Royally Matched (Royally Kissed #2)

Chapter 1Sofia

Chapter 1

Sofia

I adjust my tiara, the one Father gave me to wear for this special occasion. I hope I don’t look overdone. With my long dark hair pinned in an elaborate updo the women of Bridgerton would be proud of, my face tastefully made-up, and ruby jewels at my neck, I know it’s a fine line.

Do I look appropriate for a ball?

Am I wearing what’s expected of me as a princess?

And, most importantly, even though I’m only twenty-seven, do I look like my mother? No disrespect to Mummy, of course. She’s a gorgeous woman, but she is actually middle-aged and I’m… not.

That said, as a princess in Ledonia, I’m expected to dress a certain way. Nothing flashy or attention grabbing, nothing too fashionable, and certainly nothing revealing. So, I opt for demure. Modest. The very opposite of a contestant on Love Island (not that I watch the show, of course, but my sister does, she tells me).

The thing is, when you’re labelled “pitiful,” “boring,” and “old before your time” in the media you tend to get a little bit of a complex about these things. And as a sidenote, it’s not at all fair they labelled me the Pitiful Princess, all because I had my heart broken years ago and felt rather sad about it for a month or two. Okay, a year or two. But “pitiful?” It’s unnecessarily harsh.

Have I been able to shake it off? That would be a hard “no.” But I’m hoping tonight will change all that.

I adjust my red gown, the color of Ledonian royalty, wondering whether maybe I should have gone for something that at least showed a little more skin than just my forearms and neck.

I blow out a breath at my prim and proper reflection.

It’s not as though this is all new to me. I’ve been to about a thousand balls in my life. But tonight’s ball is different. Tonight’s ball isn’t about my parents. It isn’t about tradition. It isn’t even about my siblings, Alex, Amelia, and Max, who relish the limelight, all of them unilaterally adored by the media.

Not that I begrudge them that, of course.

Well, perhaps a little. I seem to have missed out on that particular gene.

No. Tonight is all about me , Princess Sofia, first-born child of King Frederic and Queen Astrid of Ledonia.

The purpose? For me to find a husband .

I know. It sounds like some sort of modern fairytale, totally out of touch with the real world. A Cinderella story that will end in a romantic happily ever after.

But let me get one thing straight right now, I’m not expecting my Prince Charming to come waltzing through the palace doors, looking ridiculously handsome and taking my hand in his, lifting it to his lips in some achingly romantic gesture.

I’m far more pragmatic than that.

And besides, I have zero interest in trying to find the “great love of my life.” No thank you. I’ve walked down that path before, wearing my heart on my sleeve, and let me tell you, it only ends in heartbreak.

These days my heart is tucked neatly away in a thick metal box. Locked. Wrapped in chains. With high tech laser beams, warning of intruders.

So much safer that way.

In Ledonia, when you’re a member of the royal family you either find a suitable spouse before you turn twenty-eight, or your parents arrange a marriage for you. Even though I’ve got a year to go, I’ve chosen the arranged approach.

It’s fair to say I’m freaking out a little.

Okay, I’m freaking a lot .

I need to put on a brave face and be the princess everyone expects me to be. Confident, regal, and totally put together, ready to meet what may be my future husband at what the media is calling my Husband Hunting Ball. It should probably offend me, but the truth is, that’s exactly what tonight is. Me looking for a husband.

With nerves pinging off the walls, I turn to face Amelia, my younger sister by three years, she of the sparkling media love. She too is in a red ball gown, the color that’s been associated with our family since they ascended to the throne some 800 years ago—and when I say ascended, I mean brutally took the throne on the battlefield, and stubbornly refused to give it back.

But this isn’t a history lesson, and we like to think of ourselves as so much more sophisticated these days. Although, as I smooth my skirts, readying myself to meet a slew of eligible bachelors, I wonder whether we’ve really moved on at all. I mean, I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman in the 21st century, readying myself to meet a string of potential suitors intent on being my husband.

I’m not going to analyze it too deeply.

“Chill out, Sofe. You look like you’re heading to the wrong side of a firing squad, not about to meet a whole roomful of men, all here for you,” Amelia instructs as she plunks herself down on the edge of my bed and flops over in about the least princess-like way imaginable.

My sister, the tomboy.

“I’m fine,” I insist as I check my makeup for the fifteenth time, wondering whether I should have allowed the makeup artist to give me winged eyeliner and false lashes.

Amelia props herself up on her elbows. “Convincing,” she deadpans.

“You’d be worried too if you were about to meet your future husband for the very first time,” I reply. “Sit up properly. You’ll crease your dress.”

She ignores my instruction.

No change there.

“I’m desperate to break out of the confines of this job I was born into, and here you are, painting yourself right into a princess corner,” Amelia grumps.

“I’m not painting myself into a corner. I’m meeting eligible suitors.”

“Same thing, if you ask me.” She props herself up on her elbows. “You know you don’t have to go through with this. So, you had a moment of insanity in which you told Father you want to have an arranged marriage. You can totally get out of this. Just tell him it was your time of the month, and you weren’t thinking straight. You know how much that sort of thing makes him nervous. The mystery of womanhood and all that. He won’t even question you, just mumble something about horses and leave the room.”

“The thing is, Ami, I want to have an arranged marriage,” I explain, not expecting her to understand in the least.

And why not? I’ve hardly had screaming success in the romance department doing it by myself. In fact, you could say my dating life is an abject disaster. Other than a few minor flirtations, I’ve only ever been seriously involved with one man—and he broke my heart.

So, you see? Getting Father to arrange a marriage for me is so much better, particularly when love has alluded me, much like Waldo in those books. I could never spot him.

She sits up and hugs one of the posts on my four-poster bed. “But what about love, Sofe? Romance?” She fixes me with her stare, waggling her brows at me. “What about the sizzle?”

“The sizzle? Ami, I’m not a steak.”

“The sizzle. You know, all those fabulous feelings you get when you meet someone you really, really fancy. The sizzle is the absolute bee’s knees.”

“Sizzle? Bees knees? You sound like you’re from the early 20 th century.” I smooth my updo in the mirror once more, but it’s been hair sprayed to within an inch of its life. It does not budge. “I don’t care about sizzling or any of that stuff. It’s all rather a waste of time if you ask me.”

“Oh, done right, the sizzle is never a waste of time. Not in a million years,” Ami replies, her brows still waggling, like a couple of hyperactive worms.

Of course she would say that. She’s my younger sister, full to the brim of all the younger sister clichés. She doesn’t feel driven to achieve terribly much, she has the unconditional, straightforward love of our parents who also don’t expect her to do anything of note, and she enjoys a jolly good time, particularly if my equally fun-loving brothers, Alex and Max, are around.

Me? I’m cut from an entirely different cloth.

I’m not saying I don’t enjoy having a good time. I’m not a robot. I’m just more sensible than they are. More thoughtful. I like art and architecture, I adore ballet, the Royal Ledonian Ballet in particular. I wouldn’t dream of going to the hottest new nightclubs in town—and I certainly don’t care about anything sizzling. Unless it’s a steak.

I accept who I am, and my siblings should, too.

“You say you’re not a robot, but that’s exactly what a robot would say, you know,” Amelia states. “Fancying someone is utterly divine. The best feeling in the world.”

“Attraction is not all it’s cracked up to be, Ami,” I reply in my “I know so much more than you do, little sister” tone. “It’s fleeting. It might be all consuming for about five minutes, but then you find out what the person is really like, and those sizzling feelings simply vanish into thin air.”

“Tell Alex that. He and Maddie had the sizzle even when they hated each other and they’re madly in love and can barely keep their hands off each other. Major, major sizzle.”

She leans back on my bed once more, her hands placed over her heart. Thread a rose through her fingers and she’d look like she was in a coffin.

“He gave up everything to be with her. Everything, Sofe. It’s so romantic. I hope someone gives up everything for me someday when I finally get to live my life rather than have to be a stupid princess.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” I warn.

“I’m worried about you, Sofe. You have no romance in your soul.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a compliment.”

“I take it as one, and it’s exactly why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

It’s true that our brother fell in love with Maddie, the new Princess of Malveaux. As our father’s heir to the throne here in Ledonia, Maddie would have had to give up her claim to the Malveauxian throne to marry him. Apparently, she was utterly torn between Alex and the Crown, although Ami tells me Maddie has admitted that she would have given it up for Alex if the need had arisen.

That’s love for you. Far too unnecessarily dramatic if you ask me. Dramatic and messy.

With Alex now formally abdicated, even though it hasn’t been announced yet, we all know our younger brother, Max, aka Prince Maximilien, will become our father’s heir, skipping the female line altogether.

Because we are that modern in Ledonia.

But don’t get me started on that topic. Tonight isn’t the time for me to wrestle with the rights and wrongs of the Ledonian law of succession. (Although, for the record, it is most certainly wrong. As our parents’ first-born child, why should I not inherit the throne simply because I’m not male? It’s wrong, it’s old fashioned, and if I had my way, that law would be shoved right out the window.)

Where was I? That’s right. Defending my decision to have an arranged marriage .

Amelia pads over to the window. “So many cars! We should get down there, Sofe. Everyone’s arriving.”

“You go down. I just need to check something.” I pick up my tablet and pull up the spreadsheet. The familiar rows and columns tell me what I already know.

There’s only one man I want to meet tonight.

Lord Strozzi, Enzo Revera.

My destiny.

My spreadsheet is filled with boxes, and Enzo Revera, Lord Strozzi, gets a green tick in almost all of them, head and shoulders above all the other men attending the ball tonight.

He’s everything a princess would need and want in a husband.

Young? Check. An appropriate twenty-nine.

Educated? Check. An MBA from Harvard Business School, no less.

Serious? Check. Opera, chess, and reading are his preferred pastimes.

Handsome? Che… Well, he’s not ugly. So, there’s that. In fact, he’s got a lot going for him. He’s taller than me, and although he looks like he enjoys a good meal, he carries it well. He’s got light brown hair that’s receding a little, but nothing too drastic. What’s more, he has kind eyes, and although I’m not a fan of bushy mustaches, it suits him well enough. And besides, I’m sure he’d shave it off if I asked him. And if not, I might grow to like it over time—even if it does remind me of a furry caterpillar, nestling on his top lip.

But looks are literally only skin deep, and they really don’t matter, not when it comes to choosing the right kind of man to spend my life with.

What’s more, Father has agreed with me that he’s on the top of the list of potential candidates, so it’s a win-win .

“What have you got there?” Amelia peers over my shoulder, and immediately, I snap the screen shut. I know it’s too late and she’s seen my spreadsheet, which has been my closely guarded secret for weeks now.

Dang it! Why did I have to check to see what I already know?

“Sofia!” she exclaims, aghast, her eyes so wide I’m surprised they don’t pop out of her face and roll across the floor. “Is that what I think it is?”

I lift my chin. “That depends. What do you think it is, exactly?”

“A list of eligible bachelors and how many of your impossible standards they meet?”

I press my lips together. She’s hit the nail square on its head.

“I cannot believe you! You can’t choose a husband based on a checklist in some spreadsheet.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because… you just can’t.”

I slot my tablet back into its case and zip it up. “Great argument, Ami. You totally convinced me. I’ll tell Father to call the entire ball off.”

She ignores my sarcasm. “Look at Alex. He kissed about a million frogs before he found his perfect match. Why don’t you do that?”

“Kiss Kermit? No thank you. I’m not Alex.”

“You know what I mean. Get out there and date rather than sit around in the palace, gazing at your naval.”

“I don’t sit around the palace. I do a lot of work.”

She ignores me. “You can’t list a bunch of men’s alleged virtues on some spreadsheet and decide to marry the one with the highest score. It doesn’t work that way.”

“It should, and besides, it’s so much more nuanced than that,” I argue, when in truth, that’s exactly how I did it. I had my personal secretary, Ronan, design it for me, and together, we populated it with everything we could find about Europe’s most eligible bachelors before presenting the list to Father.

As far as I can see, my spreadsheet has saved me a huge amount of time, and it’s meant I haven’t had to kiss absolutely any frogs, Kermit included.

“Amelia,” I say, using my sister’s full name, so she knows I’m serious. “I’ve already made up my mind. I’ve got a plan, and I’m going to stick with it because it’s going to work. You’ll see.”

She quirks an eyebrow at me as if to say you know you’re wrong and I’m right . “But the sizzle .”

“I’m not interested in flying by the seat of my pants, kissing frogs until I find my prince. I don’t have time for that. As cliché as it may be, my clock is ticking. And besides, Ledonian princesses have a long tradition of arranged marriages. Why should I be any different?”

Satisfied with my response, I stride out of the room before she utters another word, heading toward the ballroom—and my future. My mind is made-up. Tonight, I will meet the man who will become my husband. And I’ll happily leave the sizzle for someone else.