CHAPTER 11
Betty
The simple black dresswas doing its best, but there was only so much a basic sheath could accomplish when you were supposed to be impressing European royalty.
I examined myself in the full-length mirror and tried to channel confidence I didn't possess.The dress was fine.Perfectly adequate.The kind of thing you'd wear to a nice restaurant or a job interview, not to your first private dinner as a princess in a Mediterranean palace.
"You look lovely, Your Highness," Carmela said, and I appreciated the effort even if I didn't believe her.
"I look like I'm attending a funeral.Which, considering how this day has gone, might be appropriate."
"Black is very sophisticated."
"Black is what you wear when half your wardrobe has been mysteriously destroyed and you have no other options."I turned away from the mirror before I could spiral further into self-pity."What time is it?"
"Seven-twenty, Your Highness.A footman will arrive shortly to escort you to the prince’s private dining room."
Prince Archibald Falcieri.My husband.The man I was still furious with, still attracted to, and still trying to figure out how to exist in the same space with for the next six months.
This was going to be a fun evening.
"Carmela," I said, making a decision I might regret, "can I ask you something?Off the record?"
She hesitated, clearly weighing her professional obligations against whatever instinct was telling her to help me."Of course, Your Highness."
"The luggage situation.You said it was unprecedented.Does that mean it's never happened before, or does that mean it's never happened by accident before?"
Her expression went unreadable, which was answer enough.
"I see."I picked up my clutch, one of the few accessories that had survived the great wardrobe massacre."Is there anything else I should know about palace politics before I walk into dinner with my husband?"
"Only that the prince is not his mother, Your Highness.Whatever you may have heard about Queen Isabelle's...opinions...the prince has always been known for making his own judgments."
That was either reassuring or terrifying, depending on what judgment he'd made about me.
A soft knock announced the footman's arrival, and I followed him through corridors that made me feel like I was walking through a museum after hours.Everything was beautiful and priceless and designed to remind visitors that they were very, very far from home.
We stopped outside a door that looked slightly less intimidating than the others.Still ornate, but somehow more human-scaled.
The footman knocked once and opened the door."Your Highness," he announced, then vanished before I could ask his name or figure out if I was supposed to tip him.
Archie's private dining room was nothing like the formal spaces I'd seen in the rest of the palace.It was smaller, cozier, with actual lamps instead of museum-quality chandeliers.The table was set for two with simple white china and silver that looked elegant without being terrifying.Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the Mediterranean that was so beautiful it seemed fake.
"This is nice," I said, genuinely surprised."Very human-sized."
Archie stood when I entered, and I noticed he'd changed out of his traveling clothes into dark slacks and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up.He looked more relaxed than I'd seen him since...well, since he'd been Peter.And definitely more approachable than the formal prince who'd spent our flight treating me like diplomatic cargo.
The sleeves-rolled-up thing was unfair.It made his forearms look good.I didn't want to notice that his forearms looked good.
