Chapter 2
LOUIS
Ihave a rating system.
I created it when I was eighteen, and my mother first began parading eligible women in front of me like show ponies at an auction.
Delphine caught me rating a duchess’s daughter on a napkin and laughed so hard that she snorted champagne through her nose.
The joke became a habit, which became a method, and now I have a little black book that would scandalize half of Europe if anyone ever found it.
I have coined it Ten to Win. Ten categories, which are each scored on a scale of one to ten. A perfect hundred means I’ve found the one, the woman worth throwing away my entire life for. Unfortunately, no one has ever broken sixty.
I pull the book from my jacket pocket while I wait in the portrait gallery for the first candidate to arrive. The leather is soft from years of handling, and the pages are filled with names and scores that tell the story of my failures.
Lady Marguerita: 43. Awful human.
Contessa di Venetia: 47. Sneezed constantly.
Princess Alice: 51. Bored me to death by the second dinner.
Lady Astrid has the 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 find her. 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 looks dignified. 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.
“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.”
What she’s getting into. Not who.
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 her nose 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?”
“No, thank you, Mother.”
She pours me a cup anyway and slides it across the coffee table. I don’t touch it because I didn’t want tea, and she knows that.
“The meetings went well, I hear,” my father says.
“They went.”
“Lady Eloise’s family called this morning, and they were very pleased. Their daughter believes there’s potential between you two,” my mother says.
This makes me laugh until I realize she’s serious. “There isn’t.”
“Louis—”
“She agreed with everything I said.” I lean forward with my elbows on my knees, because I need both of them to understand this.
“I purposely contradicted myself, and she nodded along both times without even blinking. The woman has no opinions, no ability to challenge anything I say. I’m searching for a queen, not a marionette. ”
My father’s jaw tightens. “And Lady Freda?”
“Was more concerned about property values than getting to know me, and she mentioned wanting to gut the palace because it’s too dated for her taste.”
“She comes from an excellent family,” my mother offers.
“She comes from a family that doesn’t respect art or people.” I look at both of them and let my frustration show. “You taught me to treat everyone with dignity regardless of their station, and Lady Freda treated our gardeners like they were dirt beneath her shoe.”
My mother sets down her teacup with a delicate clink. “You’re being difficult.”
“I’m being discerning.”
“Is there a difference?” My mother’s voice drops low. There is a calmness in it that is worse than any shouting would be. “Because from where I stand, you have had eighteen years to find your person and didn’t. And now it’s our responsibility.”
I don’t respond because there’s nothing I can say that would fix this.
“You agreed to this, son. I didn’t want to resort to the old ways,” my father says, stepping away from the fireplace.
The years have settled into the lines around his eyes. He’s always seemed invincible to me, but right now, he looks tired.
“Your mother and I gave you more time than the council wanted because we believed you when you said you’d find someone. We defended your choices when you ended things with Princess Alice after two dates. We trusted you.”
I stare at the floor because looking at the disappointment on his face is too much. “I know you did, and I owe you both for that.”
“This isn’t about debt,” my mother says.
“It’s about fulfilling weird traditions. But so be it.” I run my hand through my hair and try to find the right words. “I truly believed I had more time.”
My mother shakes her head, and I glance over at her. “Love is a luxury, Louis. One that most people in our position never get to have. Your father and I were fortunate, but we were also practical. Love can always happen later.”
“Right.”
“You’ll need to choose someone who will be able to stand beside you, support you, and represent this country with an elegant grace.” I hear the king in his voice now, not just my father.
“Lucian, he knows his duty and what he agreed to,” my mother confirms, like I’m not in the room.
My father doesn’t look away from me. “You have a responsibility to this family and to this country. I don’t care if you love your wife—I don’t care if you even like her. But you will marry, and you will have a baby before the end of next year. Am I clear?”
I want to tell them that I’d rather renounce my title than chain myself to a woman I can’t have a conversation with. Then I’m transported back to the gallery in New York, and I’m standing in front of a woman who can see straight through every wall I’ve ever built.
My father leaves without another word, and my mother watches him go.
I know he’s not angry with me; he’s just concerned because the council has been pressuring him about succession, and I have zero updates. The same goes for my mother. The two of them are doing their best.
“We’ve compiled a list.” She picks up a folder from the side table and holds it out to me. “Twelve candidates from appropriate families. You’ll meet them over the next several weeks, starting in Paris and then Munich the next day, before you return home to meet the rest.”
I take the folder, but don’t open it because I already know what’s inside. Names, titles, and family connections that have been carefully vetted and approved by those in charge. These women look perfect on paper, but will probably put me to sleep before the appetizers arrive.
“Thanks, Mother. Can’t wait to enjoy my grand tour of disappointment.”
“A grand tour of possibilities. Please at least try.” She reaches across and squeezes my hand. “We want you to be happy, Louis. That’s all we’ve ever wanted. Choose a partner you can build something with, even if it’s friendship at first. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Two nights ago, Addison’s eyes darted to my mouth when she thought I wasn’t looking. She challenged everything I said. She was a storm I wanted to walk straight into, and now I’m stuck pretending I don’t feel the aftermath every time I close my eyes.
“It will work in your favor,” my mother encourages. “It always does.”
“I believe that to be true.” I squeeze her hand back because I owe them this much. “I’ll try. I promise.”
“That’s all we ask.” She lets go and smooths her skirt. “Your flight leaves at sunrise tomorrow, so try to get some sleep.”
I rise and bow to her, then walk to the door with the folder of candidates tucked under my arm.
Later that night, I sit on the edge of my bed with my suitcase packed and the little black book open in my hands. I glance outside.
The sea is silver under the moonlight, and the palace is quiet around me. There is nothing but the distant sound of waves against the cliffs and the ticking of the clock on my nightstand. I flip through the pages of the book and look at all the names and scores, and I wonder if I’m the problem.
Maybe I’ve been searching for something that doesn’t exist. Maybe my father is right, and love is a luxury I was never meant to have. I close the book and set it on the nightstand, then turn off the lamp.
As I lie back against the cool sheets while the moonlight paints across the ceiling, blue-green eyes and dark red lips fill my mind.
I want to know her favorite color, how she takes her coffee, and what she looks like first thing in the morning with her hair messy and her guard down.
But wanting those things is pointless because she’s Patterson’s little sister, and she lives an ocean away.
Tomorrow, I’ll fly to Paris to meet three more women who will probably score somewhere in the thirties. Then Munich and wherever else my parents want me to go. I’m their faithful servant, and I have to stop thinking about a woman I can never have before it becomes an issue.