday and Christmas. That’s just good manners.”

Genevieve’s heart fluttered with gratitude that of anyone the kidnapper could’ve left Kelsey with, he’d chosen such upright, principled people as the Wishners. They’d taken in an unknown baby, risked their safety, and raised her to have the caring and strong ethics befitting of a princess.

“Precisely. However, a proper regard for etiquette is something Sir Theo Holst is completely lacking.” It split Genny in half between a burning desire to scream, and an equally strong desire to toss back three gin and tonics in a row. Neither of which could be indulged by a true princess. Not without sneaking off to her suite, anyway. “He doesn’t ask for a meeting to review, to discuss, to get explanations. No, he just took a blow torch to my budget.”

“That’s arbitrary.” Kelsey shook her head. “I mean, apparently it’s what he was hired to do, but shouldn’t there be a give and take? Figuring out what works best for you and your far-from-normal lifestyle?”

Aha. Kelsey did get it, despite the sticker shock she’d voiced at the custom pumps, as well as literally all the clothes stocked in her closet by their aunt, Duchess Mathilde.

Genevieve toyed with the interlocking circles of her sapphire bracelet. It used to belong to Wallis Simpson, the woman who came close to toppling the British monarchy. Genny wore it as a reminder that passion had no place in the palace.

A princess did what her people needed. Her own desires were secondary. Giving in to them could so easily bring havoc to her own royal line.

But those were her decisions to make. Not Sir Theo’s.

And why did his name sound vaguely familiar?

Genny folded the papers in half. Then she sharpened the crease with her thumbnail. “He’s ordered me to not wear nylons. ‘An arbitrary fashion holdover from the last century that is utterly wasteful.’”

“Don’t we have to wear them? As part of the royal dress code?”

“Yes.” Just like they had to wear slips so that nobody would see through their skirts. With weights in the hems so a strong gust of wind wouldn’t allow the world to see her blue satin panties.

Old-fashioned? Definitely.

Integral to preserving the dignity of House of Villani? Definitely. In this world of cell phone cameras and a relentless internet demanding information every second of every day, it was more important than ever to be careful. Restrained.

With a strong mix of both hope and wistfulness in her voice, Kelsey asked, “Couldn’t you change it? As the senior female member of the royal family?”

“You’re kidding yourself if you think I’m the senior female. That would be our grandmother, the Grand Duchess Agathe. And she would be appalled if I stopped wearing them.”

“You should definitely sic her on Sir Theo. She’d obliterate him with one glare.”

It was tempting. The woman was beyond fierce. But Genevieve was an adult. She couldn’t ask her grandmother to fight her battles for her.

“Aside from the absurd total amount he wants me to cut, there are at least two-dozen bullet points of specificity.” And the worst was burned in her brain. She made another knife-sharp crease, folding the paper over again. “Kelsey, the man wants me to stop using name-brand tampons.”

Kelsey’s jaw dropped. “That’s despicable. Intrusive.”

Not to mention mortifying that her period would be a topic of discussion in a royal missive. “He’s demanding an immediate switch to generic brands of all feminine products and birth control.”

Right. Because the fate of their country being accepted as a member of the European Union—if, and only if, their own subjects voted in favor of it—rested on her preferred brand of tampon?

It was so ridiculous as to be laughable. If only it wasn’t happening to her, of course.

Stefano came back in. No knock at all this time. And his complexion was dead white beneath his general swarthiness. “Your Highness, I’m afraid he won’t come.”

“Who?”

“Sir Theo.” The older man looked ill. Was he shaking? Clenching and unclenching his hands spasmodically, he continued. “He refused your summons.”

That certainly explained Stefano’s reaction. This was unfathomable.

Unheard of.

Not possible.

And now Genny found herself an even deeper level of pissed that this obnoxious man would upset her secretary so. His world was rooted in order and protocol and above all else, rules.

It had to be a misunderstanding. “He can’t.” As much to hear the words herself as to explain it to Kelsey, Genny said, “That’s what makes it a summons, rather than an invitation.”

“But he did refuse, Your Highness. He said the letter was self-explanatory and he had no time to waste repeating himself.”

“Yowza. That’s a dickish thing to say.” Kelsey visibly startled when both Genevieve and Stefano snapped their attention to her. “What? Does that not translate? Do you need me to explain?”

Shooting up a hand to stop her, Genevieve said, “Please don’t.” At least not in front of Stefano. They could laugh about it later, in private. Because she thought it a perfect description. “The context was clear from your usage. But no, that colloquialism does not have an exact translation in Moncriano.”

“Would you like me to send a member of the Royal Protection Service to fetch him?” Stefano offered. “That would teach the lad some manners.”

“And what—have them rough him up along the way?” If the royal family went around delivering black eyes to everyone who offended them, well, it would be a scandal, to say the very least. And not in any way representative of a confident, caring monarchy.

Kelsey’s hand flew to her chest, splaying across the bright orange-and-green print of the Lily Pulitzer dress. “They can do that? Elias never mentioned beating up disrespectful punks when he was on duty.”

Her knowledge of the Royal Protection Service came from the fact that Kelsey was dating her bodyguard. Well, her very recently made ex-bodyguard.

It shocked Genevieve how much she was rooting for them. True, Elias was no longer a commoner and thus not entirely out of the question as a match for a princess. He’d been knighted for saving Kelsey’s life in the attempted shooting. Thanks to his heroic action, she’d escaped with merely a broken wrist.

The two of them as a couple was both extraordinary and unconventional—utterly like her sister.

“No, they cannot,” Stefano said, an undercurrent of disapproval in his tone that Kelsey had even brought up the idea.

But there was the rulebook to life in the palace…and then there was the reality of what went on outside the lines. Genevieve knew those lines blurred occasionally.

See Kelsey dating the staff as a perfect example.

“It should not happen,” she amended. “If they ever do, it isn’t with my authority.”

“Too bad. Because I really dislike this guy.” Kelsey took the paper now folded down to the size of a compact and opened it, grimacing as she took in demand after demand. “Even if they didn’t land any punches, giving him a good scare might teach Holst some respect.”

That was it. He only thought he was in control. Genevieve, however, could correct that mis-assumption. “You know what?” She put an arm around Kelsey’s shoulders and squeezed. “You are exactly right. Brilliant, in fact.”

“Agreed—in general.” Grinning, Kelsey reached across her chest to pat Genevieve’s hand. Which resulted in her hard cast banging painfully against Genny’s knuckles. “Want to let me in on how specifically brilliant I am on this particular day?”

Genevieve let go, and caught a glimpse of herself in the crackling glass of the Baroque mirror. Anger had pinked up her cheeks as though they’d been slapped. It blotched across the pale skin of her chest, too.

That would never do. The world only got to see what she chose to reveal.

She turned back to Kelsey. Made sure that her tone was even and low and calm. Because Sir Theo Holst didn’t deserve anything more than that. His demands would be dealt with and dismissed with all the attention she gave an annoying fly buzzing around a fruit tray.

“There’s one thing more frightening than being threatened by the Royal Protection Service.”

Kelsey raised an eyebrow, clearly already there but giving Genevieve the satisfaction of saying it. “What’s that?”

“Being threatened by an actual royal. Stefano, get me a car. I’ll change and leave immediately.”

“You’re going to him?” Stefano tugged at the pointed tips of his vest. “Princess, you do not have to—”

“I want to,” Genevieve gritted out as she snatched her phone from the table and headed to the door.

In fact, she was suddenly quite looking forward to putting this…what had Kelsey called him?…bean counter in his place.

…

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