Page 9 of A Royal Mistake

“I was trying to be romantic.” Dom grabbed his wineglass and drained it in one long gulp. “I’m no expert, but I’m told romance is a key component of courtship.”

Surely his brother couldn’t be that thick?

“In case you didn’t notice, the princess isn’t interested in being courted.”

“You don’t say?” Dom poured himself another glass of wine. “I have no more interest in courting Princess Philippa than she has in being courted, but I have a duty to fulfill.” He sighed. “Which means I’m at the mercy of Valerian hospitality until Their Majesties either announce an engagement or call the whole bloody thing off.”

“Well, I’m sure Father will be pleased to hear you’re giving it your best effort.”

Dom arched a brow in challenge. “You think you can do better?”

From the sounds of it, he couldn’t do any worse.

Henry smirked. “It’s not a contest, brother.”

“It might as well be.” Dom pushed his uneaten meal away. “There are at least a dozen of us staying at the palace.”

A dozen suitors?

It sounded exhausting. No wonder the princess was disagreeable. Their Majesties were antiquated, but this was bloody ridiculous. And why the rush to marry her off so quickly? She was young, barely out of college.

Hell, she probably didn’t know what she wanted out of life, let alone a life partner.

He was five years her senior, and he was still figuring it all out.

“It’s like they invited every marriageable noble in all of Europe.”

Not quite all of them. Henry hadn’t received an invitation. No surprise there. He was practically a forgotten royal—just the way he liked it.

His identity was his most closely guarded secret, one he would protect at all costs. He sure as hell wouldn’t risk it by actually throwing his hat in the ring with all these other poor sods. After all, he had a deal to close.

3

Pippa liftedher chin and squared her shoulders. The last place she wanted to be was at Heinrich von der Recke’s door, but here she was, fist raised, courage gathered. Sometimes you had to take the shite with the sunshine.

Today it was her turn to roll in the muck.

She knocked three quick raps, her nerves stretched taught. Maybe he’d be out and she could just slip a note under his door. She’d written one just in case. Another of Miss Cartwright’s lessons; always be prepared.

She glanced up and down the empty hall. There wasn’t a soul in sight, save Sarah, her constant shadow. She’d give Heinrich to the count of thirty—no, twenty—and she’d slide her card under the door. After all, a written apology was still an apology.

Pippa quickly counted to twenty and pulled the handwritten note from her pocket. Just as she knelt down, the door swung open. Heinrich stood over her, looking even taller and more handsome than she remembered. Like before, he wore a trim summer suit that showcased his broad shoulders, slim waist, and a rather impressive package.

Not that she was looking at his package, but it wasrightthere.

God, what was wrong with her? Miss Cartwright would have a conniption fit if she could see her now.

She jerked her eyes up to his face. Though it was barely noon, dark stubble covered his jawline. Didn’t the man own a razor? Not that she was complaining. The look suited him. She wanted to run her fingers along his jaw to find out for herself if it was scratchy or soft or something in between.

Which should’ve been her first clue he wasn’t a suitor. Because no way would her body betray her by getting hot for one of the toffs.

Heinrich lowered his gaze, and his dark eyes sharpened when they locked on her own. Then that insufferable smirk spread across his lips and she forgot all about stroking his…beard.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, voice as smooth and rich as a Richart truffle. “It’s not every day I open my door to find a beautiful woman on her knees.”

He thought she was beautiful?

So not the point. Get off the damn floor!