The Princess Problem (The Rom Com Collection #5)

Chapter One

Elizabeth Bennet had always known she was born a princess, but until recently, had considered it a harmless peculiarity.

Real princesses, she imagined, did not spend their mornings remaking bonnets in the parlour of a modest country estate.

Real princesses did not listen to their youngest sisters shriek with laughter from the garden while their mother fretted over the price of ribbon.

Real princesses certainly did not possess the distinctly unroyal habit of rolling their eyes at inappropriate moments.

“Lizzy, you are not listening,” Mary chided, glancing up from the leather-bound volume of A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life by William Law. “Shall I begin again?”

Elizabeth had been listening for almost an hour because she did not wish to hurt Mary’s feelings by admitting she found the book rather dull.

Jane, her elder sister, smiled gently from her place beside the window where she was embroidering another endless parade of flowers onto yet another white muslin gown, this one for Mary.

“Perhaps we might choose something less doctrinal for our morning reading? I believe Papa has a new volume of poetry that arrived yesterday.”

“Poetry!” Mamma cried from her chair. “What good is poetry when there are practical matters to attend to? Lizzy, have you given any thought to your appearance for the assembly in a fortnight? The blue silk is well enough on Jane, but it makes you look rather sallow.”

Elizabeth exchanged a look with Jane. “Oh dear, I was not aware that my complexion had become a matter of public concern.”

“Everything about you is a matter of public concern,” Mamma replied, standing to bustle about the room and unnecessarily adjust all the cushions.

“You are eighteen years old now, and it is time to begin looking for a husband. With your fortune, I look to you to marry well and then help your sisters do the same.”

One thing about being a princess was that her father’s fortune had given her enough to marry well, and while she did not agree with her mother’s way of going about it, Elizabeth did agree that she had a duty to fulfil. But for all that, she hoped to fall in love.

“My dear Mrs. Bennet,” Papa said as he entered the room, a newspaper folded beneath his arm and a cup of coffee in his hand, “I believe you underestimate our Lizzy. She has clearly decided that marriage is too conventional a life for a woman of her superior intellect. Perhaps she plans to become a wealthy spinster and shock the neighbourhood by taking up residence in a cottage with seventeen cats.”

“Papa!” Elizabeth laughed despite herself. “Seventeen seems excessive. I was thinking no more than twelve.”

“A moderate approach. I approve.”

Mamma, however, did not share their amusement. “This is precisely the sort of talk that will ensure Elizabeth dies an old maid! No man wants a wife who knows four languages, reads all those dusty books, and speaks of spinsterhood as though it is desirable.”

“Then perhaps Papa is correct,” Elizabeth said, returning to her bonnet, “and I will not find a man who will make me a good husband.”

The sound of Lydia’s voice shrieking something unintelligible from the garden prevented Mamma from launching into what promised to be a lengthy lecture on the topic of Elizabeth’s matrimonial prospects. Instead, she hurried to the window, nearly colliding with Jane in her haste.

“Those girls will be the death of me,” she muttered, peering through the glass. “Lydia has grass stains on her muslin already, and it is not yet ten o’clock. And Kitty is encouraging her, as usual.”

“They are still young, Mamma, and their lessons will begin again next week,” Jane said calmly. “They are just taking advantage of their freedom.”

“Young or not, they must learn to conduct themselves as ladies. How will they ever secure the husbands Elizabeth brings them if they persist in behaving like wild creatures?”

Papa lowered his newspaper just enough to peer over the top and waggle his eyebrows at his wife. “In my day, a bit of spirit was considered rather attractive in a young lady.”

Mamma blushed. “Hush, you.”

Elizabeth bit back a smile and bent closer to her work.

There was something deeply comforting about the familiar rhythm of her parents’ gentle sparring, the predictable antics of her younger sisters, and the steady presence of Jane’s serenity.

Her parents. The words came so naturally, but of course, they were not entirely accurate.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had raised her from infancy with such love and care that she had never truly felt the absence of her real parents.

Her father, a Thurnian prince who was also a dashing officer, and her mother, Papa’s sister, had both died before Elizabeth was a year old.

The knowledge had always been there, explained to her in gentle terms as soon as she was old enough to understand, but it changed nothing of her affection for the family who had made her their own.

“Mary,” she said, determined to redirect the conversation, “perhaps you could read to us from something a bit more . . . entertaining? Surely even young ladies of proper conduct are permitted a bit of levity on occasion?”

“Levity,” Mary said with the gravity typically reserved for her most important pronouncements, “is the enemy of moral improvement.”

Papa chuckled from behind his paper. “In that case, my dear Mary, our family must be in a constant state of moral decline. The amount of levity that occurs within these walls on any given day would surely alarm poor William Law beyond comprehension.”

Before Mary could launch into a determined defence of Mr. Law, the sound of hoofbeats in the drive drew everyone’s attention to the front windows. A magnificent black carriage that seemed far too grand for their modest neighbourhood was coming to a stop near the front entrance.

“Oh my,” Jane said, setting aside her embroidery. “Are we expecting callers?”

Mamma immediately abandoned her critique of Lydia’s deportment and pressed herself close to the window. “I do not recognise the carriage. How splendid it looks! The horses alone must have cost—”

“Mamma,” Elizabeth interrupted with a laugh, “perhaps you might step back before our mysterious visitor catches sight of you peering at him.”

But Mamma was far too entranced by the spectacle to heed her suggestion. “Look at those brass fittings! And the coachmen—my goodness, the livery! Whoever this is must be quite important indeed.”

Papa set down his coffee cup and folded his newspaper, seeming resigned to having his peaceful morning interrupted. “Well, then. I suppose we shall have to receive them properly. Lizzy, ring for Mrs. Hill if you would, and warn her that we are to have company.”

Elizabeth had just reached for the bell pull when a sharp, formal knock echoed through the house.

It was not the casual rap of a neighbour or the hesitant tap of a tradesman, but an authoritative announcement that the person on the other side of the door was accustomed to being admitted without delay.

“My goodness,” Mamma said, and began fluttering about the room. “Jane, fix your hair. Lizzy, put away that bonnet. Mary, for heaven’s sake, hide that dreadful book.”

“It is not dreadful, Mamma,” Mary protested, clutching it to her chest.

“Whatever it is, it is not suitable reading for morning callers,” Mamma replied firmly. “Quick, all of you, sit up straight and try to look accomplished.”

Elizabeth exchanged an amused glance with Jane as Mr. Hill’s voice could be heard in the hallway, followed by a deep, unfamiliar voice requesting an audience with the Bennet family on “a matter of utmost importance.”

“Utmost importance?” Mamma’s eyes widened with a mixture of anticipation and concern. “Oh dear, I hope nothing dreadful has happened.”

Before Papa could reassure her, Mr. Hill appeared in the doorway, looking unusually flustered. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. Bennet, “but there is a gentleman here to see you. A Sir Reginald Whitmore. He says it is regarding Miss Elizabeth specifically.”

Elizabeth exchanged a shocked look with Jane. Me?

“Show him in, Hill,” Papa said, standing. But Elizabeth noticed something peculiar in her father’s expression, something she thought might be dismay.

Sir Reginald Whitmore proved to be a tall, imposing man of about sixty years, with steel-grey hair and a regal bearing. His clothing was impeccable, from his perfectly tied cravat to his gleaming boots, and he carried himself with stiff formality.

Upon entering the parlour, he bowed, his movements precise and deliberate.

“Mr. Bennet,” he said as though meeting a former acquaintance.

“Mrs. Bennet, ladies,” he intoned in a voice that seemed designed for making proclamations in vast halls.

“I am Sir Reginald Whitmore, envoy to His Majesty, King Frederick of Thurnia.”

The silence that followed this announcement was so complete that Elizabeth was certain everyone in the room could hear her heart beating.

Thurnia. The word sent an odd thrill through her.

She had heard it before, of course, in the stories Papa had told her of her father, but it had always seemed like something from a book for children, not a real place with real people who sent real envoys to modest country estates.

Mamma’s mouth opened and closed several times, producing no sound whatsoever, while Papa stood still and pale.

“Thurnia!” Lydia exclaimed as she skipped into the room and the conversation.

“Where is Thurnia?” Kitty asked, following just behind her younger sister.

Sir Reginald’s placid expression suggested that this was not the first time he had been required to answer this question.

“Thurnia is an island nation situated between the coast of Scotland and the Faroe Islands. We have maintained our independence from both England and Scotland for over four centuries, though we share a common language and many cultural traditions.”