Her stepmother elbowed her lightly. “Close your mouth, dear,” she murmured. Aghast, Ella let her grin fall into a small, close-lipped smile. That made two times she’d displayed her goofy grin for the king. Ugh.
But then again, what was she even doing, smiling at the king? She’d come to this party with the express purpose of marrying one of her stepsisters to him. Having a fling with him herself first would be wrong, no matter how delicious he looked in that tux. And anything bigger than a fling was impossible. He’d just spent ten minutes listing the ideal qualities of his queen, and had made it clear he expected the woman he chose to be a servant to the country first and foremost. Ella was trying to get out of a life of servitude, not add an entire country’s population to her list of people to wait on.
She finished off the glass of champagne in her hand and forced herself to evaluate him from a distance. His speech had been both intelligent and dry, so maybe Anna would be in the running. God knew she would respond better to a list of attributes than a play at love.
She scooped up her stepsisters’ champagne and made her way over to them, her stepmother trailing behind. Together the two of them pulled Anna away from her phone—yep, she’d been reading an emailed research document—and corralled Daphne, hoping to get the king’s attention so they could show him what a good match one of the girls would be. But as the night went on, it became clear that every lady there had the same purpose in mind. While the king made his rounds through the room, he was mobbed by the women, all of them simpering and laughing at nothing and finding excuses to touch him. Ella couldn’t get near enough to speak to him, but every time she caught his eye, she could see the faint gleam of panic.
At her side, Anna snorted and muttered, “I think the two of us are the only ones who understand this is a job interview, not some twisted version of The Bachelor.”
Ella ground her teeth. Anna was right. And with so many women all vying for the king’s attention, what were the chances he would choose one of her stepsisters? If she didn’t succeed here, her stepmother would keep dragging all three of them on more “royal tours,” trying to marry one off to bring the family name back to its old glory.
She straightened. She would just have to make sure the king chose Daphne o
r Anna, that was all. And she knew exactly how to convince him.
4
Phillip had a death grip on his champagne glass, but he hadn’t had enough time to himself to take a single sip. He was being suffocated by taffeta and drowned in simpering smiles. The blonde duchess at his left side was doing her damnedest to whisper in his ear even though at least five other people were also talking at him, and the baroness on his right wouldn’t stop petting his bicep.
He’d had enough.
He tugged at his bowtie, a signal to Drake, and the ever-attentive head of security swooped in to extract him. “Excuse me ladies, I have to borrow the king for a moment,” he said, and all the ladies whimpered their disappointment at having been robbed of his attention. He said a few gracious phrases, he couldn’t remember which ones, and then slipped out of the room as quickly as possible.
He ripped off the tie as he hurried to the garage. How the hell was he supposed to ascertain which woman would make the best queen when all they wanted was romance? Didn’t they understand how important this was, how seriously he took it? He’d already thought this party was a terrible idea, but now he was considering canceling it entirely. Maybe he could conduct interviews via Skype or something.
He stepped into the darkened garage and the residual noise from the party petered off into cricket chirps and the occasional hoot from a nearby owl. Phillip rolled up his sleeves, basking in the quiet. Here and the stables were the only places where he could truly relax nowadays. The smell of oil and rubber and horses and hay calmed him like nothing else could. Thank God he would at least be able to ride on the House grounds by himself for the next two weeks without dragging a trail of bodyguards or eligible ladies along with him. Looking forward to some alone time, he wheeled the vintage Indian bike out and swung a leg over it—and stopped.
Ella was standing in the doorway.
His first thought was that she’d decided to take him up on the offer of a ride after all now that she knew who he was. His cock twitched in anticipation and he leaned toward her, but managed to rein himself in before he told her to hop on. He’d have to let her down gently. Inviting her earlier had been a mistake, though not one he could make himself regret. He needed to focus all his energies on picking a wife, and having a fling when he was supposed to be interviewing candidates would be indiscreet. If only she could’ve been one of the eligible ladies. Then, all his problems would be solved.
But as she strode toward him, she showed no sign of her earlier attempts at flirting. Instead, she said, “I can help you pick a queen.”
He blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?” he asked after a moment.
She kept advancing, stopped only when she was at his side. Dear God in Heaven, the way she wore that tiny black dress should be illegal. “I’m great at organization,” she said, and it took him a moment to refocus on her words instead of her body. “Just ask Daphne and Anna. I can make spreadsheets, lists of qualities, do research on the candidates. You won’t have to suffer through trying to figure out which woman is the most charitable and diplomatic while five others are trying to pet your biceps.”
He winced. “You noticed that?”
She snorted. “Who didn’t? Not that I can blame her.” Her eyes went wide and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said through her fingers.
He laughed out loud, noticing for the first time that she was still carrying a champagne glass from the party. “Are you drunk?” he asked.
She let her hand fall back to her side. “Of course not. At most, I’m very lightly buzzed. I had to have two glasses of champagne when I found out the mechanic I’d been fantasizing about was the fucking king. But don’t worry, my organization skills are still very much intact. We can start working now, if you want.”
He shifted in his seat to lean closer, trying to smother a smile. Apparently champagne brought out her dirty mouth. He liked it. A lot. “You were fantasizing about me?”
“What? No! Why would you say that?”
“Because you just said you were.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Champagne. Goes straight to my head. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s fast becoming my favorite beverage.” He handed her a helmet before he could think better of it. “Hop on.”
She hesitated, turning the helmet over in her hands. “Why?”
“I know a quiet spot where you can tell me all about your organizational skills.” And maybe more. He knew all the reasons why having a fling with her would be a bad idea, but God help him, he was considering it anyway. Maybe she’d turn him down, save him from himself.