‘Yes,’ her grandmother agreed in her usual icy, cut-glass tones. ‘Which is in your favour. I’ve ensured she’s been kept close; she can be moulded. And of course she has had no opportunity to meet any males. A virgin princess with no scandal attached to her name, excellent academic qualifications, educated in statesmanship and diplomacy is a rare prize and that’s before we consider her dowry. She’s unique and you know it, Tristano. So let’s not play games.’
It was all Amber could do not to gasp. For her grandmother to be discussing her virginity with anyone was mortifying enough but with his Royal Hotness? Her cheeks felt as if they might burst into flame any moment, and not just with embarrassment, with indignation. She was not some prize sow to be discussed in terms of breeding! She was surprised her grandmother hadn’t mentioned her excellent teeth—unless her dental records had already been discussed!
‘Of course, the Belravian fortune,’ a male voice she didn’t recognise cut in. He had a similar accent to Tristano, only far more noticeable: a little Italian, a little Germanic. ‘Is it really worth as much as it was when the country fell?’
‘More, thanks to some wise investments as we waited for a Kireyev to sit on the throne once more. But empires have risen and fallen and it’s clear that our country is no more, and with it our throne. So we look to another throne, another country in which to invest our money and our blood. Your throne, your country, Tristano.’
Silence fell. Was Tristano tempted, disgusted—or indignant that she was being bartered as if she were part of the fortune, not a living, breathing human? Hope for the latter filled her, only to be dashed when he finally spoke.
‘But the fact remains, the Princess is still very young.’
‘Let’s not be hasty,’ the unknown man said. ‘The Princess may be too young to marry, but there’s no reason not to enter into a formal betrothal. And that’s what we are here to discuss. The papers are right here.’
The what? She had to be dreaming, surely. Amber barely breathed as she listened.
‘I’m her legal guardian,’ her grandmother said. ‘I can sign right here, with the Duke as my witness. All you need to do is sign as well, Tristano, and then I suggest you take Vasilisa back to Elsornia with you. She can spend the next three years finishing her education to your liking and then, when she comes of Belravian age at twenty-one, she will make you a perfect bride. The perfect Queen.’
A perfect bride indeed! If Amber hadn’t been so horrified she would have laughed out loud. She hadn’t even been kissed yet; there was no way she was marrying a prince until she had tried a lot of frogs. Besides, she had her own plans for the next three years and they didn’t include being finished off in a castle in the middle of Europe. No, she was going to live like a normal girl. She was going to laugh and learn and flirt and find those frogs and enjoy every moment.
Amber’s first instinct was to burst in and tell them all in no uncertain terms that the only person who could sign that agreement was her and she did not consent. To remind them that now she was eighteen her grandmother was no longer her guardian—and that even if she was she had no right under US or UK law to marry her granddaughter off, that any betrothal they plotted wasn’t worth the paper it was written on. But caution quickly replaced the anger. She had no doubt that her grandmother was capable of taking her forcibly to Elsornia if she chose to. No, better to be careful.
Amber backed away as silently as she could, resolution filling her. She was more than the heir to a long gone throne; she was also English on her mother’s side, and it was long past time that she went home. The last sound she heard was a pen scratching over thick paper as she inched back towards her bedroom. Passport, money and she would be gone. And she wouldn’t be looking back.
Copyright © 2020 by Jessica Gilmore
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ISBN-13: 9781488065170
Cinderella’s New York Fling
Copyright © 2020 by Cara Colter
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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