Signed Copy - Royal Gone Rogue by Emma St. Clair

CHAPTER ONE SAMPLE

Phillip

The door to my office bursts open, the way it only does when it’s my younger brother, Callum. 

That is, unless this is the start of a coup, which is highly improbable given the current stability and security in Elsinore. Claudius jumps to his feet, as though he plans to defend me. Even more improbable than a coup. Claudius is a top-notch advisor but in no way a bodyguard. 

I glare as Callum sweeps into the room, all bright smiles, indecently short tennis shorts, and sweat-damp hair. He must have come straight from the courts, while I’ve been at my desk since before the sun rose.

A tale of two princes. Other than our builds—tall and broad, our hair—wavy and blond, and our eyes—a bright blue, Callum and I have very little in common. 

Claudius sinks back into his chair. 

Callum squeezes the advisor’s shoulder before flopping down in the chair next to him. “Claud. Good to see you.” 

“Please refrain from calling me Claud.”

“Sure thing, Claw.” Callum picks up a pen from my desk and twirls it expertly between his fingers. “I came by to see if you wanted to have lunch later, but it looks like I crashed a secret meeting.” 

Claudius and I exchange a glance, because actually—yes. He did.

One I’m still trying to wrap my head around. Even though all of this was my idea, now that it’s becoming reality … I’m more than a little overwhelmed. And definitely self-conscious about sharing the details with my brother.  

Callum drops the pen and leans forward, eyes shining. “You are having a secret meeting! Brilliant! What are we plotting?”

Before I can stop him, my brother snatches the folder off my desk. With a sigh, I lean back in my chair. The last thing I want is Callum sticking his nose into the delicate matter before Claudius and I iron out all the details. Though I suppose I am going to need Callum’s nose (and the rest of him) to pull this off. 

Callum flips through page after page, looking amused. “Well, this is unexpected. Dear brother, why do you have a dossier of single women throughout Europe?”

When I don’t answer immediately, my brother’s eyes take on a glint I do not particularly like. It is the same one he had when arranging to send swans to King Rafe and Queen Serafina as a prank. 

“Are you planning to star in your own royal edition of The Bachelor?” Callum asks.

I frown. Is that some American reality TV show? Claudius coughs and looks as though he’s hiding a smile behind his hand. 

“You’d make for great television—all stoic and noble while women have catfights in bikinis over who gets to sit beside you at dinner. I love it. Can I be your wingman?”

“Absolutely not. No television. No catfights. No wingmen.” I pause. “I’m searching for a wife.” 

Callum’s eyes go wide, and he drops the folder. Papers scatter and Claudius—with an irritated sigh—helps gather them back together. 

“Since when do you want to get married?” Callum asks, tucking the last few papers back into the folder. I reach for it, but he pulls it to his chest. “I thought you were dead set against the idea.” 

“No. I’m simply not interested in any of the women Mum and Dad have been parading through the palace.”

“What’s so wrong with the women they’ve suggested, if you don’t mind me asking? The Duchess of Vendar wasn’t beautiful enough for you?” 

“The Duchess of Vendar was indeed beautiful. And she knew it.”

Not unlike most of the other “suitable” women my parents have been not-so subtly suggesting, the duchess was titled, entitled, and completely … wrong. If I’m choosing a wife, I am far more interested in what lies beneath the surface. And so far, the supposedly “good” candidates my parents have suggested are puddle deep. 

“She did spend an awfully long time at dinner discussing the evils of open-toed shoes,” Callum says thoughtfully.

“I think her passion for the subject rivals Henrietta’s feelings about heels. Which is fine for Henri … considering our sister is barely eighteen. I’d prefer to find a woman who hasn’t been handed every opportunity. Someone with a strong work ethic, someone who isn’t titled.”

“I can understand that. The duchess was no good for you. I concede your point. It’s just …” Callum shoots a sideways glance at Claudius before meeting my gaze again. He lowers his voice. “I actually wasn’t sure you liked women at all.”

“Just because I rarely date—”

“Never.” Callum coughs into his hand. 

“Just because I rarely date,” I repeat, “it doesn’t mean I don’t like women.”

I do like them … generally speaking. I simply haven’t met any particular woman who interested me beyond simple physical attraction. And I’ve never wanted a relationship based solely on that. Physical attraction is like low-hanging fruit. Common. Not hard to find. Attraction isn’t the problem. 

The problem is that I want—no, need—something more. I need the kind of woman I will want beside me not just in sickness and in health, but in kingdom-ruling as well. I don’t have the luxury of choosing a woman just for myself. I’m choosing a woman for the people of Elsinore too. And so far, no woman I’ve met fits this description. Not even close.

Callum gives me a lopsided grin, then says, “I thought maybe you were asexual.”

He—what? 

Claudius makes a sound somewhere between a cough and a snort. 

“I googled it,” Callum continues. “Some people have no sex drive. Definitely nothing to be ashamed of. You know what else is asexual? Zebra sharks. You’re a zebra shark! How cool is that?” 

I lean forward, resting my head in my hands, taking deep breaths. I slowly count backwards from ten in Elsinorian, then in English, Spanish, and finally Italian. When I look up again, Callum stares at me expectantly. The look on Claudius’s face is barely concealed amusement.

“It’s nothing to be defensive about, bro. The internet says plenty of asexual people live happy, fulfilled lives. The concept of an heir might be an issue but—”

“I am not a zebra shark, nor am I asexual. And please, for the last time, stop using the word bro.” When Callum opens his mouth again, I pound my fist on the desk. “I don’t like casually dating any woman who blinks at me the way you do.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t been dating, casually or otherwise, since last summer,” Callum says.

It’s true, and I have noticed. After the arranged marriage between Callum and Serafina of Viore went down in flames (thanks to Callum lighting a match and dousing it with petrol), he’s changed. Dare I even say he’s matured? 

He just called you a zebra shark. Mature is not what he’s done.

Right. But at the least, Callum hasn’t been spotted with a new woman every week in the tabloids. And he made peace with Serafina and her new husband, Rafe. Though now Callum and Rafe are engaged in a long-distance prank battle that I fail to understand. Pranks in general seem so wasteful of time and resources. But ultimately, this is an improvement on things, so I’ll ignore it until it creates some kind of national incident. 

“Regardless,” I say. “I’ve chosen to focus on my work and my duties rather than relationships. It doesn’t make me asexual. I always planned to get married. The only thing I’m against is marrying a woman ill-suited to the job.” 

“Ill-suited to the … job,” Callum repeats slowly. 

“Yes.” 

“You realize your wife will not be an employee.” 

I scoff. “Of course I know that.”

“Are you sure you know that? Because,” Callum goes on, an intense look on his face, “I know you said you’re not a zebra shark—but just in case—when a man loves a woman and wants to demonstrate this love physically—”

Without stopping to consider the repercussions, I toss a paperweight shaped like a sailboat at Callum’s head. 

He ducks, and the boat lands in the corner of my office beneath the portrait of my stern-faced grandfather, King Gerald. 

If possible, Gerald looks even less amused than before. 

I’m not usually a violent—or even very physical—person. But Callum knows where to find my buttons and how to jam his thumbs directly into them. Repeatedly.

A zebra shark, I scoff to myself. Asexual. A wife as an employee. 

Claudius retrieves the paperweight and sets it on my desk. The mast is broken, but I regret nothing. Callum grins and spreads out until he takes up twice as much room as any normal person. I may have to ask someone to disinfect the chair later, given his post-tennis state of sweat. 

“Do you two need to take this outside?” Claudius asks drily, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. 

“No,” Callum and I say in unison. 

Callum clears his throat and taps the folder he’s still holding. “How, precisely, did you and Claudius come up with this list of women?”

“With a specific list of qualities and characteristics I provided,” I say, keeping it intentionally vague.

“Demographics, psychographics, personality tests, and background checks,” Claudius adds. “I designed an algorithm to—”

Holding up a hand, Callum says, “Got it. You’re brilliant, Claudius.” My brother swings his gaze back to me, his eyes narrowing. “Just tell me you didn’t make a spreadsheet.”

I say nothing. Because I did not make a spreadsheet.

I made two.

Callum groans, then covers his eyes and groans even louder. “You can’t choose a wife based on a spreadsheet.”

“Ultimately, we didn’t use a spreadsheet,” Claudius says. “I made an algorithm and plugged the information into a rubric.”

“Even worse.” Callum pauses. “What’s a rubric?” 

Claudius sighs. “It’s a scoring guide evaluating the final candidates chosen by the algorithm.”

Waving the folder just out of my reach, Callum says, “And you really think this is the best idea to choose a wife? A silly rubric? No offense, Claudius.” 

“None taken.”

“I’m sure it’s quite a lovely rubric,” Callum adds politely.

“Stop saying the word rubric,” I snap. 

“It’s a dreadful idea,” Callum concludes, swinging his gaze to me. “If you’d like, I can set you up with someone within the hour. Even if you are a geeky, too-serious hermit with very little dating experience. You’re good-looking. And a prince. Also, a very decent man.”

“Tempting, but no. I’ve made my choice.” 

“You mean, your rubric made the choice. You’d trust a rubric over your own brother?”

I’m not going to even touch that question. 

Callum huffs. “Fine. So, it’s like an arranged marriage—with you and Claudius doing the arranging. By way of spreadsheets, algorithms, and—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—a rubric. What about love? Attraction? Chemistry?” Callum asks. “Where do those fall on the rubric?”

I drum my fingers against the desk. “They don’t.” 

Callum looks like he’s about to jump out of his tiny tennis shorts. Before he starts spouting some rubbish about the importance of attraction in the animal kingdom (to all species other than zebra sharks), I speak. 

“Love is a choice. A commitment. It develops and deepens over time. Attraction can and will grow in proportion to this deepening connection.”

“Next, you’ll tell me there’s a pie chart or bar graph you’ve made for this,” Callum says with a laugh.

There are actually both. I’m grateful they didn’t make it into the folder Callum still has in his lap.

“I don’t need to tell you that royal marriages don’t always happen conventionally.”

“They can still include love,” he argues. 

“Mum and Dad had an arranged marriage. Love followed.” 

“Our parents are more of an exception than a rule. My point is that you shouldn’t get married out of a sacrificial desire to do what’s best for Elsinore,” Callum says, and I’m touched by the sincerity in his eyes. Even if I disagree. “We’re not bound by some law about how or when to get married. If you don’t like the women Mum and Dad are setting you up with, fine. But don’t rush this and make a choice based on—” 

Before he can say rubric again, I interrupt. “It needs to be now. Because we don’t know …” 

My stomach twists as I trail off. Callum’s shoulders slump as he realizes what I didn’t say—we don’t know how long our father has left, and our time with him may be shorter than any of us want to admit. Once I am crowned king, searching for a wife will be a task I simply won’t have time for. It must be now. 

All of Elsinore knows father’s health has worsened over the past nine months. We’ve tried to keep the news of his liver failure quiet, but it seems we have someone leaking information from the palace to the gossip mags. It’s someone with enough access to have more information than most of the palace staff, but not enough access to know that the doctors have said a transplant isn’t an option. 

I’ve attempted to discover who, but so far to no avail. Maybe I can convince Claudius to help. He’d likely bring me a name within a week, though I doubt he’ll want to be apart from Viore or his fiancée, Kat, longer than necessary. I’m grateful he agreed to come help with this.

“I understand the urgency,” Callum says quietly. “But you can’t treat a relationship like one of your computer programs. Plugging in the right line of code isn’t going to spit out the perfect woman.” 

“That is not what I am doing.”

“It sure sounds like it is,” Callum says.

Claudius pushes his glasses up his nose before speaking. “I believe this match has a high potential for success.” 

I cling to those words. High potential for success. Coming from the advisor whose opinion I value more than anyone in the world, this means something. 

But is Callum right? Am I treating the prospect of choosing a wife like fixing a glitch in one of my computer programs? That isn’t what I intend.

There’s a sharp knock, and my office door opens. A stern-faced royal guard dips his head and steps out of the way as my mother glides into my office. 

“Mum,” I say, rising from my chair. 

Claudius does the same, smoothing a hand over his dark hair as he bows. My mother looks like she’s been up for hours, her mint green suit perfectly pressed and not a single hair out of place. And her eyes, ever watchful, take in the room with intense precision. 

The folder!

So subtly I’d have missed it if I weren’t looking, Callum slides the folder under his thighs and shoots me a wink. I’m so grateful, I won’t even be angry about the sweat marks he’s going to leave on the folder. 

“Good to see you back in Elsinore for once,” she says to Claudius, an icy chill in her voice. My mother still hasn’t gotten over the former Elsinorian advisor leaving to work for Queen Serafina. “Do sit.” 

“It’s always a pleasure, your majesty,” Claudius says, running a hand over his dark hair as he returns to his seat.

Callum leans back so he’s looking at our mother upside-down. “Morning, Mum!”

Giving a shake of her head like he’s an adorable but troublesome puppy, Mum roughs up his hair. “Good to see you awake at this hour,” she says pointedly. 

Callum only shrugs. I wait to see if she notices the edge of the folder sticking out from beneath Callum’s bare thighs. She doesn’t. 

She turns her assessing gaze to me. “Is now a good time to discuss the ball?”

It’s never going to be a good time to discuss the ball in question. I manage a polite smile. “Of course.”

As she steps closer, I notice little things I didn’t when Mum walked in. She’s fidgeting with her wedding band, and what I’m sure is an expensive concealer doesn’t quite hide the circles beneath her eyes. 

The last year has taken a toll on her. To those who know her well, the weariness and worry in her eyes are always visible. She’s thinner than she used to be, probably thinner than she needs to be. The only positive change is that she gave up alcohol, which had become something of a coping mechanism as Father’s illness progressed. I know she thought the change was for his sake—liver failure and all that—but she needed it for herself too. 

Without drinking, however, she needed something else to distract herself from Father’s health. 

Namely: meddling. 

Specifically: in my life. 

“We’ve finalized the guest list. Robert will make an official announcement very soon,” Mum says. 

If her communications secretary is already planning an announcement, this isn’t going to be as easy to get out of as I’d hoped. 

Mum adds in a dark grumble, “Hopefully our announcement will get out before word of this reaches the press.” 

I squeeze my fists underneath my desk. “Could we wait? A few more months, at least.” That will give me time to complete the plan Claudius and I have made. To get to know the woman I hope to be my bride and make sure this isn’t, as Callum has been suggesting, a terrible idea. 

She shakes her head. “No. The date is set. First the ball, and then in August, the wedding.” 

My head is spinning at the mention of a wedding. And August—that’s barely a few months away. 

“I know that might seem soon, but I’ve been working behind the scenes on some of the details. It’s the month your father and I got married, and it will be good luck. It will mean a lot to him.” 

Using Father is like a kind of trump card these days. I can’t exactly argue any time she mentions something he would like. 

So I focus on the ball instead. “Don’t you think the idea is a little … trite?”

I have a lot of stronger words I’d use for what is my parents’ last-ditch effort to force me into a match of their choosing. And though I’m sure her invitations won’t read Ball in Which Prince Phillip Will Choose a Bride, we’ll be lucky if her intent doesn’t reach our leak. 

“We’re throwing a ball to help him find a bride?” Callum asks. 

I glare. 

“We are,” Mum says definitively. 

“I think it’s romantic. Like a fairy tale,” Callum says in a falsely sweet voice. Whose side is he on, anyway? 

Hosting a ball for the sole purpose of me choosing a wife is not romantic. It sounds more like a livestock auction. 

And though the idea for a ball is ripped straight from a fairy tale, the original story also had Cinderella’s sisters chopping off parts of their feet to fit into the glass slipper. By either count, this is not something we should emulate. No matter how set on it my mother seems to be. 

“Your father and I have been more than lenient with the time we’ve given you. And you’ve had plenty of opportunities to take an interest in one of the lovely young ladies we’ve suggested.”

Mum picks up the paperweight, frowning at the broken mast. She sets it back down before turning the full weight of her gaze on Callum, who has just opened his mouth, likely to make a smart remark. 

“Don’t get me started on you, Cal. Your time will come.” 

Callum’s eyes widen and he looks to me for help. I will happily offer exactly none. Whenever his time does come, I’ll plan a ball—or whatever terrible idea Mum has—myself.

“It’s settled. I’ll make the announcement this week. The ball will be in two months, and you’ll choose a suitable wife from one of the women in attendance. We’ll plan for a summer wedding.” Mum pauses, as though for dramatic effect. She’s got it. With a smile, she says, “Have a lovely day.” 

When the door closes behind her, Callum leans forward. “Is it just me, or is she growing more terrifying?” 

“It’s not just you.” But it’s hard to be angry or upset when I know her intensity is at least in part a coping mechanism as she deals with my father’s decline. 

“If the rubric fails, take comfort. You’ll always have the Cinderella ball,” Callum says with a smirk. 

“Shut up.” 

“It won’t fail,” Claudius says. 

I wish I shared his confidence, but this whole morning is leaving me with lingering doubts. And a headache. 

Callum pulls the folder out from beneath his thighs and, as I knew there would be, a damp sweat stain mars the front. “Sorry,” he says with a grimace, placing it on my desk. 

“I’ll get it disinfected”—or incinerated—

“So, tell me. Have you narrowed it down to a short list?” 

“A very short list,” Claudius says. “One woman.” 

“Impressive,” Callum says. “Tell me about her. I’m dying to know what kind of woman captured your attention.” He pauses. “Or, I suppose, the kind of woman chosen by your magical rubric.” 

I expect Claudius to point out how rubrics actually work, but he says nothing, training his gaze on me. I realize that I am the one who needs to answer. 

What kind of woman has captured my attention? 

Callum interrupted this morning before I was able to study the final dossier … which is in the now-sweat-soaked folder. When Claudius hands me a clean copy, I decide to make sure I send him home with a generous bonus.

“Thank you.” I scan the dossier. It is full of concise, bullet-point information and a single photograph.  

“Her name is Alessia,” I say. Ah-less-ia. It is the first time I’ve spoken the name out loud, and it tastes like music on my tongue. 

My finger follows the bullet points down the page. “She is from a small village called Repestro on the western coast of Italy. She didn’t attend university and has been working in her grandfather’s restaurant for years.” 

“As a chef?” 

“As a waitress,” Claudius says. 

Callum smirks. “Quite a contrast to the women Mum and Dad have suggested. I approve. What about her family? Any beautiful sisters I need to know about?” 

I scowl, already feeling a protective urge that surprises me. Pulling the paper closer, I try to read, but the letters swim in front of me. 

“You don’t know if she has sisters?” Callum asks. 

“I know very little—yet.” 

But I vow to memorize every bit of information on the page as soon as we’re done here, then ask Claudius to find out even more. As much as he can. A single sheet of paper with bullet points is nowhere near enough. 

“Her parents are dead,” Claudius says, and my head snaps up. “No siblings. It’s just Alessia and her grandfather, Enzo. Her paternal grandparents are estranged. They’ve never met.” 

A tightness moves from my chest to my throat. Alessia is an orphan. More than that, her mother’s death is listed on the paper as Alessia’s birthday. Childbirth? Her father’s date of death was five years later. And here I am, thinking of time being short with my own father. She only got five years. How has this impacted her? How have these losses shaped her into the woman she is now? 

Family is something I have no shortage of with Callum and my two younger sisters, Henri and Juliet. And despite Callum’s accusations about me being a hermit, I’m grateful for our large, loud family. I always hoped to have my own. As infuriating as he can be, Callum is my closest friend. 

Alessia has only her grandfather.

Would she want to leave him? If it were me, I wouldn’t. But she could bring him here. We would make a place for both of them. 

If she accepts my offer of marriage. 

For once, my younger brother probably is correct. This idea is ridiculous. Being set up by my parents makes more sense. The ball makes more sense. Even Callum’s first thought about me taking part in a reality show probably makes more sense. 

Panic seizes me. Machines and computer programs I understand. Matters of diplomacy and policy I’ve learned. 

Relationships, women—these are like subjects I’ve failed in school. This is why the idea of asking Claudius for help made sense in my head. Choosing a woman based on specific characteristics, then presenting her with a proposal resonates with the logical part of my brain. It reduces a complicated issue into rudimentary math. 

Two plus two equals four. 

Well-suited woman plus offer of marriage and title equals a happily ever after. Or, at least, a hope for the best outcome.  

And yet … faced with the reality of this woman, of Alessia, it all feels very different. 

“This won’t work.” My voice is quiet as I set the paper on the desk in front of me. When this was an idea in my mind, it made sense. But I think Callum was correct when he accused me of plugging in the right code to result in the right woman.

Alessia isn’t a number. Even from this single sheet of paper with the most basic details about her life, that is abundantly clear. 

My gaze falls on the single page in front of me. More specifically, to the black and white photograph of Alessia. Perched on a crumbling stone wall on a cliff, she is overshadowed by the sea and sky stretching before her. Her dark ponytail is blowing over her shoulder in wild waves. Her chin is lifted, as though accepting some silent challenge from the wind, meeting it head-on. 

Who are you? I find myself wondering as I study the picture. To have lost so much but not break under the weight of it.  

She also looks nothing like my parents’ suggestions—with her t-shirt and dark pants, ponytail, and light—if any—makeup. I see strength and a simple, raw beauty in her dark eyes and the curve of her cheek. Maybe I’m reading too much into the single photograph, but Alessia looks far from broken. 

Either way, there is definitely something here, something in Alessia’s face that intrigues me. She possesses something else, something more, and I struggle to name it. 

Arresting, I finally think. That’s the English word for it. 

Fiele, an Elsinorian word, is a better fit. It is used to mean beauty, but literally translated, it refers to the captivating light from a distant star. 

“May I?” Callum reaches for the page I’m still staring at. 

I hesitate only for a moment, giving her photo one last glance, then slide the page his way. “Just keep this one away from your sweaty thighs.” 

Callum’s eyes rove over the paper, and I struggle not to snatch it back. 

“She’s pretty,” Callum says. “She seems very … unassuming. A waitress. Not much family. No higher degree. No driver’s license. No social media. No mobile phone? That can’t be right.” 

“It is,” Claudius assures, and I wonder at the man’s thoroughness.

Callum shakes his head. “Rubrics and algorithms aside, I don’t know how you and Claudius possibly chose this one woman in all of Europe.”

Claudius takes his glasses off and begins cleaning the lenses, looking bored. 

“It’s Claudius,” I say, as though that explains it. I reach for the sheet of paper. 

Callum hands it back. “Even so, it seems unlikely that—” 

“Shall we discuss the next steps?” Claudius asks, settling his glasses back on his nose. 

“Yes, please.” I tuck the paper in my center desk drawer, watching the photograph of Alessia disappear as I close it again.  

“You’ll have your own part to play, actually,” Claudius says. 

“I thought you didn’t need a wingman,” Callum says with a smirk. 

“I don’t.” 

“What do you need from me?” 

I arch an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t approve of this plan.”

“Oh, I don’t approve. But I know you’ve got a good heart in there somewhere, overshadowed perhaps by your logical brain.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome. If this is the course you’re set on, I’m all in. I’ll remain pessimistically optimistic about its success. Sign me up for anything.”  

“Anything?” Claudius raises his brows. 

“Anything,” Callum repeats, excitement shining in his eyes. 

Which is good, as we’re about to throw him into the fire. Or to the wolves. Or both. 

“Excellent.” Claudius pulls two sheets of paper from his folder and hands one to each of us. He addresses me first. “You will grow a beard.”

“I will?”

“And you.” Claudius turns to Callum, completely ignoring me. “Will be assuming all of Phillip’s duties and engagements while he goes.” 

Callum blinks down at the paper and looks back at Claudius. “Goes where?”

My words sound like a declaration but feel more like a wish before tossing a coin into a fountain. “I’m going to Repestro to bring back my bride.”

Alessia, I think, pulling open my drawer to look at her photograph again. My bride?

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