Royal Treatment (Royals of Danovar 2)

“Why is being a good time suddenly such a terrible thing? You should use that perception to your advantage. Your family and friends know the real you—why does it matter if everyone else thinks you’re fun?”

“Because science isn’t fun,” Eric replied. “People take their health seriously. I need to take it seriously too.”

Simon frowned at him. “I know volunteering in that cancer wing left an impression on you, but even there, I bet people felt better when you put a smile on their faces.”

That was true. It had made Eric feel better, too. The month he’d spent at the hospital in one of the poorest districts of Danovar had changed him, given him new purpose. It was why pushing this new bill through Parliament was so important to him now, beyond just restoring his family’s reputation.

The ding of a text message saved him from having to contemplate Simon’s words further. He checked his phone and grinned in victory; Anna had agreed to come to the gala. This party would be his second chance, his Hail Mary. He’d show Dr. Anna Fernstone and the world that he could be a serious politician. He’d push his funding through, shout her research and his bill from the rooftops, and finally prove that he was good for more than a good time.

4

Anna was one gin and tonic into the night and her hand was already itching for her smartphone.

To her left, Senator Something-or-other guffawed at a joke her assistant had told him. Anderson not-so-subtly elbowed her, and she managed to bare her teeth in an expression that probably resembled a smile. Why had she agreed to come to this party? It wasn’t even half over and she was already fantasizing about being home in her sweats, a bottle of wine in one hand and a nice fat pile of research in the other.

Anna eyed her sister, Daphne, who was flirting with a royal guard at the other end of the room. Her gaze zeroed in on Daphne’s clutch, a cute little black thing that was holding Anna’s smartphone hostage “for her own good,” or so her sister had claimed. Something about breaking out of her shell, meeting new people, interacting with society, yadda yadda yadda. For Daphne’s sake Anna had agreed to try, but if she had to stand here and listen to one more of the senator’s vaguely misogynistic anti-science jokes, she would claw out her own eyeballs. And then his.

Her smart watch dinged. Another incoming notification from the scientific community, or maybe an update from the research facility. She wouldn’t know because she had no way to actually read the message, since her poor innocent phone had been kidnapped.

She sucked down the rest of her gin and tonic and squared her shoulders. Enough was enough. She’d given Eric’s gala a chance but now it was time to end the charade. She was going to ditch the heels, the jewels, and the bias-cut sheath dress and then hijack her sister’s clutch. Surely it couldn’t be too hard. All she had to do was find some reasonably good-looking man and throw him into Daphne’s line of view, then rescue her phone while she was distracted.

She scanned the crowd, searching for the right specimen. There was a scientist on the dance floor doing something that looked like the hokey-pokey, if she squinted just right. He was good looking, she supposed, but maybe a little too goofy for Daphne’s tastes. There—a young senator in a black power suit. He’d do. Anna lifted her chin and marched toward him across the crowded dance floor, “accidentally” stepping on toes and apologizing perfunctorily. She collected a lot of dirty looks, but it was much faster than taking the long way around, and she’d already spent way more time in this stuffy ballroom than she wanted to.

A slow waltz started up and Anna groaned, having to move faster to dodge the influx of moon-eyed couples—until someone grabbed her elbow, swept her to the side, and kissed her hand.

“Dr. Fernstone,” said Eric, still bowed over her hand, grinning up at her playfully. “It would seem you have a talent for stepping on toes. I’d be happy to lend you mine, if you would join me for this dance?”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to focus on his words instead of the way his fingers felt curled around hers. And, dear God in heaven, the way his lips had felt on her hand. “Are you implying I can’t waltz?” she managed.

“Are you implying you can?”

She huffed, but after a single longing look at her sister’s clutch across the room, allowed herself to be swept into the dance. If there was one thing she couldn’t resist, it was a challenge. Lingering at this god-awful party for the length of a single dance would only delay her purse-snatching plans by a few minutes, anyway.

And also, Prince Eric looked pretty damn hot in a tux.

She counted the steps in her head while they danced, one-two-three, and imagined a square on the floor so she would remember where to put her feet. She forced herself to ignore the warmth of his hand at her waist so she could concentrate.

“I concede,” Eric said cheerfully after a minute. “You’re the very embodiment of grace, and I am an insufferable fool for ever believing otherwise. My toes are still available for stepping on, should you wish revenge for my insult.”

She pressed her lips together against a smile. How did charm come so easily to him? A moment ago she’d wanted nothing more than to escape, but in the span of a handful of sentences, he’d somehow made this stifling party feel almost fun. “My mother made me attend finishing school,” she admitted. “I also know far too much about salad forks, should that come in handy.”

Eric shuddered. “Me too. My brother and cousin and I all had the same tutors growing up, and I have no idea how those two ever managed to stay awake in our sessions. Lucky for me, I was just the spare, so my attention wasn’t quite as vital.” A strange, brooding expression flickered across his face for a moment, there and then gone so quickly she wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t been watching closely.

She frowned at him as the waltz ended, then glanced over at her sister, who had moved a few feet to the left to make eyes at the bartender. “Are you okay?” she asked Eric reluctantly, willing to delay her escape by perhaps just one more minute.

“O

f course I’m okay,” he answered, twirling her into the next dance. “I’m at a party. This is my scene.” His tone sounded subdued, very unlike him.

Something was off. He was distracted, or upset. But why would he be upset at his own gala? She formed a hypothesis: this was about the funding. He must think her escape attempt earlier meant she intended to turn him down, thereby ruining his publicity plans.

She tested her hypothesis. “I haven’t decided on the funding yet, you know,” she told him, having to raise her voice to be heard above the upbeat song.

“What?” He looked confused for a moment, then his expression cleared. “Oh, that’s okay. I wasn’t expecting a final answer tonight.”

Hypothesis disproven, then. What else could the prince possibly have to be upset about? She hadn’t gathered enough data yet to form any secondary hypotheses, and she didn’t know enough about him to be able to dig much deeper without risking offense. Not that she normally cared all that much about offending people, but somehow the idea of offending Eric felt different—and anyway, she had no idea how to dig deeper. She’d always been socially awkward to say the least, and she wasn’t sure what most people would do at this point in the conversation. Should she ask more questions? Compliment his tux?

Comment on the party, she was pretty sure people did that. “This is a nice gala,” she said, then reconsidered. “Although actually, the speeches earlier really did take forever. If they wanted a bunch of scientists to enjoy themselves they should’ve just put on some TED talks and stuffed us full of lobster and expensive booze.”