Royally Off-Limits (Royally Kissed #4)

Chapter 1

Max

The thing about being the last-born in a family full to the brim of famous royals is that you may start out as everyone's favorite adorable toddler, but somehow you end up as the country's most documented cautionary tale about what happens when privilege meets poor decision-making.

I’m that person. Me, Prince Maximilien, fourth-born child of King Frederic and Queen Astrid of Ledonia, and about ninth in line to the throne these days, last time I checked.

I’m “the problem” that needs to be fixed, allegedly. The wild child. The party boy.

The man-child.

I have journalist Fabiana Fontaine to thank for that little gem. But don’t even get me started on her.

As far as I can see it, I’m just living life within my gilded cage as best I can. Not that anyone ever asks for my opinion. As far as they’re concerned, I’ve got an image problem that needs to be fixed, STAT.

The palace PR team has devised three possible solutions:

Being forced to smile through a televised cake-tasting segment on Ledonia’s Best Bake-Off to show I am, and I quote, “one of the people”

Taking part in a documentary series about my life to show the country that I’m a regular guy who just happened to make a poor decision (or twenty)

Enter an arranged engagement with some pre-approved aristocrat to show I’m a new man with serious life goals and a penchant for tweed

I told them I’d rather fight a bear.

Bare handed.

And blindfolded.

I mean, what kind of options are those? None of them appeals in the slightest. A few little slip-ups that somehow managed to make it into the press thanks to that Fontaine woman, and suddenly I have an image problem?

Please.

My antics barely rate on my brother’s scandal-o-meter. Alex was the one who had an image problem before he fell in love with the woman he’s now married to and cleaned up his act. He had women coming out of his ears. Not literally, of course, but you get the picture.

I’m a freaking monk in comparison.

And really, all I did was lose a bet with a couple of my friends after a martini or two at a boring garden party. Now, Fabiana Fontaine has got the entire country calling me a man-child.

Isn’t name-calling the height of immaturity? It’s like we’re back in the school playground and she’s sneering at me by the swings, throwing insults my way to impress her gaggle of friends.

And sure, in hindsight I can see diving on the children’s slip ’n slide in my linen suit while balancing a martini in one hand wasn’t the smartest decision of the day.

But to be fair to me, overshooting and landing in an 18th Century decorative fishpond, sending carp flying into the air as they flapped their fins in desperation was never part of the plan.

I thought I’d come to a stop at the bottom of the slide, just like the children had, not get launched like a torpedo as some nearby child yelled, “Cannonball!”

It's now become a trending TikTok sound, along with Fabiana Fontaine’s video, of course.

How did she even get the footage? It’s not like she was an invited guest.

I blow out a breath.

“So? What's it going to be, Maximilien?”

I look at my father's grim face, his mouth down turned, his nostrils flared. He’s got one eye twitching in irritation. I’ve taken things too far this time.

“Look, Father. Be reasonable. It's not me who's the problem here. It's that Fabiana Fontaine woman. She's the one who broke the story. Not that there really was a story.”

“No story? We nearly lost seven carp thanks to your little show. Those fish are descendants of those given to our family by the Thai King over 200 years ago,” Father says, his nostrils flaring to widths never witnessed before.

“I feel bad about the fish. Really, I do. But in my defense, I never thought I would end up in the pond. None of the children did.”

“None of the children are twenty-seven years old and weigh 200 pounds, my dear boy.”

“205,” I correct. “I’ve been lifting more weights recently.”

Father glares at me, and I’m pretty sure some smoke begins to emit from his nostrils.

“What your father is trying to say, darling, is that not only did you re-home the carp to the lawn, but you could have hurt yourself,” Mummy says in a far more conciliatory tone.

“Yes, that and the fact you made a spectacle of yourself that’s now headline news across our country,” Father adds.

“As I said, blame Fabiana Fontaine,” I grind out, my dislike for that woman growing in intensity with each passing minute.

Which I didn’t think was possible. I’ve hated her for years, even before she tried to blow Amelia and Ethan’s cover in Monteluce five years ago.

“Why did she have to make a big deal of my minor mishap?

It's hardly newsworthy. Prince falls into pond. Big deal,” I say.

“And now you’ve become a meme, I’m told,” Father says.

“Do you even know what a meme is, Father?” I ask.

“Of course I do,” he sniffs, but we both know he doesn't.

“Amelia keeps sending us videos of people falling into toddler’s swimming pools with the child calling ‘cannonball!’ She thinks it's all rather amusing,” Mummy says, and a hint of a smile quirks her lips.

“We, on the other hand, do not,” Father adds, as if that's not blindingly obvious by the mere fact I’ve been summoned for this very conversation. “You have become the laughingstock of our family, Max.”

I take exception to the term. “Laughingstock? Isn’t that going a bit far? Look, I get it wasn't the right thing to do at a garden party, but in my defense—”

“You have no defense, son. You messed up again, and now you need to fix it,” Father says.

“What do you mean ‘again?’ It’s not as if I make a habit of diving onto slip ‘n slides, you know,” I say in protest.

“Oh, this isn’t your first mess, my boy,” Father quips.

“There was the time you were photographed partying on Prince Nicholas’s yacht with popstar twins, wearing nothing but your swim trunks and drinking from a champagne bottle,” Father says, continuing to catalog my less than stellar decision-making over the last couple of years.

“Doesn’t everyone need to cut loose every now and then?”

“Not while dancing to a very inappropriate remix of the Ledonian national anthem, my dear boy,” Father grumbles.

“Trixie and Tallulah hit number one with that song.” My protest falls on deaf ears as my parents continue to count off my failings, all with alarmingly accurate details.

“Didn’t you auction off a kiss as well?” Mummy asks, even though it’s clear she already knows the answer. “To that female TV presenter who gushed about your ‘superior lip action’ on national television?”

“That was for charity. I raised a lot of money with that one kiss. And besides, Lorena Samboni was rather a good kisser, so all in all, it wasn’t a bad outcome.”

My parents are not listening.

“And then there was the time you donned a Hawaiian shirt and mustache, borrowing your friend’s yellow Ferrari to visit your sister while she was hiding out at a Malveauxian lake with an actor,” Father says.

“By ‘actor’ you mean Ethan Roberts, aka her husband?” I say pointedly.

“The fact of the matter is you were in a yellow Ferrari. You may as well have circled Amelia’s location on maps and personally handed them out to the paparazzi!” Father says.

I hold my hands out, palms up, willing this rather too lengthy list of my poor choices to end.

“All right, I get it. I’m a mess-up of epic proportions.

I should be thrown in the dungeon and fed gruel and water for the rest of my life.

Not that I know what gruel is, exactly, but I’m sure it’s appropriately horrible. ”

“Sadly, that option isn’t open to us in the 21st century,” Father says with a smirk on his face that makes me wonder if he means every word.

“What your father means, darling, is that we’ve laid out the options to you. You need a reputation rehab, as Amelia puts it, and you need it immediately.”

Thanks for the support, Ami.

Father fixes me with his stare. “Son, you’re no longer a rebellious teen.

Your brother and sisters are all happily married with families of their own, working on their various enterprises and experiencing much success, not once diving on a child’s slide and landing in a pond. Isn’t it time you grew up?”

I chew my lip. Don’t get me wrong. Part of me agrees with them, as much as I won’t admit it.

As the last born, I’ve led a carefree existence without the pressure of being the first-born son, without the discipline of being my sister, Sofia, and without the need to do much at all.

Playing the fool, taking my friends up on their dares, never worrying about the consequences of my actions, has been a way for me to enjoy my life.

To try to forget that everything I do is recorded and analyzed.

When you’re the last-born in the Ledonian royal family, there’s no set role for you. You’re never going to be the monarch, but you can’t have a career outside of the military. You need to support charities, but you can’t stand out too much or it looks like you’re making it all about yourself.

Some days I wonder if I’m just an expensive insurance policy with a pulse, kept around in case something happens to the others, but otherwise expected simply to smile, wave, and try not to embarrass the family name too spectacularly.

I’m even failing at that.

I clasp my hands in my lap and level my parents with my gaze. “You win. I’ll do one of the things you suggest.”

Mummy beams. “An arranged marriage would be marvelous! I can think of several young ladies of the aristocracy who would be more than happy to marry you.”

I shake my head. “I’m not doing that one.”

“Are you quite certain?” she asks.

“Quite.”

“The baking show?” she suggests.

“The only time I go to the kitchen is to chat with the staff and eat cake.”

“The only option left is the documentary.”

I let out a defeated sigh. “I suppose.”

“That’s settled then,” Father declares. “The documentary it is. We’ll invite Ms. Fontaine to work on it with you.”

That gets my attention.

“Wait,” I say, my brows pulling together. “What does Fabiana Fontaine got to do with making a documentary?”

“Absolutely everything, my boy,” Father replies, regarding me as though I’m a cucumber sandwich short of a garden party. “She’s the one who writes about you with razor-sharp precision. Convince her you’re not the hooligan the Ledonian people think you are, and you’ll win the country over.”

“Hooligan? That’s hardly fair.”

“We’ll invite her to the palace with immediate effect. And you, my dear boy, will smile and acquiesce with every bone in your body, charming her so that she thinks you’re the best thing since monarchy was invented.”

“But Fabiana Fontaine? Are you serious? She’s the worst,” I complain.

“Ms. Fontaine is the perfect person for this role, my dear boy. She's the one writing these stories about you. Wouldn't it be wonderfully clever to show her the real Maximilien?”

“But Father—” I complain, sounding exactly like a whining seven-year-old who's been sent to his room for being naughty.

“You'll change her opinion of you, Max. You have to,” Father says plainly.

I cross my arms over my chest, slumping back in my seat. “She hates me.”

“Darling, listen to yourself. She doesn't hate you. She doesn't even know you,” Mummy soothes, her hand on my arm.

Father rises to his full six feet, his features hard and uncompromising. “Can I trust you with this, Max?”

And just like that, any fight I have left in me is sucked right out. There’s no point in arguing with him.

I never win.

“You can trust me, Father,” I reply, my tone flat.