The Royal Rogue
Karina Halle
The Royal Rogue
Karina Halle
Contents
Preface
1. Stella
2. Stella
3. Stella
4. Orlando
5. Stella
6. Orlando
7. Stella
8. Orlando
9. Stella
10. Orlando
11. Stella
12. Orlando
13. Orlando
14. Stella
15. Orlando
16. Stella
17. Orlando
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Karina Halle
Copyright © 2019 by Karina Halle
First edition published by Metal Blonde Books
October 2019
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by: Hang Le Designs
Edited by: Laura Helseth
Thank you to my husband, to my prince
Contents
Preface
1. Stella
2. Stella
3. Stella
4. Orlando
5. Stella
6. Orlando
7. Stella
8. Orlando
9. Stella
10. Orlando
11. Stella
12. Orlando
13. Orlando
14. Stella
15. Orlando
16. Stella
17. Orlando
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Karina Halle
Preface
A note to the reader:
While Monaco has a royal family, I have taken extreme liberties with the Grimaldis’ and made them a work of complete fiction. Though the Franco-Monégasque Treaty of 1918 did exist, I have bent this to suit the story of The Royal Rogue.
Also, people who live in Monaco but aren’t native to the country, are called Monacoians. People who are native to Monaco are called Monégasques. For simplicity, I have referred to the people of Monaco as Monégasques in this book.
The same goes for the royal family of Denmark with regard to fictional liberties. However, both families have very interesting histories, with the truth a little stranger than fiction at times, and are worth a look.
I hope you enjoy The Royal Rogue.
Chapter 1
Stella
Every family needs a black sheep—even the royal ones.
And in the Danish royal house, that black sheep is me.
I might have the title of princess, but that doesn’t seem to mean much these days. I’m forgotten about by the world at large, and yet somehow still hounded by tabloids that like to rip apart my parenting skills and what I’m wearing that day (and who I’m not seeing). At any given time you can pick up Hello Magazine and see a picture of me on the cover, usually in the corner, usually me bending over in see-through leggings that I swore were opaque when I left the house, with an arrow pointing at my cellulite and poor choice of underwear. The accompanying article for this riveting piece of journalism will then discuss whether “letting myself go” has contributed to my lack of love life and nun-like status, and also open up the age-old debate if leggings should be considered pants.
At least I know my opinion on the latter.
Needless to say, I don’t give those magazines a second glance. In fact, I rarely find myself leaving the house because I know I’m just setting myself up for that shit. I’m quite content with being a hermit at our estate in Southern England, making my life only about my little girl Anya (who seems to get terrifyingly older—and smarter—with each single day that passes). It’s just the two of us, hiding out from the world.
Except for those few situations that I’m roped back into my royal duties, such is the case every time my brother, the King of Denmark, decides to leave the palace and go on vacation.
In the past, he never went anywhere. That’s because poor Aksel was depressed over the death of his awful, unfaithful ex-wife Helena (er, I guess rest in peace and all that?) and being thrown into the role of king far earlier than he would have liked. As a single father to two little girls, Aksel was one-hundred percent committed to his role as a royal and as a parent.
Since then, however, he’s shed that relentlessly grumpy and bitter persona as he fell head over heels in love with his nanny. Yes, the Australian nanny to his girls, Aurora, got under his skin and now they’re married, have one-year-old twin boys who are more than a handful, and she’s the new Queen of Denmark.
I’m happy for them. Truly, I am. Aksel deserves it and Aurora is lovely and has enough spunk to keep him on his toes. They’re terribly happy with their growing family. As for her having the title of Queen, while I’m forever a princess? Honestly, it’s not a big deal. I had never been groomed for the throne and it was never on my agenda.
What is a big deal is, now that they’re married and still in their honeymoon phase (twins aren’t slowing them down), they’re jetting off all over the world at any given time. Morocco, Greece, Argentina. You name it, they’re there, this time with all their kids in tow.
Which means that I have to step in as Royal Regent, taking over any of Aksel’s duties. It’s like I’m a substitute teacher for the King and, like a substitute teacher, the pay sucks and I get zero respect.
“What time is the royal family supposed to be here?” I ask my aunt Maja, as if I haven’t already asked her that a million times already.
“They said four,” she says, eying the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “But who knows with that bunch.”
That bunch in question is the royal family of Monaco. For whatever reason, they’ve decided to pay Denmark a visit and then embark on some royalty tour of northern Europe. That’s the way it is with royals. When they’re not at home, they go around visiting other royals. I’m not really sure why. I mean, is it because we all have something in common? Is it just about crashing at other palaces and inspecting how they run the show? Surely all these families can’t possibly get along, especially with all the money, and politics, and big fucking egos at stake.
Nonetheless, the royal family of Monaco are coming to pay us a visit. They know Aksel isn’t here—I told Princess Consort Penelope that many times— and yet they decided to come anyway. I’ve never met them before (I haven’t been in the company of that many royals lately) but I’ve heard rumors about them.
Mainly that they’re a bunch of eccentrics.
Mind you, this isn’t much of a secret since the tabloids are always reporting on Princess Consort Penelope’s face-lifts and affairs with boy toys, and on Prince Pierre’s obsession with big-game hunting, and then there are the kids, the twenty-something twins, Prince Francis and Princess Matilde, who are rather quiet and charitable, unlike their older brother Prince Orlando. I only know about him because he’s been dubbed as the “Royal Rogue” by the media ever since he was a teenager, and he’s been featured in the tabloids for his hard-partying as much as I have been for being a single mom and divorcee.
“I wish they’d waited until Aksel was here,” I tell Maja, wringing my hands together. “I don’t know what their insistence was. What am I to them? Nobody.”
My aunt raises her thin brow and gives me a dry look. “You’re somebody, Stella.”
She then sighs and taps her thin fingers along her knee. Both of us are fidgeting, sitting side-by-side on uncomfortable chairs in the receiving room. It has an actual proper name but I don’t remember what it is, all I know is that, while growing up, this is
where the guests would come to meet my parents. There are a ton of old paintings of important monarchs on the wall, as well as some fine pottery on various side tables. The walls have pale blue-and-white striped wallpaper and there’s this smell, like centuries of potpourri have seeped into the walls, that’s giving me a major headache.
“Besides,” she adds. “They’re nuts. All of them. And that Princess Penelope is so damn pushy. She said they had been planning on this trip forever but when I called Aksel, he said they’d never contacted him before. So there’s that. Bunch of liars, too.” She sniffs, her chin raised.
Great. So I’ll be entertaining a bunch of pushy liars for the next while. In the past, I haven’t had to do much when acting as royal regent because most people know to wait until Aksel gets back. But this bunch apparently isn’t “most people.” Thank god it’s only a dinner. With any luck, they’ll do all the talking and then drink enough to get tired and go home. Or wherever they’re staying.
Oh wait.
“Are they staying here?” I ask Maja.
She gives me another tepid look. “Of course they are. The rooms are all set up. Where else would they go? A Best Western?”
Well, no, I figured that maybe they’d opt for one of the fancier hotels in Copenhagen, as is sometimes the case. Oh, who knows, I obviously don’t do this enough.
Suddenly a head pokes into the room, Erik, one of the younger staff members. Butler apprentice, or whatever.
“They’re here,” he says, his voice frantic, his eyes wide.
That’s not a good sign.
I look at my aunt for comfort, but her mouth is set in a firm line, her de facto expression, as we both get to our feet.
Before I can say anything, the door to the room opens wide, with the head servant Henrik announcing the guests.
“May I present to you His Serene Highness, Prince Pierre of Monaco,” Henrik says, bowing just as Prince Pierre comes in the room.
He’s a short, rotund little man with grey hair and a big bushy mustache. You know the father of Prince Charming in Cinderella? Yeah, he looks like that. A cartoon of a king.
Henrik is about to announce us to him, as per the protocol, but Prince Pierre just barrels on over to us and thrusts his hand out to mine, grasping it hard and shaking it vigorously.
“Such a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness,” he says in heavily accented English, his mustache moving as he talks, showing big, rabbit-like teeth beneath. “You’re so beautiful too. It’s a pity no man has seen himself worthy to be your king.” He takes my hand and kisses the back of it.
It’s happening so fast that I can barely squeak out a word, though I want to remind him that I’m just the princess, not a queen, and also his mustache is tickling me and I’m pretty sure this is inappropriate.
Meanwhile Henrik is clearing his throat, seeming aghast at the way the prince busted on through. “May I present to you Her Serene Highness, the Princess Consort of—”
“Oh, they all know who I am, everyone does,” The Princess Consort, Penelope, says to Henrik, waving at him dismissively as she enters the room and hurries on over in her black ball gown that looks straight from the Victorian era, long sleeves, high neck and all. I suppose it’s better than what I’ve usually seen her wear in the tabloids, low-cut, high slits, etc.
“Pierre, you can let go of her now,” Penelope chides him, and nearly hip-checks him out of the way. “So sorry about my husband,” she says to me, taking my hand in hers and giving it a limp shake with long pointy nails that almost stab the vein in my wrist. “He doesn’t know his manners.” She then looks at Maja. “You must be the aunt. Such a shame what happened to your sister.”
I stiffen at that, though Maja lets it slide with a polite smile. Any mention of my mother, who is under the permanent care of the hospital thanks to her Alzheimer’s, usually gets my hackles up. People don’t seem to understand the situation and make plenty of assumptions.
Luckily Penelope glosses over it and turns around abruptly to wave at the door where Henrik is standing uneasily, unsure of how to proceed with these royals. To be fair, I’m not sure how to proceed either.
“Bring the rest in, I’ll do the introducing,” Penelope says.
What I do know about Penelope is that she wasn’t raised royal, or even upper class. She’s a Spaniard, raised by a single mother in Barcelona. She won a lot of beauty competitions, which later led to her being an on-air personality and host who captured Prince Pierre’s eye after his first wife, Princess Selene, died from breast cancer when Orlando was just nine years old. I guess even though Penelope has been a princess consort for at least twenty-five years, the protocols and etiquette haven’t rubbed off on her yet.
And so, with Henrik stepping back and out of the way, shooting me a quick I don’t know what to do look, the rest of the Monégasque house steps in.
“This is my son Francis,” Penelope says to me proudly, as a young man in his late twenties with spiked brown hair, black-framed glasses, and full lips steps in. He’s dressed in a black suit, powder blue shirt underneath with matching pocket square in his suit jacket.
“Pleasure to meet you, Princess Stella” he says to me, giving me a curtsey, which I can’t help but smile at, followed by a wink. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” I tell him.
“It all depends on how you want to look at it,” he says smoothly.
Before I can question what that means, his mother introduces his sister, Princess Matilde.
Matilde is the spitting image of Francis—tall, brown hair, warm brown, almost seductive eyes framed by heavy dark lashes that work as natural eyeliner. They’re definitely twins.
As if she can hear what I’m thinking, Matilde gives me a smirk and says, “Don’t worry, I’m the good twin.” Then she gives me a quick curtsey, holding out the side of her gown which is all nude tulle and layers, a little bit princess, a little bit boho. “Enchanté,” she says, before doing a quick little dance as she joins her mother, her dress floating behind her.
I’m thinking about how charming and unusual she is when all of the attention suddenly goes to the door.
There’s more?
But of course there is.
“Finally, my husband’s oldest, Prince Orlando,” Penelope says, as he walks in the door. And when I say walk, what I really mean is that Orlando struts, like the man is powered by just his own confidence, as if he owns every room in every building he steps in to.
Okay, so if we’re going by looks alone, I guess you could say they were saving the best for last because Prince Orlando’s real name should be Prince Sex-on-a-Stick. A six-foot-two, broad-shouldered wide-chested hunk of royal man-meat dressed in a finely tailored navy suit. He’s got that tawny Mediterranean glow, and he’s built like a tank with dark blonde hair that’s cropped close at the sides and longer at the top, with a smattering of rugged facial hair. Normally I don’t go for blondes (my brother is blonde, so that doesn’t help) but Prince Orlando is in a whole other league.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not usually the type of woman who goes around objectifying men like this. Or at least, I wasn’t until my ex-husband put me through the ringer, so I think I’m owed a little fun. I can’t remember the last time I was with someone, let alone the last time I saw someone I thought was attractive. Plus, Prince Orlando seems like the type to do the same to women, so I don’t feel so bad about all the lewd thoughts and ogling.
Naturally, though, I keep it all under the radar. Prince Orlando is looking around the room like I should be honored to be in his presence, not the other way around, and that instantly puts my guard up. Playboys, fuckboys, whatever they’re called these days, the last thing they need know is that they’re as sexy as they think they are.
His eyes come to mine and for a moment I’ve forgotten all about keeping it cool because there’s something in his eyes that pulls the rug out from under me. Their color reminds me of being in Capri, looking at the sea close to sh
ore, where the light bounces off the shingled beach. Crisp, clear water, impossibly blue. Refreshing and rich.
But it’s not just the clarity, it’s the warmth behind them. A warmth I didn’t exactly expect to see from him. For a split second it was almost like looking at someone who knew me.
Then a smirk comes across his lips, touching his eyes with a wave of arrogance and I manage to keep my wits and composure.
I raise my chin, lips pressed together tightly in a way that would make my aunt proud and wait, channeling every haughty princess part of me as I stare him down.
Prince Orlando stops right in front of me and chews on his lip for a moment before he finally bows. “Princess,” he says, and I swear he says it like a nickname. “Lovely home you have here.”
“It’s my brother’s,” I blurt out, and I hear my aunt clear her throat from the back of the room. I guess the correct thing to say is “thank you.” After all, this is my home as much as Aksel’s.
“Right, I forgot,” Orlando says, looking me over before he shrugs with one shoulder. “You don’t seem like you’d belong here anyway.”
My brows come together. What does that mean? Is that the correct thing to say to the royal regent?
But before I can ask him to clarify, Penelope comes over to him and grabs the crook of his arm. “Now that the boring introductions are over,” she says, grinning at me. “How about you show us to the bar before dinner begins. I’m sure you have some Scandinavian liquor that we’d be more than happy to try.”
