CHAPTER 12
Archie
The morning after our dinner, I woke up thinking about Betty's laugh.
Not the polite, practiced laugh she deployed at formal functions, but the real one that had slipped out when I told her about Chef Marcello throwing a diplomat out of the kitchen.
It had been surprised out of her, genuine and unguarded, and I'd spent entirely too much of the night replaying it in my head like some kind of lovesick teenager.
This was problematic on multiple levels.
I was supposed to be maintaining appropriate emotional distance from my wife.
I was supposed to be focused on the political realities of our situation, not on the way her eyes crinkled when she found something genuinely funny.
And I was definitely not supposed to be lying in bed at seven in the morning, wondering what she was doing right now and whether she'd slept well in her new rooms.
"Get it together," I muttered to myself, throwing off the covers. "She's still angry at you. She thinks this marriage is temporary. And you're acting like you've never seen a woman laugh before."
Azzurra provided a convenient excuse to escape my own head. My pregnant mare had been restless for days, and checking on her gave me something productive to do that didn't involve thinking about my wife's smile.
The stable was quiet this early, just the soft sounds of horses shifting in their stalls and the distant call of seabirds from the harbor. I let myself into Azzurra's stall and found her standing in the corner, her sides heaving with the kind of labored breathing that made my stomach clench.
"Easy, beautiful." I ran my hands along her neck, feeling the tension in her muscles. "Still not feeling well?"
She turned her head toward me, and I caught the dullness in her usually bright eyes. The palace veterinarian kept insisting everything was progressing normally, but nothing about Azzurra's behavior suggested normal to me.
"You and me both," I told her. "Trapped in situations we didn't choose, trying to make the best of it."
She snorted, which I chose to interpret as solidarity.
"Your Highness."
I looked up to find Thomas, my personal secretary, hovering at the stall entrance with the expression that meant he was about to deliver news I wouldn't enjoy.
"What is it?"
"The kitchen staff would like a word, sir. There's been some confusion about the Princess's dietary requirements."
Of course there had been. "What kind of confusion?"
"Well, sir, when asked about food allergies or preferences, Her Highness said, and I quote, 'I can eat anything that won't kill me, but I draw the line at anything that looks like it's still judging me.'"
I closed my eyes and counted to five. A smile was threatening to break through, and smiling at my wife's antics would only encourage her.
"And Chef Marcello's response?"
"He's not entirely sure what foods qualify as judgmental, Your Highness. He's requested clarification before planning tonight's menu."
"Tell Chef Marcello that the Princess was joking. She has no dietary restrictions."
"Very good, sir." Thomas paused in the way that meant there was more. "There's also been some discussion among the staff about Her Highness's wardrobe situation."
"The luggage incident is being investigated. New clothes are being arranged."
"Of course, sir. It's just that when Carmela offered to coordinate with Queen Isabelle's guest wardrobe, Her Highness said she'd rather wear a potato sack than borrow clothes from someone who clearly thinks she's not good enough to breathe the same air."
This time I couldn't suppress the smile. Betty wasn't wrong about my mother's opinion, but saying it out loud to the staff was going to cause complications.
"I'll speak with the Princess about diplomatic phrasing."
"Actually, sir, the staff rather appreciated her directness. Carmela said it was refreshing to work with someone who says what they mean."
That caught me off guard. Palace staff were trained to be diplomatically neutral about the royal family. The fact that they were openly admiring Betty's bluntness suggested she was winning people over despite her lack of polish.
Or perhaps because of it.
"Anything else?"
"Just one more thing, sir. Her Highness has requested access to the palace library. She'd like to read about Solmarian history and culture."
"She did?"
"Yes, sir. She specifically asked for books about our government structure, economic relationships with neighboring countries, and, I believe she said, 'how not to accidentally start a diplomatic incident by existing wrong.'"
The fact that she was trying to learn, trying to understand this world she'd been thrust into, made something warm settle in my chest. It would have been easy for her to spend these months sulking in her rooms, counting down the days until she could leave. Instead, she was doing research.
"Grant her access to any materials she requests."
After Thomas left, I stayed with Azzurra for another hour, brushing her coat and checking her water and trying not to think about the fact that Betty was somewhere in the palace right now, probably surrounded by books, probably looking adorably serious as she took notes on Solmarian trade policy.
I was failing spectacularly at not thinking about her.
Around mid-morning, I headed back toward the palace and caught sight of Betty through one of the library windows. She was sitting at the massive oak table, surrounded by books, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, wearing one of the few dresses that had survived the luggage disaster.
She was completely absorbed in whatever she was reading, her brow furrowed in concentration, occasionally writing something in a notebook. For a moment, I just stood there watching her, struck by how different she looked from the sarcastic woman who'd sparred with me over dinner last night.
Then she looked up and caught me watching her through the window.
Instead of the hostile expression I'd grown accustomed to over the past week, she gave me a small wave that seemed almost friendly.
I found myself waving back before I remembered that standing outside windows waving at people was not standard princely behavior.
She grinned at my obvious awkwardness and pointed toward the library door, then held up what appeared to be a coffee cup in invitation.
I told myself I was going inside because it would be rude not to. I told myself this had nothing to do with wanting to see her smile again.
I was lying to myself, but I'd gotten quite good at that lately.
"Research session?" I asked, letting myself into the library.
"Cramming session is more accurate." She gestured at the books spread around her. "I'm trying to learn six hundred years of Solmarian history before my first public appearance tomorrow. It's going about as well as you'd expect."
"Tomorrow?"
"The charity luncheon for the children's hospital. Didn't your mother tell you?"
I had a vague memory of my mother mentioning something about Betty's first official event, but I'd been distracted by the luggage investigation report at the time. "She may have. I've had other things on my mind."
"The sabotage investigation?"
"Among other things."
She studied me for a moment, something shifting in her expression. "You actually took that seriously. The luggage thing."
"I told you I would."
"I know. I just didn't expect you to actually do it." She gestured to the chair across from her. "Want to quiz me on Solmarian prime ministers? I've memorized approximately three of them, which I'm hoping is enough to fake my way through small talk."
I sat down, close enough to smell whatever shampoo she used, something floral that made me want to lean closer. "Which three?"
"The current one, the one who was assassinated in 1847, and the one who legalized women's suffrage. I figured those were the most likely to come up in conversation."
"Solid choices. Though the 1847 assassination is still a sensitive topic with some of the older families."
"Great. I'll add 'don't mention the dead prime minister' to my list of things not to say." She pulled out a notebook covered in handwritten notes. "Speaking of things not to say, is there anything else I should avoid tomorrow? Besides fish migration rights and the Bavarian hunting incident?"
"Where did you hear about those?"
"Petra warned me before the pre-wedding reception.
I've been keeping a running list of forbidden topics.
" She flipped to a page filled with bullet points.
"So far I have: fish migration, Bavarian wildlife, the Spanish countess's failed engagement, anything that could be construed as American exceptionalism, and croissant-tearing technique. "
"Croissant-tearing technique?"
"I do it wrong. Madame Delacroix was very distressed."
I laughed before I could stop myself, and something in her expression softened at the sound.
"You should do that more often," she said.
"Do what?"
"Laugh. You're less intimidating when you laugh."
"I'm not trying to be intimidating."
"And yet." She gestured at the general scope of him. "The whole prince thing has an intimidating effect whether you intend it or not."
"Does it intimidate you?"
She considered the question seriously. "It did at first. Now it's more like..." She searched for the right word. "Background noise. I know you're a prince, but when we're actually talking, you're just Archie. The guy who wanted to be a veterinarian and has opinions about pasta authenticity."
"I never said I had opinions about pasta authenticity."
"You defended Chef Marcello's diplomat-throwing incident. That implies opinions."
"That implies respect for culinary standards."
"Same thing."