The Wild Heir(18)

“Maybe that’s her mother,” I say, though her face is round, her hair black, her skin tanned, looking very different from the Galadriel-like paleness of Isabella.

“Princess Isabella’s mother died when she was a child,” Mari says, not taking her eyes off of them.

“Oh,” I say, feeling sympathy for her. Even though my mother and I don’t always see eye-to-eye, I can’t imagine growing up without her.

“She’s probably her private secretary,” Mari says. My sister has one of her own though I don’t see them together very often. “Though she seems rather, uh…”

She trails off just as the woman starts laughing again, so loudly that we can hear it through the thick-paned windows. I can tell already I’m going to like her. I especially like how embarrassed Isabella looks, gesturing with her hands for the woman to keep it down.

I exchange a look with Mari. This is going to get interesting.

“She’s here,” my mother says from behind us, her voice urgent and hushed.

We turn around to see my mother dressed in a dark silvery dress that catches the light, something that she would normally wear for an official event. From the anxiety sparking in her eyes, I know this is a big deal for her. She’s meeting her potential daughter-in-law and wants to put on her best face possible.

Fucking hell.

The thought hits me again for the millionth time that day.

Just what the fuck am I doing?

My mother looks us both up and down quickly. “You look fine, Mari. Magnus, you could have shaved. And an orange tie? Really?”

I glance down at my tie. I’m in a navy Tom Ford suit that fits me like a fucking glove thanks to the family tailor and I always try to inject a little bit of personality into my clothes via color. “What’s wrong with orange?”

My mother shakes her head and then hurries off.

I look over at Mari. “Seriously, what’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” she says reassuringly, taking my arm and pulling me toward the door. “Let’s go.”

We head down the stairs and stop outside “The Bird Room,” the formal antechamber for visitors and guests, where the walls are painted with scenes of Norway and adorned with different birds. My mother is waiting outside the doors beside my father’s butler, Sven, and I’m surprised to see father already there, discussing something with the nurse before she nods and walks away.

My father is dressed in a tuxedo that must be new since he’s lost a bit of weight from being ill and this fits him better than his other clothes. He flashes me a warm smile, his cheeks ruddy which has to be a good sign, as my mother quickly reaches over and adjusts his bowtie.

Shit. Was I supposed to wear a tux too? Is that what my mother had issues with? Next to my father I look out of place. Then again, he is the King. Maybe that’s the point.

“I think you made a great choice,” my father says to me.

I point at the tie. “The Queen doesn’t seem to think so.”

“I mean with Princess Isabella,” he says patiently. He glances at his wife. “And in this case, I think the Queen agrees.”

“She’s certainly beautiful and seems to have brains,” my mother says quickly. “Let’s see what else she has to offer us.”

Suddenly I feel sorry for Isabella and what she’s about to be subjected to, like a prized cow being paraded in front of discerning judges, sizing her up on the sheen of her coat, the way she handles, how big her udders are. Okay, maybe it’s only me who is interested in that last part.

Kidding. I’m kidding.

There’s a certain order in the way that we enter rooms when we’re together—by rank. So with Sven opening the door and announcing us, my father is the first to step in, followed by my mother, then me, then Mari.

Isabella and her assistant are already standing and giving the standard curtsey to my father and lightly bowing before him as he offers his hand to shake.

“Thank you so much for coming tonight, Princess Isabella,” my father says to her in English, and I remind myself that Isabella won’t understand a lick of Norwegian. Luckily we all speak English fluently, as do most Norwegians these days.

“It was a great honor to accept,” Isabella says, her voice soft and airy, her accent unusual, like mild German with a British tone and refinement. Though I can see clear over my mother’s head in front of me, I have to crane my neck to get a good look at her around my father’s back.

My father moves on to the other woman, who, in a very loud and twangy British accent, addresses herself as Lady Jane, and the moment she says it, Mari kicks the back of my calf lightly because she just knows I’m about to laugh. I’ve met a lot of “ladies” in my day and I don’t think Lady Jane is one of them, which of course makes me like her even more.

I bite back my smile at that and my eyes shift over to Isabella. Her eyes are trained on my mother who is now coming forward with her hand extended. Not once have we made eye contact, but at least now I can get a good look at her while she’s preoccupied.

In person and up close, Isabella is pretty. That’s the first word that comes to mind. Not necessarily hot, not in her demure, long, floaty blue gown with cape-like sleeves that only shows off her pale collarbones. Not necessarily sexual with her prim mannerisms, her hair up, and her makeup light and casual, with just a dusting of pink on her cheeks and her lips like bruised cherries, like she’s been kissing for a long time.