CHAPTER 11 #2
"It's code for 'I like that you have principles and you're not afraid to stick to them.'" He took a spoonful of soup. "Even when those principles include being relentlessly honest about how angry you are with me."
"I prefer to think of it as keeping you informed about the state of our relationship."
"And what is the state of our relationship? Beyond hostile and suspicious, which you mentioned on the plane."
I considered the question while I ate. The soup was incredible, rich and complex with flavors I couldn't identify but definitely wanted more of.
"Undetermined," I said finally. "I'm still angry about the lying. I'm still not sure I can trust you. But I'm also stuck here for six months, and spending all that time being miserable seems exhausting."
"So you're open to the possibility of not being miserable?"
"I'm open to the possibility of seeing who you actually are.
The real version, not the performance." I pointed my spoon at him.
"But I should warn you, if I find out you're hiding anything else, I'm done.
No more chances. I'll smile for the cameras and play the dutiful princess in public, but privately you'll be dead to me. "
"That's fair."
"Stop saying that's fair. It makes it hard to stay angry."
"Would you prefer I argued with you?"
"I'd prefer you hadn't lied to me in the first place, but since we can't go back in time, I'll settle for honesty going forward."
He nodded slowly. "Then in the spirit of honesty, there's something you should know about the political situation."
"Is this about the sabotaged luggage?"
"No, this is bigger." He set down his spoon and looked at me directly. "The marriage between our countries isn't just about diplomatic friendship. It's about military alliances and trade agreements and things that affect millions of people."
"I know that. The Grand Duchess explained the basics."
"Did she explain that if this marriage fails, both our countries face significant economic and security consequences?"
"She mentioned something about Russian naval movements and Mediterranean shipping lanes. I'll be honest, I didn't fully follow all of it."
"The short version is that Valdoria and Solmarina need each other, and our marriage is the symbol that makes the alliance real. If we publicly fall apart, the alliance weakens. If the alliance weakens, people who depend on our protection become vulnerable."
I let that sink in. "So no pressure."
"Exactly. No pressure at all." His smile was wry. "Just the fate of two countries resting on whether we can manage to coexist."
"Coexist. There's that romantic word again."
"Would you prefer 'tolerate each other's presence without causing international incidents'?"
"I think that might actually be worse."
The second course arrived, some kind of fish that had been prepared in a way that made it taste like it had been caught that morning. We ate in silence for a few minutes, but it was a different kind of silence than before. Less hostile. More contemplative.
"Can I ask you something?" I said eventually.
"You can ask. I reserve the right to respond with deflection."
"Noted." I set down my fork. "What did you actually want to be when you grew up? Before you knew you were going to be king?"
He looked surprised by the question. "Why do you want to know?"
"Because I'm trying to figure out who you are underneath all the royal performance. And childhood dreams are usually a good indicator."
He was quiet for a moment, twirling his wine glass in a way that suggested he was deciding how honest to be.
"A veterinarian," he said finally.
"Really?"
"When I was eight, I was convinced I was going to grow up and take care of animals. I had this fantasy about living in a cottage somewhere with dogs and cats and horses, spending my days helping injured creatures get better."
I tried to picture it: the prince in front of me trading his expensive suits for muddy boots and a stethoscope, surrounded by grateful animals instead of diplomatic obligations. It was unexpectedly endearing.
"What changed?"
"Reality. Royal duty. The gradual understanding that my life wasn't going to be about what I wanted, but about what was expected."
"That's sad."
"That's privilege. I've been given opportunities that most people never get. It would be ungrateful to complain about the strings attached."
"You can acknowledge that you're lucky while also being sad about the things you had to give up. They're not mutually exclusive."
He looked at me with an expression I couldn't decipher. "You're surprisingly philosophical for someone who's still mad at me."
"I contain multitudes. Also, I took an intro to philosophy class at community college. We spent a whole week on the concept of holding contradictory emotions simultaneously."
"And what contradictory emotions are you holding right now?"
"Anger at you for lying. Attraction to you despite the lying. Curiosity about who you really are. Suspicion that you're going to disappoint me again." I ticked them off on my fingers. "Plus a mild food coma from this incredible fish, which is affecting my judgment."
"Attraction?"
Of course that was the part he focused on.
"Don't get excited. Attraction is just chemistry. It doesn't mean I like you as a person."
"But you admit you're attracted to me."
"I admitted that on the plane. Keep up."
"You said you found me attractive when you were supposed to be angry. That's different from admitting attraction directly."
"Is there a point to this semantic analysis, or are you just trying to make me regret saying anything?"
He leaned forward slightly, and the candlelight caught his eyes in a way that made them look warmer than I remembered.
"The point is that I'm also attracted to you.
And curious about who you really are. And hoping that six months is enough time to convince you that I'm not the villain you think I am. "
"You're not a villain. Villains are interesting." I finished my wine. "You're just a guy who made a bad decision and is now dealing with the consequences."
"Is that better or worse than being a villain?"
"Undetermined." I reached for the wine bottle and refilled my glass. "Ask me again in six months."
Dessert arrived, some kind of chocolate creation that was almost too beautiful to eat. I ate it anyway, because chocolate, and because I needed something to do with my hands that wasn't reaching across the table to touch him.
The attraction thing was becoming a problem.
Every time he said something genuine, every time he showed a flash of the person underneath the princely performance, I wanted to forget that I was supposed to be guarded.
I wanted to believe that Peter was real and Archie was just a costume he had to wear.
But people who wanted things too badly made mistakes. And I'd already made enough mistakes with this man.
"It's getting late," I said when the chocolate was gone. "I should probably head back to my room."
"Of course." He stood and moved to help me with my chair again, and this time I was hyperaware of how close he was standing. "I'll walk you."
"That's not necessary."
"Consider it practice for being a gentleman."
"Do you need practice?"
"I need practice at lots of things. Honesty, for instance."
I snorted despite myself. "That was almost funny."
"I'm occasionally amusing when I'm not being deceptive."
"Good to know."
We walked through the palace corridors together, and I tried not to think about how natural it felt to have him beside me. How his presence made the overwhelming marble halls seem slightly less intimidating. How, despite everything, I felt safer with him than I had alone.
"Here we are," he said when we reached my door. "The Blue Room complex, temporary home of Her Royal Highness Princess Betty."
"Princess Betty. That still sounds ridiculous."
"It suits you." He turned to face me, and we were standing close enough that I could see the individual threads of his shirt, the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw. "Thank you for having dinner with me."
"Thank you for not being completely unbearable."
"High praise."
"It's the best I can offer at this stage. Take it or leave it."
"I'll take it." He hesitated, then added: "About the luggage situation. I meant what I said. I'll have my people look into it."
"And if it turns out someone in the palace is targeting me?"
"Then I'll handle it."
"Handle it how?"
"However necessary." There was something in his voice that reminded me he wasn't just a prince who looked good in rolled-up sleeves.
He was someone who'd grown up with power and knew how to use it.
"You're my wife, Betty. Whatever else is complicated between us, that's real. And I protect what's mine."
The possessiveness should have annoyed me. Instead, it sent a little shiver down my spine that I chose not to examine too closely.
"I'm not yours," I said, but it came out softer than I intended.
"You're my wife."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," he agreed. "It's not. But it's a start."
He didn't try to kiss me goodnight. I told myself I was relieved about that. I told myself the slight disappointment I was experiencing was just the wine talking.
"Goodnight, Archie."
"Goodnight, Betty. Sleep well."
I slipped into my room and closed the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment while my heart rate returned to normal.
This was going to be complicated. This was going to be messy and confusing and probably painful in ways I couldn't predict.
But as I changed out of my funeral dress and climbed into the enormous canopied bed that was now mine for the next six months, I realized something surprising. I was looking forward to seeing him tomorrow.
Despite the exhaustion weighing down my limbs, however sleep wouldn’t come.
After an hour of staring at the canopy, I gave up and pulled on the robe Carmela had left for me.
Maybe a walk would help. The palace had to have a kitchen somewhere, and I had a sudden craving for warm milk or tea or anything that might quiet my racing thoughts.
The corridors were dim at this hour, lit by wall sconces that cast golden pools of light every few meters. I passed through a gallery I half-recognized from my arrival tour, following what I hoped was the general direction of the kitchens.
That's when I heard the voices.
"...simply not what we expected." Queen Isabelle's clipped tones were unmistakable, even muffled by the partially open door ahead.
I should have kept walking. I should have announced my presence or turned around or done anything except freeze in the shadows like a child eavesdropping on her parents.
"The Grand Duchess assured us she'd been thoroughly vetted, Your Majesty." That was an older woman's voice. Signora Benedetti, perhaps. Carmela's aunt, the head housekeeper.
"Vetted for what? Her coffee-making abilities?
" A pause, and I heard the clink of porcelain against saucer.
"She's completely unprepared. No training, no polish, no understanding of what this life requires.
And the luggage disaster only confirms it.
A proper princess would have had a contingency wardrobe.
She would have anticipated problems and planned accordingly. "
My face burned. The luggage disaster wasn't my fault. Someone had deliberately sabotaged my clothes, and here was the Queen blaming me for not being psychic about it.
"She does seem to be trying, Your Majesty. Carmela says she's been asking questions, wanting to learn."
"Trying isn't enough. Not when the alliance depends on her being competent.
" Another pause. "The Condesa Maria would have been better prepared.
She was raised for this. She understands duty, protocol, sacrifice.
This American girl thinks she can smile her way through six months and go back to her coffee shop. "
"The Condesa is no longer an option, Your Majesty. The Valdorian connection was essential for the American base agreement."
"I'm aware." Queen Isabelle's voice carried a bitter edge. "That doesn't mean I have to pretend this marriage is anything other than a political necessity saddled with an inadequate partner. My son deserves better than a woman who can't even maintain her own wardrobe."
I'd heard enough.
I retreated the way I'd come, abandoning any thought of warm milk or midnight snacks. By the time I reached my rooms, my hands were shaking with a combination of humiliation and fury.
Inadequate partner. Deserves better.
I climbed back into bed and lay there in the darkness, listening to my own breathing.
Six months. I just had to survive six months. And then I could go back to my life, back to people who didn't look at me like I was a stain on their precious royal carpet.
The worst part was that a small, treacherous voice in my head wondered if Queen Isabelle was right.