CHAPTER 11
Betty
The simple black dress was doing its best, but there was only so much a basic sheath could accomplish when you were supposed to be impressing European royalty.
I examined myself in the full-length mirror and tried to channel confidence I didn't possess. The dress was fine. Perfectly adequate. The kind of thing you'd wear to a nice restaurant or a job interview, not to your first private dinner as a princess in a Mediterranean palace.
"You look lovely, Your Highness," Carmela said, and I appreciated the effort even if I didn't believe her.
"I look like I'm attending a funeral. Which, considering how this day has gone, might be appropriate."
"Black is very sophisticated."
"Black is what you wear when half your wardrobe has been mysteriously destroyed and you have no other options." I turned away from the mirror before I could spiral further into self-pity. "What time is it?"
"Seven-twenty, Your Highness. A footman will arrive shortly to escort you to the prince’s private dining room."
Prince Archibald Falcieri. My husband. The man I was still furious with, still attracted to, and still trying to figure out how to exist in the same space with for the next six months.
This was going to be a fun evening.
"Carmela," I said, making a decision I might regret, "can I ask you something? Off the record?"
She hesitated, clearly weighing her professional obligations against whatever instinct was telling her to help me. "Of course, Your Highness."
"The luggage situation. You said it was unprecedented. Does that mean it's never happened before, or does that mean it's never happened by accident before?"
Her expression went unreadable, which was answer enough.
"I see." I picked up my clutch, one of the few accessories that had survived the great wardrobe massacre. "Is there anything else I should know about palace politics before I walk into dinner with my husband?"
"Only that the prince is not his mother, Your Highness. Whatever you may have heard about Queen Isabelle's... opinions... the prince has always been known for making his own judgments."
That was either reassuring or terrifying, depending on what judgment he'd made about me.
A soft knock announced the footman's arrival, and I followed him through corridors that made me feel like I was walking through a museum after hours. Everything was beautiful and priceless and designed to remind visitors that they were very, very far from home.
We stopped outside a door that looked slightly less intimidating than the others. Still ornate, but somehow more human-scaled.
The footman knocked once and opened the door. "Your Highness," he announced, then vanished before I could ask his name or figure out if I was supposed to tip him.
Archie's private dining room was nothing like the formal spaces I'd seen in the rest of the palace.
It was smaller, cozier, with actual lamps instead of museum-quality chandeliers.
The table was set for two with simple white china and silver that looked elegant without being terrifying.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the Mediterranean that was so beautiful it seemed fake.
"This is nice," I said, genuinely surprised. "Very human-sized."
Archie stood when I entered, and I noticed he'd changed out of his traveling clothes into dark slacks and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up.
He looked more relaxed than I'd seen him since.
.. well, since he'd been Peter. And definitely more approachable than the formal prince who'd spent our flight treating me like diplomatic cargo.
The sleeves-rolled-up thing was unfair. It made his forearms look good. I didn't want to notice that his forearms looked good.
"I thought you might appreciate something less formal for our first evening," he said, moving to hold my chair.
"You thought right. I was starting to think everything in this palace was designed to make normal people feel inadequate."
"Only about ninety percent of it. The other ten percent is where I actually live."
I sat down and tried not to notice how close he was standing as he pushed in my chair. Or how his cologne smelled like something expensive and woodsy that made me want to lean closer. Or how the candlelight did unfair things to his cheekbones.
This was dinner with the enemy. I needed to remember that.
"So," I said, accepting the wine he poured. "This is awkward."
He paused with his own glass halfway to his lips. "Awkward how?"
"Well, let's see. We're married, but you spent the first week of our acquaintance lying about your identity.
We're supposed to be having a romantic dinner, but I'm still deciding whether I want to throw this wine in your face or drink it.
And I'm wearing a funeral dress because someone sabotaged my luggage. "
The last part made him set down his glass. "Sabotaged?"
"Half my clothes were destroyed by what Carmela diplomatically called a 'cargo hold leak.' But cargo hold leaks don't usually damage things selectively, and this one conveniently hit most of my good pieces while leaving the basics intact."
His expression shifted from casual to focused in a way that reminded me he wasn't just a prince who'd lied to me. He was also someone who'd grown up navigating palace politics and probably knew exactly what targeted sabotage looked like.
"I think it's quite a coincidence that I arrive at my new home looking like I can't dress myself properly. Great first impression for the American princess, right?"
"Who had access to your luggage?"
"I don't know. Palace staff, airport workers, whoever handles royal cargo. Could be anyone." I took a sip of wine, which was excellent because of course it was. "The question is whether this was personal or political."
"What do you mean?"
"Personal would mean someone here doesn't want me around. Political would mean someone's trying to undermine the alliance by making me look incompetent." I shrugged. "Either way, someone in this palace has opinions about my presence."
Archie was quiet for a moment, processing this. "I'll have my security team look into it."
"Will they actually investigate, or will they politely file it under 'unfortunate accident' and move on?"
"They'll actually investigate. I don't tolerate sabotage in my household."
The possessiveness in his voice caught me off guard. My household. Like this was his territory and I was now part of it.
"Good to know." I picked up my menu, which was handwritten in elegant calligraphy and completely useless since I couldn't read Italian. "What's good here?"
"Everything. Chef Marcello has been cooking for the royal family for twenty years. He once threw a diplomat out of the kitchen for suggesting we serve store-bought pasta at a state dinner."
That surprised a laugh out of me. "Seriously?"
"The man takes his reputation very seriously. He also makes the best risotto in the Mediterranean, so we tolerate his artistic temperament."
"I'd like to meet him. I spent three years working in restaurant kitchens. I know how particular chefs can be about their ingredients."
"You worked in restaurants?"
"Coffee shops mostly, but I helped out in the kitchen sometimes." I set down the menu I couldn't read anyway. "Nothing fancy, but I know my way around basic food prep. Why do you look so surprised?"
"I'm not surprised. I'm..." He seemed to search for the right word. "Interested. You've actually done things. Worked jobs where you had to deal with the public, earn money, face consequences for mistakes."
"That's called normal life for most people."
"I know. That's what makes it interesting." He leaned back in his chair, studying me with an expression I couldn't fully read. "I've never had a job where someone could fire me. Never had to worry about making rent or pleasing customers. Everything I've done has had safety nets built in."
"Poor little rich prince."
I meant it sarcastically, but something flickered across his face that made me regret the words.
"You're right," he said. "It's not exactly a hardship. But it does make you wonder if you're actually good at anything, or if people just tell you what you want to hear because of who you are."
The honesty caught me off guard. This was the kind of thing Peter would have said, genuine and a little vulnerable, and it made me remember why I'd started falling for him in the first place.
Then I remembered that Peter had been a lie, and the warm feeling curdled.
"Is this the part where you try to make me feel sorry for you?" I asked. "Because I should warn you, my sympathy reserves are running pretty low after the whole identity deception thing."
"No. This is the part where I try to have an actual conversation with my wife instead of just exchanging hostile remarks until we run out of wine."
"We could always order more wine."
"We could. Or we could try something radical like getting to know each other."
"I thought I was getting to know you. Turns out I was getting to know a fictional character you invented for my benefit."
He winced. "That's fair."
"I know it's fair. That's why I said it."
The first course arrived before he could respond, some kind of seafood soup that smelled incredible. The server placed the bowls in front of us with the kind of silent professionalism that suggested he'd been trained to be invisible.
"Thank you," I said to him, because I'd been raised to acknowledge people who did nice things for me.
He looked surprised but pleased. "You're welcome, Your Highness."
After he left, Archie raised an eyebrow. "You're not supposed to thank the serving staff during formal meals. It's considered distracting."
"Then it's a good thing this isn't a formal meal." I picked up my spoon. "Besides, I'm never going to be the kind of princess who ignores people just because they're doing their jobs. If that's a problem, we should probably discuss it now."
"It's not a problem. It's refreshing."
"Is that code for 'charmingly inappropriate'?"