The Royal Rogue Read online

  I glance at my aunt, trying not to look confused and frantic, but she’s nodding politely to Prince Pierre who is going on about something excitedly and holding his hands apart like he’s telling her about the fish that got away.

  I give Penelope my most complacent smile. “Well then, follow me.”

  I know earlier I had said that being royal regent was a lot like being a substitute teacher, but it’s also a lot like being a house sitter. In this case, I feel like Aksel is going to return and learn about all the forbidden rooms the guests were in and the liquor cabinets that were raided.

  I walk past Henrik, exchanging a bewildered look with him, and head out of the room and down the hall toward the living room. This isn’t usually where guests are entertained but I know it’s where Aksel and Aurora spend a lot of time in the evening when the kids have gone to bed and where they keep the good stuff.

  I’m not used to playing host, not even at home. It’s just me and Anya most of the time, with the occasional help from Margaret, my nanny. That’s who Anya is with right now since I didn’t want to pull her away from her riding camp while I came down to Copenhagen. Our typical Friday nights might involve a board game and a glass of wine (for me, not Anya). Maybe a reality TV show, if I’m feeling loose.

  And yet here I am, wearing a glittering gown that’s a smidge too tight, leading a group of royals to find the King’s secret alcohol cabinet. I feel painfully out of place, even if I grew up in this palace. What Prince Orlando assumed happens to be true.

  Once we’re all gathered in the room and I start pulling out the Aquavit and Cloudberry liquor from Aksel’s bar, Maja grabs me by the arm and takes me just outside the door.

  “What are you doing?” she says in a hush. “This isn’t part of the plan.”

  I roll my eyes. “If it’s not obvious by now, there is no plan. And by the way, you could step in more and lead the way. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “You’re the royal here, Stella, not me,” she says. “And you’re the princess even when you aren’t being the royal regent. This is your job.”

  “And as I just said, I don’t know what I’m doing,” I remind her. “You tell me. What am I supposed to do? They wanted a Scandinavian drink and so now they’re all going to get smashed on it. We’re supposed to cater to the guests, aren’t we?”

  She shakes her head, pressing her lips together. “I’m not sure Aksel will like this.”

  “Aksel doesn’t have a choice. He’s the one galivanting wherever he is. I mean, really, where is he this time anyway? Greece?”

  “Cyprus,” she says.

  “Do we have a private compound there too now?”

  She nods. “No one bugs him down there.”

  “How lucky for him,” I say dryly as I cross my arms. “Meanwhile I have to entertain the royal family of Monaco who seem to operate on some weird wavelength and with a strange agenda. Please tell me they’re just staying the night.”

  She shrugs. “That I know of.” Then she sighs and looks down the hall at Henrik who is approaching us uneasily. She waves him closer. “What’s the status on the dinner? Any way the cooks can hurry it up?” she asks him.

  “At least another hour,” Henrik says apologetically. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Do you know any magic tricks?” I ask him. He frowns and I add, “They could use some entertainment.”

  Even though I was totally joking, Henrik nods. “If you have a guitar, I think I could play them some music.”

  “You play guitar?” I ask.

  “I spent a lot of my youth busking on street corners.”

  This is news to me. Though Henrik is in his mid-forties, I feel like he’s been a part of this palace since the dawn of time, first as the driver and now as the head butler. “Do you know anything, I don’t know, Danish or Scandinavian? Folk songs?”

  “I know ‘Wonderwall.’ ”

  Of course he does.

  I hold up my hand to stop him. “You know what, it’s okay. I’ll handle it.”

  I square my shoulders and walk back into the room, head held high, a polite smile on my lips.

  Prince Pierre and Princess Penelope are squeezed together on a loveseat, her elaborate ebony gown covering most of him. Come to think of it, I think Penelope is always in black for some reason. The bottle of Aquavit is in her hands and she’s pouring her husband a glass as he’s talking excitedly in French to Francis about something.

  Matilde is sitting in a big armchair by herself, scrolling on her phone, not drinking, while Orlando is on the big couch, his legs splayed. In his hands is a glass of what is probably Scotch, considering the Scotch bottle on the coffee table across from him. The very rare, very expensive bottle of Scotch that I know Aksel favors.

  Hmmm. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. What if the bottle is priceless?

  “Sit down, relax,” Orlando says to me, his full lips curled up in a slick smile. He pats the place beside him on the couch.

  Relax? My brows shoot up. I don’t want to sit down next to him. It feels, I don’t know . . . risky. In ways I can’t even explain, like he’s being way too comfortable around me.

  I’m about to decline, make up some excuse, but then Maja promptly takes the other armchair, leaving me no choice.

  I give Orlando another quick smile and then gather my gown, sitting down beside him, but putting as much distance between us as possible. Any closer and I feel I’ll be sucked into his orbit, like he’s a black hole of sex. Or something.

  “Drink?” he asks, leaning forward to grab the bottle while dipping his finger in an extra glass and bringing them over to me in one smooth motion.

  “I’m quite all right,” I tell him.

  I mean, lies.

  I look off at the rest of the room, but I feel his eyes boring into me, studying me. Finally he says. “Ah. I figured.”

  Don’t fall for it, I tell myself. He’s baiting you.

  “What?” I ask him anyway.

  “Nothing. You just seem the type who doesn’t like to lose control.”

  “You seem to make a lot of assumptions about me,” I counter.

  That smirk appears and for a moment I’m dizzy. Those eyes again are pulling me in, propped up by deep dimples. He’s making me stupid just by sitting beside him. That’s why I thought sitting here was risky.

  He gives a light shrug with one shoulder, as his finger traces around the rim of the empty glass in slow, deliberate circles. There’s something overtly sexual about the movement, or it could be I haven’t been this close to a man like this since . . . well, probably ever. I think he’s the most sexually magnetic creature I’ve been around.

  For a split-second my brain fills with the image of him placing those long, capable fingers between my legs and making the same motion, over and over again. A quick glance at his eyes, slightly hooded and sparkling in their intensity, tells me he’s doing it all on purpose. Jackass.

  I swallow hard and look away, squeezing my legs together subtly to make the ache go away. It’s like all the hair on my arms and back of my neck are standing at attention, my skin prickling, my body coming alive for the first time in years, in a very inappropriate place.

  This man, this royal rogue, is going to be some bad, bad news for me.

  I can already feel it.

  Chapter 2

  Stella

  Somehow I manage to make it through cocktail hour and most of dinner without doing anything embarrassing. Not that I’m sure what I’d do. Just because being in Prince Orlando’s proximity is making me think tawdry thoughts doesn’t mean I’m going to climb across the dinner table and act on them. Even so, I barely have anything to drink, just to keep in control (he was right about that, too), and instead I keep my eyes on the rest of his family, even when all I feel are his eyes on me.

  His family is a bit of a shitshow. I’m not one to judge, since my own family history is complicated at best, but it’s like they revel in their scandal and eccentricity. They own it,
no apologies, which is actually pretty admirable in a way.

  Still, I’m out of my element. Penelope drinks nearly a whole bottle of cloudberry liquor and that’s something you should either mix with something or have in small doses, and that’s when she starts telling everyone about all the famous people she’s met, alluding more than a few times that she’s had affairs with them. Once she starts going off on how sexy Prince Viktor of Sweden is and what she wants to do to him (in somewhat graphic detail, mind you, completely ignoring the fact that he’s married), Francis pulls her to her unsteady feet and has a talk with her out of earshot. And by talk, I’m pretty sure it’s a lecture.

  Then there’s Prince Pierre. He doesn’t even seem to hear Penelope at all. Instead he won’t stop talking about hunting giraffes in Botswana, even after his daughter Matilde tells him to stop. When that doesn’t work, she literally gets to her feet and starts yelling at him about how he only hunts because he knows it hurts her and that he’s a monster and a horrible father.

  It’s . . . a lot. I keep looking over at Maja, both our brows raised until they can’t possibly go any higher. Thankfully when dinner is announced it gives everyone breathing room and a chance to calm down.

  Everyone except Orlando—he was already calm. Throughout the whole ordeal he didn’t even react. Just sat back and watched. If anything, his head was in an entirely other place—except for when he was looking at me.

  He managed to sit across from me during dinner, which again was highly distracting. On one hand, it made me take small bites and eat daintily, on the other hand, who gave a fuck what he thought of me eating?

  “Oh fantastico, dessert!” Penelope exclaims, clapping her hands together as the servants bring around the rice pudding, placing the dishes in front of us. Though she was mainlining champagne with dinner, she seems to be more under control than earlier. Maybe the food did her some good.

  Meanwhile, I’m heading in the opposite direction. Feeling more at ease that the dinner is almost over, I start drinking the champagne, feeling it relax me as the bubbles go straight to my brain.

  Maybe I’ve got this. I mean, everyone more or less seems to be having a good time. I may not have Aksel’s role as a royal, but perhaps I’m good at faking it?

  I’m just about to dig into the rice pudding when suddenly an awful scream fills the whole palace. Penelope drops her spoon with a clatter while Pierre is pushing back his chair and standing on top of it, his arms out like he’s holding an imaginary rifle.

  “Where’s the warthog? I know that squeal anywhere,” he says, eyes scanning the dining the room as if he’s on safari.

  Warthog?

  As another scream sounds, followed by thumps and the pattering of quickly moving hooves, I realize what’s happening. It’s not a scream but a squeal, and it’s not a warthog but Snarf Snarf.

  The royal pig.

  Oh for fuck’s sake.

  I look at Maja but she’s shaking her head, her way of telling me to deal with it.

  That’s the hidden fine print of being the royal regent for Aksel—having to deal with his pet pig. Or should I say, Clara and Freja’s pet pig. Once upon a time, Snarf Snarf was easier to manage. He was a tiny little thing. They’d said he was a mini pig.

  But mini pigs are a big fat lie. They never stay mini. Instead they grow up to be the three-hundred-pound porkers that everyone knows and that’s what Snarf Snarf is now. A sweet boy for sure, but big as hell and with a rebellious streak.

  Normally he’s kept in the backyard in his own pen, so I have no idea why the pig is now in the house, but as I look to the hallway and see Snarf Snarf burning it past the dining room in a flash of fleshy pink, followed by a frantic-looking Henrik, I know that he escaped.

  I sigh and throw my napkin down on the bowl. I can’t sit here and eat dessert and pretend that this will get handled, because if Aksel comes back and discovers his house was destroyed by that pig, I’m the one who is going to get the blame.

  I get out of my chair and give everyone my most serene smile.

  “You may have heard about the royal pig, Snarf Snarf,” I tell them, clasping my hands together. “He gets loose from time to time. Allow me to go deal with it and you just finish your rice pudding. It’s a Danish tradition.”

  “The pig being loose or the rice pudding?” Francis jokes.

  “You’re going to need my assistance,” Pierre says, climbing down off his chair. He reaches over and grabs a knife off the table.

  Quickly, Matilde reaches out and grabs her father’s wrist. “You’re not going anywhere. He’s a pet, not food, not a trophy.”

  “It’s quite all right,” I tell them both. “I deal with this all the time.” Which is a lie. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  I head out of the room and down the hallway where muddy cloven hoofprints lead the way, standing out against the cream and gold carpet. To tell the truth, I think I’d rather be out here on a Snarf Snarf mission than back in there where I never quite felt comfortable.

  “Hey,” Orlando says in a low voice and I jump in surprise, turning around to see him standing behind me. “What are you doing?”

  Seriously? He couldn’t just stay put?

  “I’m going to go capture that pig,” I tell him, and then nod back to the room. “Don’t you have dessert to finish?”

  “You shouldn’t have to do this by yourself,” he says. “Pigs are dangerous.” Then his eyes coast up and down over my body in such a way that I can almost feel the heat on my skin. “And I’m rather picky about dessert. I only put the sweetest things in my mouth.”

  Wow.

  I open my mouth to speak but the words don’t come out right away. I clear my throat. “I’m not doing it by myself. I just saw Henrik run after him.”

  “But you don’t trust him to do his job?” He takes a step toward me until there’s barely any distance between us. I should take a step back until I’m up against the wall. Give him a dirty look. He’s invading my space.

  But I don’t step back. I stand where I am. I do give him a dirty look, though.

  “I like to make sure things are done properly,” I say, glaring at him.

  “Uh huh.” Another slick smile. “I was right about you, you know,” he says, voice dropping a register and getting all gravely, the kind of tenor that you feel vibrate between your legs. “Not much of a princess.”

  I raise my brows. “Excuse me? I’m plenty enough of a princess. I just don’t sit back and let other people do my job. My brother will have my head if he comes back and finds the palace destroyed by that pig. If doing dirty work means I’m not much of a royal, if it means I have to be in control, so be it.”

  He grins and bites his lip and my eyes are drawn to that bottom lip, full and pink, and those perfect white teeth. “I knew we had a lot in common.”

  “What?”

  His gaze drops to my mouth now. “That both of us like to get dirty. The dirtier, the nastier, the harder, the better.”

  I narrow my eyes at him to deflect the way he’s making me feel all hot and wet and wanton. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re just another pig running around this palace.”

  He blinks at me and then lets out a sharp laugh. “Did you just call me a pig? Whatever for?”

  “All your inappropriate innuendo,” I say haughtily.

  “Innuendo, huh?” he says, stroking his scruffy chin with his fingers, that shit-eating grin still on his face. “I’m sorry, Princess Stella, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve just been talking to you, royal to royal, though I must say it’s not unusual for a single woman to get the wrong idea about me, especially if she hasn’t been with a man in a while.”

  Oh my fucking god.

  I don’t even know what to say to that. My cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment and I quickly turn away from him and hurry down the hall.

  What the fuck is wrong with him? I try to listen to the sounds of squealing and Henrik’s shouts and head in their direc
tion, but I’m absolutely livid over Orlando. What an asshole! Like hell none of that was innuendo.

  I shouldn’t have played into his game. Should have just ignored him. The moment he stepped into this place he made it more than obvious that he was into me, that he’s been sending me a steady amount of signals.

  Or was he? Maybe he was right. Maybe I did get the wrong idea. Maybe he was just teasing me, to see if I’d bite. As much as I hate it, he was right about me not being with a man in a while.

  Wait a minute.

  How dare he!

  Anger flares on my cheeks and I stop mid-stride in the middle of the hall, turning around to see him still standing where he was before, watching me curiously. I march all the way back to him, wishing I wasn’t in this stupid, form-fitting gown and heels, and thrust my finger in his face.

  “What do you mean, I haven’t been with a man in a while? You don’t know shit about me. Do you know how damn rude it is to surmise that about anyone, let alone a woman, let alone the royal regent of Denmark?”

  The tip of his tongue shows briefly through his lips as they curve into another arrogant smile. “I’m just going by what the tabloids write about you.”

  “And if I go by what the tabloids write about you, you’re supposed to be a reformed player, currently coupled with a long-term girlfriend, some famous tennis star, and yet here you are being inappropriate with me. Seems you’re not so reformed anymore.”

  His gaze hardens for a moment, the first time I’ve seen him be serious, even if for just a second. “I don’t belong to anyone,” he says steadily. “I have no commitments. And once again you call me inappropriate. Sounds like you might be projecting.”

  As unladylike as it is, I swear I’m this close to driving the pointy tip of my heel into his shin, that is until I hear Henrik yell, “Your Highness!” followed by the sound of thundering hooves.