“Look, I know everyone says I’m ridiculously optimistic,and they’re right. I am. I always try to see the best in everybody. Sure, Prince Frederic isn’t exactly the easiest of people, but I feel like there’s something else to him. Something more. And I have a feeling I’m going to like what I find.”
She studies me for a long beat. “All right.”
“All right?”
“I wish you luck.”
I press my lips together. “I think I might need luck. The look on his face told me he thinks I’m not all that wonderful.”
“How could he not? Youarewonderful, and he’ll know it before too long. I guarantee it.”
There’s a soft knock at the door, and Anya and I lock eyes. My heart leaps.
“This is it,” she whispers. “Good luck, Asti.”
“Thanks.”
I make my way into the living room. I take a deep breath and pad over to the door. I pause for a beat, bracing myself. My future husband is on the other side of it, here to take me to meet his parents, and I need to make a good impression on them all.
I pull open the door and come face to face with Frederic. His shirt still looks as though it’s been freshly ironed, despite the fact that he’s probably been in it for hours, his tie is perfectly placed, and not a single hair is out of place.
How does he do that? I’m a mess within five seconds of getting dressed.
“Princess Astrid, you look—” he begins and then, just as he did in the glasshouse, his eyes sweep over me and I feel a tingle in my belly. His lips pull into a thin, unreadable line, and my stomach drops.
Oh no. My outfit must be all kinds of wrong.
“Ican change,” I say hurriedly.
“There’s no time for that,” he replies. “My parents have already had to reorganise a few things this afternoon after the mishap earlier. We should go.”
I close the door behind me, wishing with every fiber of my being that I were wearinganythingbut this yellow dress. Suddenly the pearls feel like they’re choking me, and the dress feels too bright, too plain. Too wrong.
We move down the long hallway in silence. His posture is stiff, every stride is measured and princely. Mine? I’m practically trotting beside him, my heels clicking frantically to keep up with his long-legged stride. He must be at least six foot, and I’m only five foot three.
“So,” I begin. Someone needs to break this silence that’s making me completely jittery. “Do your parents know about the glasshouse and the dogs?”
“They know.”
I swear there’s a hint of something in his voice. Is it amusement? Resignation? A combination of both?
“Right. Well. That’s good, I suppose. Transparency and all that.”
His jaw tightens, and I notice once more that it’s a very good jaw. Defined, strong, chiseled. The kind of jaw that would benefit from the lightest smattering of stubble. He could look like a brunette Patrick Swayze fromDirty Dancingif he put his mind to it. Not that I can imagine Prince Frederic would want to resemble anything as trite as a movie star. Far too serious for that.
We fall into silence once more, and I force myself to focus on the portraits lining the gallery as we make our way to the Blue Drawing Room.
“Do you think they’re judging us?” I ask.
“Who?”
“Your ancestors.” I gesture at an entire line of stern, oil-painted monarchs. “Their eyes seem to follow us. Do you think they’re looking at us and saying, ‘They’re entering an arranged marriage and they barely know each other’?”
He looks at me as though I’ve told him the sky is green. “They’re portraits, Princess Astrid. They’re not real people. Not anymore, anyway. Any judgment they ever took is well and truly over.”
Of course he had to take me literally. He missed my point entirely. I was wondering ifhethought his ancestors would approve of us. I’ll just have to be more direct next time.
“To me, it looks like they have opinions,” I persist, trying to make light.
