Chapter Three
Frederic
“What do you mean you lost her?” I glare at Tommaso, my private secretary, my hands on my hips.
He shifts nervously in his polished shoes. “I…err…I mean, I left the princess in the Blue Drawing Room to inform your parents that she’d arrived, and when I went back, she was… well, she was simply gone.”
“Did you look for her?”
“I did, sir. I searched the Red Salon, the State Room, all the adjoining rooms, but nothing. She seems to have simply vanished.”
“Tommaso, people don’t simply vanish, particularly not visiting princesses from Elkevik.”
“I understand, sir, and I am deeply sorry that this has happened. I will mount a full search party—”
I cut him off with a raised hand. “I’ll find her. She’s here to see me, after all.” I stride across the floor of my study, heading to the door.
“Please allow me to help, sir,” Tommaso says, rushing after me.
“All right. Why don’t you search the west wing, and I’ll search the east?”
He nods. “Of course, sir.”
I make my way from the room in the direction of the east wing. It’s a massive part of the palace with over forty rooms, including the ballroom. Perhaps she’s gone there. Perhaps she likes a good sprung floor to dance on, although there are no children here for her to cheer up.
My heels click against the floor with each irritated step.
Why can’t she just be normal? Tommaso told her to stay in the Blue Drawing Room to meet with me and my parents, but she clearly fancied a wander, poking her nose in places where it doesn’t belong.
And now she’s lost, doing who knows what on the most important day our two countries have had this decade.
And I’m meant to marry this woman?
Frankly, she surprised me by agreeing to the plan. But then, we do have one thing in common: we both want what’s best for our respective countries. And it is abundantly clear that an arranged marriage between us will be beneficial for both Elkevik and Ledonia.
As I move from room to room in the east wing, I mull over everything I know about Princess Astrid. I started a file on her once we received word that she’d agreed to this scheme, of course, and I’ve pored over it every evening since, adding pertinent facts as I’ve discovered them.
She’s twenty-three, the second-born daughter of King Theodore and Queen Nora of Elkevik.
She’s the patron of several charities, particularly charities associated with animals, children, and plants.
She’s known for her warmth, positivity, and a genuine connection with the Elkevikian citizens.
She went to university in Norway, graduating with a Bachelor’s in art history.
She hasn’t had a significant romantic relationship.
From what I can tell from poring over photos, she seems to derive happiness from everything she does, even looking utterly delighted when photographed with a prize-winning sheep called Baarbara.
She’s either genuinely interested in sheep, or she’s a significantly better actor than anyone gives her credit for.
Because really, who can be that enthusiastic about a sheep? No offense to Baarbara.
Everything I’ve learned about her suggests she’s very much the opposite of me. She makes the silliest jokes and talks far too much. I’m not known for telling jokes at all, and people frequently accuse me of not talking enough, aka the Marble Statue.
Perhaps we’ll balance each other out. She could be the yin to my yang. They say opposites attract, and you couldn’t get much more opposite than the two of us.
Or, much more likely, perhaps this will be a complete and utter disaster and we’ll both end up miserable for the rest of our lives.
I grind my teeth in frustration as I continue to search for the missing princess, but to no avail.
Eventually, I reach a room with French doors leading out to the gardens.
One door is ajar, and as I push it open and step outside, crossing my arms and pulling my lips into a line as I skim the gardens, I hear it. A light, tinkling sound.
Could it be Astrid laughing?
My footsteps crunch over the gravel as I make my way toward the sound. Warm chatter drifts through the air, peppered with occasional bursts of laughter.
It’s definitely Astrid.
The sound is coming from the glasshouse, my great-grandmother's pride and joy. It’s a nineteenth-century structure filled with exotic plants from across the globe, carefully cultivated by a team of gardeners.
I pause at the entrance, listening. She laughs again, followed by several enthusiastic barks.
She has dogs in there?
I push the door open to find my future wife sitting cross-legged on the floor, her shoes discarded carelessly, surrounded by every Labrador in the palace kennels, all with their tails wagging hard enough to generate a small wind turbine's worth of energy.
One dog has its head in her lap, gazing up at her, another is attempting to lick her face with obvious enthusiasm.
Laughing, she tries to fend it off without success, her blonde hair is coming loose from her hairstyle.
Her dress is a pale blue thing with long sleeves that probably looked respectable an hour ago, but is now covered in muddy paw prints and what must be dog drool across her top.
“—and then, my dear friends, the plane hit turbulence just as Bryan Adams’ latest song hit the chorus on my Walkman, which was not on the itinerary, let me tell you.
I don't care what anyone says, flying is absolutely unnatural, particularly when Bryan is declaring he’d do anything for the woman he loves.
Well, I suppose it’s natural for birds, but not us earth-bound creatures.
If humans and dogs were meant to fly, we'd have wings, wouldn't we? Yes, you agree, don't you, gorgeous?”
Scarlett, the brown lab, gives an enthusiastic lick of Astrid’s nose.
“You're very wise,” she says with a giggle. “And look at where you get to live! This palace is absolutely enormous. There should be a map with those dotted lines on the floor like at museums. You know, the ones with ‘you are here’ marked in big red letters? Oh, what am I saying? You don’t know. You’re dogs. ”
I stand frozen in the doorway, trying to process this scene. She’s actually talking to the dogs as though they understand her.
Give me strength.
This woman is going to be a total catastrophe!
Mother will have an aneurysm.
Father will take up day drinking.
The press will salivate when they discover that the woman who’s meant to be the solution to the monarchy's image problem talks with dogs as she sits on the floor like a 6-year-old girl.
I should end this whole thing right now. There’s no way this could ever work. She’ll mess everything up, make a total fool of me and our family, and we’ll be humiliated and…
There’s a sudden bark as Rhett, the black lab, notices me before he bounds over to me, his tail wagging.
Princess Astrid looks up. Her gaze lands on mine and she raises her brows in surprise before her face lights up in that famous smile of hers.
Busted.
I’m struck afresh by her attractiveness, I’ll admit as much. Bright blonde hair, high cheekbones, full lips, pretty blue eyes.
But she’s also totally lacking in regal decorum, which is an absolute minimum for my future wife.
“Oh! It’s you!” she exclaims, scrambling to her feet with impressive proficiency. “It’s so nice to see you again, Prince Frederic. You live in such a gorgeous palace, and you have such lovely dogs.” She pets Scarlett’s head, and her tail wag morphs from happy to elated.
Before I can respond, she crosses the distance between us and clasps my hands in hers. Hers are warm and soft, and as she looks up at me with earnest eyes, I’m momentarily too stunned to react.
“Isn’t this all rather exciting?” she asks.
I come to my senses and extract my hands as quickly as I can.
I knew she had boundary issues with physical contact. She clasped my hand more than once the last time I was in Elkevik, even placing a hand on my arm at one point. But right now it feels a little too much.
I’m utterly discomfited by her proximity. “Your shoes,” I mutter.
She follows my line of sight to the discarded shoes on the floor. “I took them off,” she says, pointing out the obvious.
“As I can see.”
“I have an absolute love-hate relationship with high heels, you see. They hurt, especially when it’s warm like it is here in Villadorata. Much warmer than it is at home. But they do rather wonderful things for my calves. See?”
She points her toe as though she’s wearing the discarded shoe and gestures at her leg.
My eyes have darted to her shapely calf before I avert my gaze immediately.
I’ve got no idea how to respond.
“I think high heels are instruments of torture designed by people who hate feet. What do you think, Fred?”
She called me Fred.
No one calls me Fred, other than Francesca, and that’s only when she wants to annoy me.
And she’s rambling on about high heels, expecting me to examine her leg, and I truly have no idea how to behave.
So instead, I simply gape at her, probably doing my best impersonation of a fish.
The speech I prepared to greet her evaporates from my mind.
I spent hours on that speech, perfecting it, getting just the right balance between the professional and personal, and now… poof. Gone.
I clear my throat. “I had meant that perhaps you should put your shoes back on,” I manage. “We have a rather full schedule this afternoon, and my parents are waiting. They will expect you to be in shoes.”
Really, it’s not a lot to ask.
“Oh! Of course. How silly of me. I’m so sorry.
I’ll do that straight away.” She collects the shoes, hopping on one foot as she slides the first shoe on, then switching to the other.
The dogs think this is a fun new game, dancing around her like she’s a maypole.
She laughs and stumbles, and without thinking, I step forward and catch her elbow before she falls.
The contact lasts a total of three seconds, but in that time I register a few things: