Royal Package - Lili Valente Page 0,21

she can ask for something to be brought to her room, where she’ll be safe from my repugnant company.

“Delighted, Princess,” Greta says, shaking Elizabeth’s hand warmly. “If you need anything while you’re here, please let me know. You’ll appoint your staff after the wedding, of course, but in the meantime, consider me your assistant, as well.”

“Th-thank you,” Elizabeth says. “That’s so k-kind.”

“Speaking of appointing staff, I have a meeting to discuss the expanding needs at the air base,” I say, glancing down at my cell. I’m already cutting it close, and that’s not factoring in time to swing by my rooms and check my clothing for rogue egg globs. “Greta, would you mind showing Elizabeth to her suite?” I glance Elizabeth’s way. “I’d love to show you myself, but I don’t want to keep the generals waiting.”

“Of c-course,” Elizabeth says, nodding a little too eagerly.

She’s clearly relieved to be free of me, but her relief will be short-lived. I intend to return to her—and Operation Prince Charmless—as soon as possible.

I back toward the castle, pointing a finger at her. “I’ll be back for our walk this afternoon. I can’t wait to show you around the grounds. And maybe we can have tea after. Cook makes incredible raspberry scones. Really top-notch.”

Paling at the thought of eating with me again—or maybe she’s anxious at being left alone with a stranger, either one works for my purposes—Elizabeth nods and lifts a hand. “See you s-soon.”

With a wink and a grin, I turn and jog away, mentally transitioning from fearsome fiancé to capable king, relieved to be getting back to truly good work.

But then it’s all good work.

Scaring Elizabeth away is the best thing for everyone. That’s what I need to remember. Yes, it feels terrible to ruin an innocent woman’s breakfast, but better her breakfast than the rest of our lives.

Chapter Ten

Sabrina

Fetching my purse from the hazmat zone that was once a breakfast table, I follow Greta through a sculpture garden, around several grand fountains, and past a sprawling hedge maze that’s just begging to be explored.

I’m a sucker for plants and puzzles. Combine then and you’ve got bona fide Sabrina crack. Usually, I’d be peppering Greta with questions and plotting to explore the maze as soon as possible.

But today I pass the gargoyle-flanked entrance with barely a second glance.

I’m too busy unpacking the scene in the rose garden.

I honestly can’t believe what I just witnessed. I would suspect that someone had slipped LSD into my food, and I’d hallucinated the whole thing. But thanks to the utter grossness, I was barely able choke down a bite of dry toast.

And it’s pretty hard to poison toast.

No, that wasn’t a bad trip. That train wreck with Andrew’s mouth and the eggs and the tablecloth and my poor, innocent fruit salad actually happened.

The future King of Gallantia really has the fine motor skills and table manners of a four-year-old.

But how is that even possible?!

How has Andrew maintained his reputation as a suave, jet-setting ladies’ man when a girl would need a pair of coveralls to get through a meal with him without her clothes getting ruined—not to mention her appetite.

I’m well aware that the standards for men and women are vastly different, but come on. Yes, a man can be an asshole with poor oral hygiene who gets caught scratching his balls in public—multiple times—and still be considered a sex god. In comparison, a woman can scarcely get away with having a strong opinion or a bad hair day before she’s considered beyond the pale.

But surely, slopping food all over himself and the table and the chairs and his dining partner, should she dare to get too close while Andrew is hoovering up a meal, is a deal breaker for a lot of women. And surely at least one of them has leaked tales of the prince’s utter repulsiveness to the press. I should have found some whisper of this in my googling.

But then again, he is a prince—a single prince with a gorgeous body, a fat bank account, and a pretty decent personality.

Thinking of his insistence that I invite my plant nerd buddies to enjoy the rose garden sends a flash of guilt cutting through my disgust. Of course, I can’t ask any of my botany enthusiast friends to the castle—most of them are online acquaintances, they’re scattered across the world, and they aren’t Lizzy’s friends—but it was a generous offer made without hesitation.

Andrew honestly seems to be a kind person who wants to