“Shall we continue?” I gesture toward the east wing because standing here any longer would be cruel to both of us.
Two nights ago, Addison stood in front of an empty subway car canvas and talked about perspective. She treated art like it was a conversation worth having instead of a box to check on a list. Her eyes scanned over those paintings like they were telling her secrets, and then she looked at me the same way. When our eyes met, it was like she saw something in me that most people missed entirely.
The rest of the hour with Eloise confirms my initial impression of her. When I mention that I find the palace gardens overdone, she agrees that they could use some work. When I reverse my position and claim the gardens are actually the pride of Montclaire, she nods again and corrects herself.
By the time the footman returns to escort her out, I’ve already calculated her score.
Intelligence: 4
Sense of humor: 3
Opinions: 2
Chemistry: 4
Conversation: 4
Art: 2
Challenge: 0
Authenticity: 2
Kindness: 5
Passion: 2
Total: 28
I write the number in my book as the door closes behind her. She’d need to triple her score for me to even consider a second date.
The next day,Lady Freda of Mistia is so much worse. I didn’t think that was possible.
Within the first five minutes, she asks about the square footage of the east wing and whether the vineyard on the northern slope is included in the Crown holdings or operates as a separate financial entity.
“Are you here to marry me or acquire real estate?” I ask.
She laughs like I told a hilarious joke, and it catches me off guard. “A woman should always know what she’s getting into, Your Highness.”
Whatshe’s getting into. Notwho.
We walk through the rose garden, where the scent is thick enough to taste. The afternoon sun beats down on the gravel paths, and I hold an umbrella over her. She criticizes a groundskeeper’s clothing, calls a Picasso in her family’s collection barely worth mentioning, and spends ten minutes explaining how she’d modernize the palace’s “dated” aesthetic the first year of marriage. When she wrinkles hernose at one of the gardeners, I stop listening entirely and calculate how quickly I can end this.
Lady Freda scores a 28. The same as Lady Eloise.
I’m running out of hope that any of these women will be different.
That evening, my parents wait for me in the queen’s private sitting room, which is never a good sign.
When I enter, the room is draped in deep purple silk and filled with fresh flowers. It’s deceptively calm for the conversations that happen here. Tea service is laid out on the table between the armchairs, and steam rises from the pot. There is a tray of cucumber sandwiches arranged in perfect rows that no one in this room will touch.
My mother sits in her usual spot by the window with her cup balanced perfectly in her hand, while my father stands by the fireplace. He’s wearing the expression he reserves for diplomatic incidents and disappointing children.
“Louis.” My mother gestures to the small sofa across from her. “Sit.”
I do because refusing would only prolong this, and right now, I want nothing more than to disappear.
“Tea?”
