Royally Matched (Royally #2)(21)
But she’s a full-on nutter—a method hostess. She insists on doing only one take per scene and refuses to interact with anyone, unless it’s on film. Real emotion and reaction, according to Vanessa, is the hardest to capture, and Miss Rasputin thrives on it.
When I, fucking finally, make it up to the courtyard of the castle, where twenty ladies are waiting, the cameras don’t stop rolling. There are four . . . no, five cameramen so they can capture every angle and every interaction. They move between us like ghosts through walls, pausing and zooming in to catch something interesting when they find it.
But I ignore the cameras and instead focus on the expression of the lovely ladies all around me, smiling and adoring. Confidence that was once so familiar and has been sorely missing these last months surges back in my chest. This is the life I’m used to. And I think doing this show may turn out to be the best decision I’ve ever made.
“Here ye, here ye,” Emily calls into her microphone, wearing a shiny long gold coat, almost matching blond hair, and big hoop earrings that could fit around a wrist. “I present to you, ladies of Wessco, His Royal Highness, Prince Henry! He comes in search of true love and to make that true love queen of his heart and queen of his country.”
Emily lifts up her hand, clutching a group of necklaces with charms dangling from each one. “At the end of this night, Prince Henry will place a glass slipper charm on the pillow of each lady he chooses to remain here at Anthorp Castle. Only ten of you will be chosen. Then, each night after, one lady will leave until His Royal Highness bestows the diamond tiara on the one who will be his royal bride.” She looks straight into the camera. “Welcome, ladies and our audience at home, to Matched—Royal Edition!”
Ding!
The first event of the show is speed dating. Before the cameras started rolling again, Vanessa told us to “be ourselves,” whatever that may be. To not hold back—that any conversation that doesn’t work for the show or isn’t fit for television can be fixed in the editing room later. I’m sitting at a table with a black-curtained partition across the middle. The curtain lifts and I get two minutes with each lady to see if, as Emily put it, we have an “instant connection.” Some of the girls I already know—one or two I’ve already screwed, not that I wouldn’t mind a repeat. But for the moment, I sip my scotch and enjoy the electricity that sparks in my veins from the excitement and the fun that practically lights up the whole damn castle.
Ding!
And the first lady up is . . . the Duchess of Perth, Laura Benningson. I’ve known Laura for years; she’s beautiful, with thick light-brown hair and sparkly light-blue eyes.
She was engaged to Mario Vitrolli, a professional race car driver and a good man, up until last year when he was tragically killed in an accident on the track. Laura was pregnant at the time and lost the baby a few weeks after Mario’s death, though thankfully, that part was kept out of the papers.
I lean over the table and kiss her cheek. “How are you, dove?”
She gives me a smile still tinged with sadness. “I’m all right. This is a bit crazy, though, isn’t it? I don’t know how they plan to address my obvious non-virginity. Everyone we know knows about the miscarriage.”
“According to the producer, that’s the magic of reality television. A bit of creative editing and they can make any reality they want. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not a virgin either. They were shocked when I told them. Just shocked.”
Laura laughs, and it feels good to make someone really laugh for a change.
“Anyway, you can relax, Henry, I’m not vying for the throne—I think I’d make a terrible queen. I’m too lazy and self-absorbed.”
“And too honest.”
“Exactly.” She sighs. “But, when they approached me, I just felt like it was time, you know. To try to move forward. Maybe have some fun. It’s a strange thing to do, but I decided to give it a try.”
I put my hand over hers. “I’m glad you did.”
She squeezes back. “So am I, now.”
Laura’s a yes.
Ding!
Lady Cordelia Ominsmitch. She’s the daughter of an earl, and while she’s known in my circles as a serious partier, she maintains a stellar reputation to the outside world. And she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Big blue eyes, bouncy hair, and even bouncier tits. My type of girl.
As soon as the curtain lifts, she gets right to it.
“We’ve never met, Your Highness, but we could be good together. Hot together. I’m everything you need in a wife and a queen. I have the looks, the education, the pedigree, and the temperament. I’m also a virgin.” She winks. “Tight as a drum. Until I marry, I’ve promised myself and the Lord to only do anal.”
I choke on my drink.
Definitely a yes.
Ding!
Jane Plutorch. Cousin to a duke and heiress to a fortune built on wart cream—Wart Away is the official name, I think. She’s also seriously Goth. Black lipstick, black hair, ivory skin, piercings, and ink up and down her arms.
“I hate my family,” she says without any inflection at all. “And they hate me. They made me come here, mostly because they didn’t want to look at me. I only agreed because I thought it’d be fab to live in a castle. Like a vampire.”
“I can respect that,” I say. “And you have great taste in tattoos.”