Page 6 of Royally Matched
He shoots me a look. “If you say so.” He gives up on rifling through my wardrobe and huffs a defeated breath. “I suppose at least you’ll make me look good.”
“You’re such a charmer. The princess is going to fall for you at first sight,” I say on a laugh.
“We’ll see. Change your socks. Pull a brush through that mop of hair. Clean the dirt from under your nails. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
Busted.
“We’re leaving in three minutes.”
I salute him and, still unimpressed, he turns on his heel and leaves me to it.
I run my fingers through my hair, the thick hair I inherited from our dad. Unlike Enzo, who got our mum’s thinner locks. Dark blonde and thick, it falls below my collar—much to Enzo’s distress—and if I don’t get it cut at least every six months or so, it can look a little Miley Cyrus in her punk rock phase.
I grin as an image springs to mind. That would really complete the look tonight: much less James Bond and more Michael Jackson meets Miley Cyrus.
Enzo’s frown will be a permanent fixture on his face.
Quickly, I change my socks into the only black pair I can find, which goes some small way in hiding the shorter trousers. I clean under my nails and run a comb through my hair, before Enzo frowns at my appearance once more, and we climb into the car to head through the Villadorata city streets to the palace.
“How’s it going to work tonight? Is the princess going to dance with everyone and ask us a bunch of questions? Or is she going to give us each a table and she’ll bounce around between us like she’s on some kind of extreme royal speed date?” I ask as we whizz past the imposing neoclassical Science Museum along the wide expanse of the Royal Mile, which ends with the palace gates.
“I imagine we’ll find out when we get there,” Enzo replies. “She’ll need to speak to all of us, of course. Who knows how many men will be there. It might be quite along, tedious evening, but we must attend. We’re invited guests.”
I regard the procession of cars moving through the gates ahead of us. “Is she actually going to choose a husband by the end of the night?”
“That’s what the media is saying, and at twenty-seven, I imagine she would be looking to marry soon.”
I let out a whistle. “You know that’s insane, don’t you? How can you fall in love with someone when you’ve only known them for one evening? Is she expecting love at first sight?”
“I imagine she won’t be expecting love at all, at least not to start with. She’ll choose a mate based on compatibility and shared values, guided by her father, the King.”
“How romantic,” I deadpan.
“It’s a good foundation, something you should know all about with your landscaping.”
“Wooden retaining walls: romantic love.” I pretend to weigh the two concepts in each hand. “You’re right, Enzo, they’re absolutely the same. Princess Sofia is really onto something.”
“Why do you feel the need to make jokes all the time?”
“Why do you feel the neednotto make jokes all the time?”
He thins his lips. “Hmm,” he grumbles, which seems to be his characteristic response to most things I say in the two months I’ve been back in the country.
The car comes to a stop outside the palace, where guards in ceremonial costumes flank the huge wrought iron gates. Security men in dark suits check our invitations and ID before we’re heralded inside the hallowed grounds of the palace.
I gaze out the window at the splendor of the building, a classic example of Baroque architecture, with its ornatesymmetrical design on a grand scale, the colossal columns giving it an entirely appropriate regal presence. As the tires crunch over the limestone, we pass the perfectly manicured gardens, bathed in the soft evening sun, with traditional topiary and statues.
My mind begins to whirr with ideas. If I had my way, I would modernize the gardens while still acknowledging their heritage by updating the fountain and replacing some of the roses with some interesting, more architectural plants, such as Mediterranean Spurge, to add interest.
Not that I’ll ever get the chance to do any of that.
The car comes to a stop under a canopy, and a white-gloved guard in Ledonian red pulls open the door for us. I step out onto cobblestones, covered in a red carpet that runs up the steps and through a grand façade into the palace itself.
“Ready to meet the princess?” I ask my brother as he adjusts his black bowtie.
“As ready as I’ll ever be. And Marco? Please behave. This is royalty, not a bunch of guys at a shabby beach bar.”
“I do love me a shabby beach bar.”