The Wild Heir(36)

“But this is ridiculous,” I say frantically, my palms growing sweaty. “I should just get the driver to turn around and take us back to the airport. I shouldn’t even be entertaining this. I don’t—”

The car door opens and the butler says, “Your Serene Highness.”

Which makes me wince. Technically that is the way you’re supposed to address me but I haven’t heard it since I was a young girl and even then it sounded too formal.

I stare at the butler’s outstretched hand, and in that moment I know that if I grab it, if I let him help me out of the car, if I step foot in that palace, I’m committing myself even further, making it harder to back out.

But I do it. I reach out for his hand and he helps me out, Jane right behind me.

The palace looks different in the morning and I’m aware now that it’s in the middle of the city. I can hear cars, people walking past outside the gates. They blocked off the area so that you can’t actually see the courtyard, and from the paparazzi I spied as we drove in, I know it’s for good reason.

“Your Majesty is expecting you,” he says, and leads me toward the main doors. We don’t have any luggage with us this time. In fact, regardless of what happens, Jane and I are booked back on a flight to Edinburgh later that evening. I don’t want to make the mistake of staying over again, especially if I end up saying no. That would be rather awkward.

This time the butler takes us directly to another room instead of the Bird Room where we had to wait last time. I guess all the formalities are gone now.

The room we’re led into is just as opulent as the others, with hanging chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling curtains, and teak and velvet furniture done up in shades of cream and baby blue.

Standing around the biggest coffee table I’ve ever seen in the middle of the room, are Queen Else, Magnus, and two other people I don’t recognize: a short man with a round baby face and a bald, thin man in glasses who holds a stack of papers and folders in his hands.

I’m not sure the proper protocol to enter a room that they already occupy so I immediately bow and curtsey with Jane doing the same.

“Your Majesty,” I say, artfully looking down at the pale grey carpet. “Your Royal Highness.”

“Please,” the Queen says. “You can call me Else. Or Madam. I’d rather things not be so formal between us.” I gradually lift my gaze to meet hers. She’s smiling warmly.

She’s talking as if I’ve already told them yes. That’s not a good sign. I need to take back some control without making them feel slighted. “Thank you so much for having me here on such short notice, madam,” I say to her. “This is the type of thing I believe would be better discussed in person.”

It hits me all at once at what I’m doing—standing before the Norwegian royal family and telling them what’s going on, telling them where I stand, being the one who is dictating the situation. Never in a million years did I think I would ever have the confidence to do this. I’m still in shock.

I push that realization out of my mind. If I think about it anymore I’ll be running for the hills.

“And we appreciate that,” she says, exchanging a quick glance with Magnus. “Please, sit down.”

I sit down on the couch, Jane beside me, and as the butler pours everyone coffee—which I decline—my eyes go to Magnus. I’ve been trying not to look at him in case he influences me one way or the other.

But the fact is, he is influencing me. And he should. This is the man I’m considering marrying. This is the person I may have to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t know him at all, except what seems to be all his bad qualities, and based on our meeting the other night, I can’t say that we get along even slightly.

His gaze is as intense as ever, those dark eyes of his seeming to hold me in my place as I sit before him. It feels like he’s looking for answers from me this time, rather than the way he looked last time—like he was looking for his own answers inside me.

Do I take this man to be my lawfully married husband? It doesn’t matter that he’s built like a Viking, that he’s gorgeous in his own rugged way and oozes alpha testosterone, or that he’s a prince who will one day be the king. None of that matters when I don’t know the guy. And if I don’t know Magnus like I should, then I have absolutely no idea what I’m getting into and I’m not sure anything—even losing my father’s acceptance—is worth that.

I had originally come here not really knowing what my answer would be, but I do have my own list of negotiations that I’d tapped out in the notes section of my phone, just in case it came down to it.

I wrote down that I wanted an easy out before the wedding, and I wanted an easy out after, if I was at all publically humiliated by Magnus in any way.

I wrote that I wanted to continue my studies in Oslo.

I wanted my own non-profit organization off the bat with built-in media interest and the brightest minds working for me.

I wanted a house or palace of my choosing.

I wanted a rich personal life away from the prying eyes of the media.

And I wanted a dog (I’ve always wanted a dog).

I considered adding a clause in there that roughly said that I was under no obligation to have children or to have a sexual relationship with Magnus, but I decided that would probably something to discuss privately since no one wants their wife-to-be admitting to their family that she would never touch him with a ten-foot pole.