CHAPTER 7
Betty
I was developing an extremely inconvenient crush on my riding instructor.
This was a problem for several reasons, the most obvious being that I was engaged to someone else.
Someone royal. Someone I was supposed to be marrying in four days.
Someone who was definitely not Peter with his easy smile and his gentle hands and his way of making me feel like I was actually good at something.
I stared at my bedroom ceiling, replaying our riding lesson for approximately the four hundredth time since dinner.
The way he'd caught me when I'd stumbled during the dismount.
The way his hands had lingered on my waist. The way we'd almost kissed before Celeste had intervened with her impeccable timing.
Stupid horse. Stupid feelings. Stupid Betty for developing them in the first place.
I was supposed to be focusing on learning which fork went with which course and how to curtsy without looking like I was having a medical episode. Instead, I was lying in bed wondering what it would have been like if Peter had actually kissed me.
Would he taste like coffee? He'd seemed to really enjoy the latte I'd made him. The way his eyes had lit up at the first sip, the way he'd said it was good enough to make a prince propose twice... that had to mean something, right?
No. Stop it. Bad Betty.
I grabbed a pillow and pressed it over my face, groaning into the expensive Egyptian cotton.
This was what happened when you spent your formative years watching too many romantic comedies.
You started seeing meet-cutes everywhere, even when the "cute" part was learning not to fall off a horse and the "meet" part was arranged by international diplomats.
A knock at my door saved me from further spiral into romantic delusion.
"Come in," I called, sitting up and trying to look like I hadn't just been having inappropriate thoughts about palace staff.
Petra entered carrying a tablet and wearing an expression that suggested more bad news was incoming. "Your Highness, I have your schedule for tomorrow. It's... extensive."
"How extensive are we talking? Normal extensive or 'Betty's going to need therapy' extensive?"
"There are seventeen separate events."
"Seventeen?" I grabbed the tablet and started scrolling. "How is that even physically possible? There are only so many hours in a day."
"Lord Chancellor Renaud has optimized your schedule for maximum exposure. He believes immersion is the best approach."
"Lord Chancellor Renaud believes in torture." I scrolled through the list: breakfast etiquette, morning meetings. formal correspondence review, diplomatic history lecture, luncheon table settings, afternoon tea service, language lessons, dance instruction, evening wear training...
"What's evening wear training? Do I need to be trained on how to wear clothes now?"
"There's a specific way to sit, stand, and move in formal gowns to avoid wrinkling or tripping. Madame Delacroix considers it essential."
"Of course she does." I kept scrolling. "And what happened to my riding lesson? I don't see it anywhere on here."
"Lord Chancellor Renaud felt that time would be better spent on diplomatic history. He mentioned that Princess Bettina doesn't need recreational activities at this stage of her preparation."
Something hot flared in my chest. "Recreational activities? I'm learning a skill that's essential for royal life. How is that recreational?"
Petra hesitated. "I believe his exact words were that equestrian pursuits could wait until after the wedding, when... more pressing matters have been addressed."
"More pressing matters like making sure I know which spoon to use for soup?"
"He seems very concerned about your public readiness, Your Highness."
I thought about the way Renaud had been watching me during our meeting, making notes in his portfolio, cataloguing my every mistake. The way he'd mentioned "clarifications" to the marriage contract with that too-smooth smile.
"Petra, what do you know about Lord Chancellor Renaud?"
She glanced toward the door, as if checking that we were alone. "He's been with the Valdorian court for almost twenty years. Very respected. Very... thorough."
"That's the official version. What's the unofficial version?"
"The unofficial version is that he opposed your grandmother's decision to search for you. He thought the throne should pass to a more... traditional candidate."
"More traditional meaning not raised by American commoners?"
"More traditional meaning someone who already knows which fork to use for fish." Petra's lips twitched. "His words, not mine."
"So he doesn't want me here."
"I think he wants what's best for Valdoria. He just has a very specific definition of what that looks like." She paused. "And that definition may not include an American princess who asks the kitchen staff for cooking tips."
Great. So I had a powerful enemy who thought I was unsuitable, a schedule designed to break me, and four days to become magically competent at centuries of royal activities.
No pressure.
"Is there any way to get the riding lesson back on the schedule?" I asked, trying not to sound too desperate. "It's the one thing I'm actually making progress on."
Petra's expression softened with understanding. "I can try to speak with the Grand Duchess. She overrules the Lord Chancellor on matters concerning your welfare."
"Would you? I know it seems silly, but..." I trailed off, not sure how to explain that Peter's lessons were the only time I felt like a person instead of a project.
"It's not silly," Petra said. "Everyone needs something that makes them feel capable. Even princesses. Especially princesses who are trying to learn a lifetime of rules and regulations in less than a week."
After she left, I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling again. Four days until the wedding. Four days until I married Prince Archibald Falcieri of Solmarina, a man I'd never actually met. A man who might be kind or cruel, patient or demanding, compatible or completely wrong for me.
And here I was, more interested in seeing Peter tomorrow than in meeting my future husband.
What kind of terrible person did that make me?
I thought about what Peter had said about Prince Archibald. That he wasn't what I expected. That he cared about authenticity over perfection. That any man would be lucky to marry me.
The way he'd said it, with such certainty, like he actually knew...
My phone sat on the nightstand, and I stared at it for a long moment.
It would be so easy. Just type in "Prince Archibald Falcieri of Solmarina" and see what came up.
Find out what my future husband looked like, what the tabloids said about him, what kind of person I was supposedly marrying in four days.
My hand was halfway to the phone when I stopped myself.
No. I wasn't going to do this.
If I looked him up, he'd become real. He'd have a face and a history and opinions that people had written about, and I'd have to start thinking of him as an actual person I was going to marry instead of an abstract concept I was trying very hard not to think about.
Right now, Prince Archibald Falcieri existed in a box in my mind labeled "Deal With Later." As long as he stayed in that box, I could focus on surviving my lessons and enjoying my riding lessons and pretending that my life wasn't about to change in ways I couldn't control.
Besides, the marriage was only for six months.
Half a year of diplomatic smiling and separate bedrooms, and then I'd be back in Oregon pretending none of this had ever happened.
Did I really need to know what he looked like for that?
We'd probably barely see each other. He'd be off doing princely things, I'd be hiding in whatever corner of the palace they stuck me in, and we'd interact only when cameras required it.
Out of sight, out of mind. That was the plan.
If I started researching him now, I'd start having expectations. And expectations led to disappointment, and disappointment led to caring, and caring led to getting hurt when the whole thing inevitably fell apart.
Better to stay in the dark. Better to meet him at the wedding like a stranger and keep him a stranger for the duration of our arrangement. Emotional distance was my friend here.
I pulled my hand back from the phone and shoved it under my pillow for good measure.
Peter's voice echoed in my head: He'd rather have someone authentic than someone perfect.
Well, Prince Archibald could have someone authentic from a safe emotional distance. That was the best I could offer.
I rolled over and tried not to think about the fact that I was more interested in seeing Peter tomorrow than in learning anything about the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with.
The temporary rest of my life, I corrected myself. Six months. That's all.
If I repeated it enough times, maybe I'd start believing it.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING STARTED with breakfast etiquette.
"The croissant should be torn, not cut," Madame Delacroix explained, demonstrating with the kind of surgical precision usually reserved for open-heart surgery. "Small pieces, brought delicately to the mouth. We do not bite directly from the whole pastry like some kind of wild animal."
"What if I'm a hungry wild animal?" I muttered under my breath.
"What was that, Your Highness?"
"Nothing. Just admiring the pastry."
I tore off a piece the size of my thumbnail and raised it to my lips with exaggerated delicacy. Madame Delacroix nodded approvingly, missing my sarcasm entirely.
"Now, the coffee. We lift the cup with the right hand, supporting the saucer with the left if standing. The pinkie does not extend. That is a common misconception perpetuated by American cinema."
"God forbid American cinema influence my pinkie position."
"Sarcasm is not becoming in a princess, Your Highness."
"Neither is starving to death because I can only eat one atom of croissant at a time, but here we are."
Madame Delacroix's expression suggested I was testing the limits of her professional patience. "Perhaps we should move on to the proper way to acknowledge servants."
"Acknowledge servants? What does that mean?"
"When staff enter to serve or clear dishes, there is a correct way to indicate you've noticed their presence without actually engaging in conversation."
"Why wouldn't I engage in conversation? They're people, not furniture."
"They are staff, Your Highness. It would be inappropriate to distract them from their duties with personal conversation during formal meals."
"But I could say thank you, right? When they bring me something?"
Madame Delacroix looked at me like I'd suggested we eat with our hands. "A slight nod is sufficient. Verbal thanks during formal dining is... unusual."
"Unusual, or American?"
"Often the same thing."
The lesson continued for another excruciating hour, during which I learned the proper way to butter bread (one piece at a time, butter applied to each bite, never the whole slice), the correct angle for holding a fork (European style, tines down, apparently Americans did this wrong too), and the appropriate facial expression for receiving courses I didn't like (gracious acceptance, as if the chef had done me a personal favor by presenting me with food I found repulsive).
By the time Madame Delacroix released me, I was starving, exhausted, and more convinced than ever that royal life had been designed by people who actively hated joy.
I escaped to the kitchen, where Chef Auguste took one look at my face and started assembling a plate without being asked.
"Croissant torture?" he guessed.
"Croissant torture," I confirmed, slumping onto my usual stool. "Did you know there's a wrong way to eat bread? I've been doing it wrong my entire life."
"There is no wrong way to eat bread. There is only bread, and eating. Everything else is pretension."
"I'm going to have that embroidered on a pillow."
He set down a plate containing a perfectly normal sandwich: thick slices of bread, cheese, ham, mustard. No tiny pieces. No surgical precision required. Just food, meant to be eaten by a human being with normal-sized bites.
"You are a saint," I said, picking it up with my hands like the American barbarian I was.
"I am a chef who believes food should be enjoyed, not performed." He watched me eat with obvious satisfaction. "How are the other lessons going?"
"Terribly. I've been informed that I walk wrong, sit wrong, stand wrong, and acknowledge servants wrong. The only thing I do correctly is breathe, and I'm sure Madame Delacroix will find a problem with that too if she tries hard enough."
"And the riding lessons?"
My stomach did that annoying flutter thing at the mention of riding. "Cancelled. Lord Chancellor Renaud decided my time would be better spent on diplomatic history."
Chef Auguste's expression darkened. "Did he now?"
"You don't like him either?"
"I don't trust men who think they know better than everyone else what's good for other people." He wiped down the counter with more force than necessary. "The Lord Chancellor has opinions about many things. Not all of those opinions are correct."
"Petra said he opposed the search for me."
"He opposed many things. The alliance with Solmarina. The marriage arrangement. The idea that an American-raised princess could represent Valdorian interests." Chef Auguste met my eyes. "He is not your friend, Princess. Remember that."
"Noted." I finished my sandwich, feeling slightly better about the world. "So what do I do? Just survive his schedule until the wedding and hope he backs off once I'm officially married?"
"You survive. You learn. And you remember that the Grand Duchess wanted you here for a reason." He smiled, the expression lighting up his whole face. "She saw something in you that the Lord Chancellor cannot see. Do not let him convince you it isn't there."
I was still thinking about his words when Captain Steiner appeared in the kitchen doorway.
"Your Highness, I've been looking for you. There's been a change to your schedule."
"Another one? Let me guess, Lord Chancellor Renaud has added midnight protocol drills."
"Actually, the Grand Duchess has reinstated your riding lesson. This afternoon, three o'clock." Was that a hint of a smile on Captain Steiner's face? "She felt that equestrian skills were an important part of royal education and should not be sacrificed for... less essential pursuits."
"Less essential pursuits like diplomatic history?"
"Her words, not mine."
I grinned, probably looking inappropriately excited for someone who was just going to ride a horse. "Thank you. And thank Petra for me too."
"I'll pass that along."
After she left, I realized I was already counting the hours until three o'clock. Until I'd see Peter again. Until I could escape this endless parade of lessons and just... be.
I was in so much trouble.
And I couldn't fully bring myself to care.