Lady Astrid hasthe highest score to date, which is depressing for everyone involved because she spent an entire evening talking about her dog’s dietary restrictions.
The categories I judge by are simple:
Intelligence
Sense of humor
Opinions
Chemistry
Conversation
Art
Challenge
Authenticity
Kindness
Passion
When I created Ten to Win, I genuinely believed I’d findher. Back then, the odds seemed reasonable. Now, all I have is a book with a list of failed dates with disappointing numbers.
The morning light floods through the arched windows and casts golden rectangles across the marble floors, illuminating centuries of my ancestors staring down from their golden frames. Beyond the windows, the sea glitters like crushed sapphires. I used to love this view, but now it mocks me with its freedom. Something I’m losing.
The door swings open, and a footman announces Lady Eloise of Ludermatis.
She’s pretty, and she’s been taught to impress a prince since birth. Her blond hair is swept into an elegant twist, making way for her high cheekbones and long lashes. The blue dress she’s wearing matches her pale eyes. Her smile has been rehearsed in front of a mirror. It’s lost its spontaneity, and I can spot the practiced ones because they’re timed.
I stand. “Lady Eloise. Welcome to Montclaire.”
“Your Royal Highness.” She curtsies and holds it a beat too long, like she’s waiting for someone to photograph the moment, before rising. “Thank you so much for having me. The palace is absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you for thinking so. I thought we could spend some time enjoying some of the art we have in this wing.”
We walk through the gallery.
“I’ve heard you enjoy art. Is that true?” Over the years, I’ve learned to lead with questions since it usually tells me what I need to know.
“Oh, yes. Very much.”
“Incredible. What’s your favorite medium?”
She hesitates for a second, but I catch it. “All kinds, really. I appreciate beauty in all forms. Paintings. Photographs. Sculptures.”
It’s a non-answer, where she lists everything in her view.
I stop in front of one of my favorite pieces—a portrait of my grandmother, painted by Henri Beaumont when she was forty. The brushwork is extraordinary because he captured the mischief in her eyes and the hint of rebellion in her jaw. If you look closely at the objects on her desk, you’ll find a love letter hidden beneath a stack of books. It’s a scandal, immortalized in oil paint, that most people walk right past without noticing.
Lady Eloise studies it with the expression of someone taking an exam she didn’t prepare for. “It’s lovely. Very regal.”
“Regal,” I repeat while watching her miss every nuance, every small detail, every story the painting is trying to tell. “What else do you see?”
Her smile falters. “She looksdignified. A true inspiration.”
I wait for more, but nothing else comes, so I stand there, letting the silence stretch between us while she fidgets with her bracelet.
