CHAPTER 9
Betty
The dress Petra had selected for the pre-wedding reception was a deep emerald green that she promised would "photograph beautifully" and "complement my coloring." What she hadn't mentioned was that it would also make me look like I was auditioning to be a Bond villain's girlfriend.
"Are you sure this isn't too much?" I asked, examining myself in the full-length mirror. The fabric clung in places I wasn't used to having fabric cling, and the neckline was considerably lower than anything I'd worn since my ill-advised prom dress sophomore year.
"You look stunning, Your Highness. Prince Archibald will be very impressed."
Prince Archibald. Right. The man I was meeting for the first time tonight, three days before I married him. The abstract concept I'd been keeping in a mental box labeled "Deal With Later" was about to become very, very real.
My stomach churned with nerves that had nothing to do with the dress.
"What's he like?" I asked Petra. "You must have met him during the wedding planning."
Something flickered across her face. "He's... very dedicated to his duties. Quite respected in diplomatic circles."
"That's not what I asked."
"He's kind," she said after a pause. "More so than people expect. And he cares deeply about doing the right thing, even when it's difficult."
That sounded like something Peter would say. Peter, who I wouldn't see again until tomorrow's riding lesson. Peter, whose face kept appearing in my mind at completely inappropriate moments.
I pushed the thought away. Tonight was about meeting my future husband. I needed to at least pretend to be focused on that.
"The Grand Duchess will escort you to the reception hall," Petra said, adjusting my hair one final time. "Prince Archibald will be introduced formally once all the guests have arrived."
"So I just stand around making small talk with diplomats until he shows up?"
"Essentially, yes. Though I'd recommend avoiding the topic of fish migration rights with the Norwegian ambassador. He has very strong opinions."
"Fish migration rights. Got it. Anything else I should avoid?"
"The Bavarian delegation is still upset about a hunting incident from 1847, so perhaps steer clear of discussions about wildlife management. And the Belarus princess believes she should have been considered for Prince Archibald's hand, so she may be... frosty."
"A jealous princess. Lovely. This is going to be a delightful evening."
The Grand Duchess was waiting in the corridor, resplendent in silver silk that made her look every inch the European monarch. Her eyes swept over me with an assessing gaze that probably calculated my worth down to the nearest euro.
"The dress suits you," she said, which I chose to interpret as approval.
"Thank you. Petra has excellent taste."
"She does. Now, a few things before we enter. Prince Archibald requested that his introduction be handled... somewhat unconventionally."
"Unconventionally how?"
"He wishes to speak with you privately before the formal presentation. He feels there are things you should discuss before meeting in front of witnesses."
That was either very thoughtful or very ominous. Possibly both.
"Okay," I said. "That sounds... reasonable."
The Grand Duchess studied me for a moment. "Bettina, I want you to know that whatever happens tonight, you have shown more grace under pressure than anyone expected. Myself included."
"That's either a compliment or a warning."
"Perhaps both." She offered her arm. "Shall we?"
* * *
THE RECEPTION HALL was everything I'd expected and more.
Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across a room filled with people who probably had more money in their jewelry than I'd made in my entire barista career.
The women wore gowns that belonged in fashion magazines, and the men wore suits that cost more than cars.
And they were all looking at me.
I pasted on my best "I definitely belong here" smile and tried not to trip on my heels as the Grand Duchess led me through the crowd.
Various dignitaries approached to offer congratulations, and I deployed all the skills Madame Delacroix had drilled into me.
Slight nod here. Gracious smile there. Polite deflection of questions about my "colorful American upbringing. "
I was in the middle of a conversation with the Belgian ambassador about the surprisingly contentious topic of chocolate tariffs when a staff member approached with a message.
"Your Highness, the prince has requested your presence in the library. He wishes to speak with you before the formal introduction."
This was it. The moment when the abstract concept became a real person.
I excused myself from the ambassador and followed the staff member through a maze of corridors until we reached an ornate door.
"His Highness is waiting inside," the staff member said, then retreated before I could ask any of the thousand questions suddenly crowding my brain.
I took a deep breath. Smoothed my dress. Reminded myself that I'd survived lessons with Madame Delacroix, so I could survive one conversation with my future husband.
I opened the door.
The library was beautiful, all dark wood and leather-bound books and the kind of old-world elegance that made you want to speak in hushed tones. A fire crackled in the hearth despite the mild evening, casting warm shadows across the Persian rugs and antique furniture.
And standing by the window, silhouetted against the evening light, was a figure I recognized instantly.
My brain short-circuited.
Because that was Peter.
Peter, my riding instructor. Peter, who had taught me to canter and made me laugh and almost kissed me by the fountain. Peter, who was currently wearing a formal military uniform complete with medals and a sash that screamed "I am royalty."
He turned to face me, and the expression on his face was nothing like the easy smile I'd grown used to. This was something else entirely. Guilt, maybe. Or dread.
"Betty," he said, and even his voice sounded different. More formal. More princely.
"Peter?" My voice came out strangled. "What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that?"
"Betty, I need to tell you something, and I need you to let me explain before you react."
The pieces started falling into place. Horrible, impossible pieces that I didn't want to assemble.
"No," I said, backing toward the door. "No, no, no."
"My name is Archibald Peter Constantine Falcieri. Peter is my middle name. I've been going by it since I started the riding lessons because I wanted to get to know you without the complications of titles and expectations."
I stared at him, my brain refusing to process what he was saying.
"You're Prince Archibald," I said flatly.
"Yes."
"The man I'm supposed to marry in three days."
"Yes."
"And you've been pretending to be a riding instructor this whole time."
"Betty, please let me explain."
"Explain what?" The hurt was starting to break through the shock, hot and sharp.
"Explain how you lied to me every single day?
How you let me think I was doing something wrong by having feelings for you?
How you sat there and listened to me talk about how nervous I was to meet Prince Archibald while knowing you were him the entire time? "
"I wanted to get to know the real you."
"The real me? You mean the me who was honest with you about everything while you were lying through your teeth?"
He flinched. Good.
"I was going to tell you," he said. "I tried to tell you today, but Captain Steiner interrupted us."
"Oh, you tried. How heroic. You tried to tell me the truth after days of lying, and when it didn't work out, you just... what? Figured you'd ambush me at a formal reception instead?"
"I asked for this private meeting specifically so I could tell you before you found out in front of everyone."
"How considerate. Really. My hero." I could hear the venom in my own voice, and I didn't care.
"All those things you said about Prince Archibald.
How he cared about authenticity, how he'd rather have someone genuine than someone perfect.
Were you just describing yourself? Patting yourself on the back for your own excellent qualities? "
"I was trying to reassure you."
"You were manipulating me. You were sitting there watching me stress about meeting my fiancé while you pretended to be someone else entirely. Do you have any idea how that feels?"
He stepped toward me, and I stepped back.
"Betty, everything I told you was true. Everything except my name. The person you got to know in those stables, that's who I really am. Not the formal prince in the portraits, not the diplomatic mask I wear at functions. You saw the real me."
"Did I? Because right now I'm looking at a stranger." I gestured at his uniform, the medals, the sash. "This is who you really are. A prince who lies to people to get what he wants."
"What I wanted was a chance to know you without the politics getting in the way. What I wanted was to see if we could have something real before we were trapped in a marriage neither of us chose."
"And what did you decide? After your little evaluation? Did I pass the test?"
"It wasn't a test."
"It was absolutely a test. You were checking to see if I was suitable. If I was worthy of being your princess. And I was too stupid to realize I was being auditioned the entire time."
"Betty." His voice cracked on my name. "I wasn't auditioning you. I was falling in love with you."
The words hit me like cold water.
"Don't," I said. "Don't you dare say that to me right now."