CHAPTER 6 #2
Probably around the same time she'd told me her biggest fear was using the wrong fork and accidentally starting an international incident.
Or when she'd described her curtsy as looking like she was "dislodging something uncomfortable from her underwear.
" Or when she'd laughed at something I said and I'd realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life making her laugh like that.
So. Yesterday, basically.
The lesson continued for another excruciating ten minutes, with Madame Delacroix finding fault with everything from the angle of Betty's head to the speed of her curtsy. By the time they finished, Betty looked like she was holding herself together through sheer stubbornness.
"We will continue tomorrow," Madame Delacroix announced. "Perhaps tonight you might practice in front of a mirror. Repetition is the only cure for such... rustic habits."
She swept away with the kind of dramatic exit that probably took years to perfect, leaving Betty standing alone by the fountain. For a moment, Betty held her composed expression. Then her shoulders sagged, and she sank onto the edge of the fountain like someone whose strings had been cut.
I should have looked away. Should have given her privacy for whatever emotional processing she was doing. But something kept me frozen at the window, watching as she buried her face in her hands.
Her shoulders started shaking.
She was crying. Not the dramatic, performative tears that I'd seen from women trying to manipulate me at court functions, but the kind of exhausted, overwhelmed crying that came from hitting your breaking point.
The kind that happened when you were trying so hard to be something you weren't that you started to lose track of who you actually were.
Something cracked open in my chest.
That's when I knew I had to tell her. Not tomorrow, not after some careful planning and strategic consideration. Soon. Before another lesson could chip away at more of her confidence. Before another instructor could make her feel like she was fundamentally inadequate instead of just unprepared.
I left Celeste in her stall and walked out of the stables, my heart hammering against my ribs. Betty was still sitting by the fountain, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand in a gesture so normal and human that it made my chest ache.
"Betty?"
She looked up at the sound of my voice, and I saw her quickly try to compose herself. "Peter. I didn't know you were here."
"I saw your lesson with Madame Delacroix." I sat down on the fountain edge beside her, close enough that our knees almost touched. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." She attempted a smile that didn't fool either of us. "Just having a moment of self-pity. I'll get over it. I always do."
"You're allowed to have moments. Especially when people are being unnecessarily cruel to you."
"She's not being cruel. She's trying to help me not embarrass myself at the wedding.
" Betty sniffed and wiped her eyes again.
"I just... I keep thinking that maybe they got the wrong person.
Maybe the real Princess Bettina is out there somewhere, naturally graceful and fluent in seventeen languages and capable of eating soup without making it look like a crime scene. "
Despite everything, I laughed. "A crime scene?"
"You haven't seen me eat soup. It's not pretty."
"I'm sure it's not as bad as you think."
"Peter, I once splashed tomato bisque on a first date. On his white shirt. He looked like a murder victim." She paused. "There was no second date."
"His loss."
She looked at me with surprise. "You think?"
"Anyone who can't handle a little soup splash isn't worth your time." I bumped my shoulder against hers. "For what it's worth, I think there are ways to teach someone without tearing them down first."
"You really think she was being too harsh?"
"I think she was being a bully. And I think you're trying so hard to become someone else that you're forgetting who you actually are."
"Maybe who I actually am isn't good enough for this life."
The defeat in her voice made something twist inside me.
Here was this incredible woman: intelligent, compassionate, brave enough to sacrifice six months of her life to help prevent a war, and she was sitting here thinking she wasn't good enough because some etiquette instructor had convinced her that the way she walked wasn't royal enough.
"Betty," I said, and there was more urgency in my voice than I'd intended. "You need to know something about the prince."
She looked at me sharply. "What about him?"
"He's not what you think he is."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he's not the stuffy, condescending aristocrat you're picturing.
He's not going to care if you can't curtsy properly or if you use the wrong fork or if you splash soup on his shirt.
He's going to care about whether you're kind to people, whether you're genuine, whether you treat others with respect. "
"How do you know?"
Because I'm him, I wanted to say. Because I've been falling for you while watching you torture yourself over stuff that doesn’t matter. Because I'm not worthy of you, but I'm selfish enough to want you anyway.
"Because I know him," I said instead. "And I know he'd rather have someone authentic than someone perfect."
"You really think so?"
"I know so."
She was quiet for a moment, studying my face like she was trying to read something there. "Peter," she said finally, "who are you really?"
The question hung in the air between us. I could tell her the truth right now. End the deception, deal with the consequences, start over with honesty instead of lies.
But then I thought about the intelligence briefings, about Putin's submarines positioning themselves for Mediterranean action, about forty-five days to prevent an international crisis. I thought about Congress and defense treaties and all the people whose lives depended on this marriage working.
And I thought about Betty's face when she found out the truth. The hurt. The betrayal. The realization that even Peter, the one person she'd trusted to see her clearly, had been playing a role.
"I'm someone who thinks you're remarkable," I said, which was the truth, even if it wasn't the whole truth. "And I'm someone who knows that any man would be lucky to marry you."
"Even a prince?"
"Especially a prince."
She smiled then, the first genuine smile I'd seen from her since the lesson with Madame Delacroix. "Thank you. I needed to hear that."
"Did you bring the latte?"
Her smile widened into something real. "Of course I brought the latte.
What kind of monster do you think I am?" She reached into the bag she'd been carrying and pulled out a travel cup.
"Maple cinnamon, as promised. I even drew a little horse in the foam, but it might have gotten jostled on the walk over.
Could be more of a horse-adjacent blob now. "
I took the cup and peeled back the lid. The foam art was indeed more blob than horse, but the smell was incredible: sweet maple, warm cinnamon, rich espresso.
"This is amazing," I said after the first sip. And it was. Not just good coffee, but something special. Something that tasted like care and attention and Betty.
"You sound surprised."
"I'm not surprised. Chef Auguste said you impressed him, and that man is not easily impressed. But this is..." I took another sip, trying to find the right words. "This is really good."
"Three years of practice and one nightmare boss who demanded perfection." She watched me drink with an expression that was half pride, half nervousness. "So it's okay?"
"Betty, if you made this for the prince on your wedding day, he'd probably propose to you all over again."
She laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "That seems like overkill. We'd already be married."
"Some things are worth proposing twice for."
"Ready for your riding lesson?" I asked, changing the subject before I said something I couldn't take back.
"More than ready. At least with horses, I only have to worry about falling off. Not falling short of centuries of royal expectations."
As we walked back toward the stables, I told myself that I'd tell her the truth after the wedding. Once the alliance was secure and the treaties were signed, I'd find a way to explain everything. I'd make her understand why the deception had been necessary, why I'd had no choice.
But watching her laugh as she greeted Celeste, seeing the way her whole demeanor changed when she was doing something she actually enjoyed, I knew I was lying to myself as much as I was lying to her.
The truth was, I was a coward. And the longer I waited to tell her who I really was, the harder it was going to be to face the disappointment in her eyes when she realized that the man she was beginning to trust was just another royal lie.
But God help me, I wasn't ready to give this up yet. These stolen moments where I was just Peter and she was just Betty and nothing else mattered except the way she smiled when Celeste nuzzled her shoulder.
My wife, I thought again, watching her stroke Celeste's neck with gentle hands. In five days, she'd be my wife.
And I was already dreading the moment she found out what that actually meant.