Introduction

Good people of Ledonia! It is with a heavy heart we send our very own Prince McHottie, our darling Alexander, to Malveaux to marry Princess Madeline.

Yes, it still hurts.

But, now we have a new royal to watch!

She might not be as luscious as our Alexander. She might not be as glamorous or exciting. In fact, she might not do anything even vaguely interesting or noteworthy, like fall out of a nightclub at 3 a.m., or wear a dress that shows more skin than the three inches of her neck or—shock of all shocks!—more than a flash of ankle. But she is our Princess Sofia, aka the Pitiful Princess, and, it would seem, it’s her time to shine.

Why? Well, good people, tonight, the King and Queen are holding the much-talked about Husband Hunting Ball for her. This is not just any ball. Oh, no, far from it. Tonight’s ball is a matchmaking ball for the first daughter of Ledonia, our Princess Sofia.

Will our Pitiful Princess meet her match?

Will she fall in love?

Will she finally do something—anything—even vaguely interesting?

Oh, how we hope she does all those things because tonight is speed dating, royal style, with every eligible bachelor from Ledonia expected to attend.

Tonight, our Pitiful Princess could meet her future husband.

Will she break from her dowdy, old-before-her-time chrysalis and emerge as a beautiful butterfly, aka Smitten Sofia? Or will she choose the most boring of men, sending us all straight back to sleep? This writer could certainly do with a love story—and we all know Sofia could, too.

Watch this space for titillating tales from the ball!

Your ever devoted royal correspondent,

Fabiana Fontaine xx

 

#ItStillHurts

#PitifulPrincessMovesOn

#LoveIsInTheHeir

 

 

Chapter 1

Sofia

I adjust my tiara, the one Father gave me to wear for this special occasion. I hope I don’t look overdone. With my long dark hair pinned in an elaborate updo the women of Bridgerton would be proud of, my face tastefully made-up, and ruby jewels at my neck, I know it’s a fine line.

Do I look appropriate for a ball?

Am I wearing what’s expected of me as a princess?

And, most importantly, even though I’m only twenty-seven, do I look like my mother? No disrespect to Mummy, of course. She’s a gorgeous woman, but she is actually middle-aged and I’m… not.

That said, as a princess in Ledonia, I’m expected to dress a certain way. Nothing flashy or attention grabbing, nothing too fashionable, and certainly nothing revealing. So, I opt for demure. Modest. The very opposite of a contestant on Love Island (not that I watch the show, of course, but my sister does, she tells me).

The thing is, when you’re labelled “pitiful,” “boring,” and “old before your time” in the media you tend to get a little bit of a complex about these things. And as a sidenote, it’s not at all fair they labelled me the Pitiful Princess, all because I had my heart broken years ago and felt rather sad about it for a month or two. Okay, a year or two. But “pitiful?” It’s unnecessarily harsh.

Have I been able to shake it off? That would be a hard “no.” But I’m hoping tonight will change all that.

I adjust my red gown, the color of Ledonian royalty, wondering whether maybe I should have gone for something that at least showed a little more skin than just my forearms and neck.

I blow out a breath at my prim and proper reflection.

It’s not as though this is all new to me. I’ve been to about a thousand balls in my life. But tonight’s ball is different. Tonight’s ball isn’t about my parents. It isn’t about tradition. It isn’t even about my siblings, Alex, Amelia, and Max, who relish the limelight, all of them unilaterally adored by the media.

Not that I begrudge them that, of course.

Well, perhaps a little. I seem to have missed out on that particular gene.

No. Tonight is all about me, Princess Sofia, first-born child of King Frederic and Queen Astrid of Ledonia.

The purpose? For me to find a husband.

I know. It sounds like some sort of modern fairytale, totally out of touch with the real world. A Cinderella story that will end in a romantic happily ever after.

But let me get one thing straight right now, I’m not expecting my Prince Charming to come waltzing through the palace doors, looking ridiculously handsome and taking my hand in his, lifting it to his lips in some achingly romantic gesture.

I’m far more pragmatic than that.

And besides, I have zero interest in trying to find the “great love of my life.” No thank you. I’ve walked down that path before, wearing my heart on my sleeve, and let me tell you, it only ends in heartbreak.

These days my heart is tucked neatly away in a thick metal box. Locked. Wrapped in chains. With high tech laser beams, warning of intruders.

So much safer that way.

In Ledonia, when you’re a member of the royal family you either find a suitable spouse before you turn twenty-eight, or your parents arrange a marriage for you. Even though I’ve got a year to go, I’ve chosen the arranged approach.

It’s fair to say I’m freaking out a little.

Okay, I’m freaking a lot.

I need to put on a brave face and be the princess everyone expects me to be. Confident, regal, and totally put together, ready to meet what may be my future husband at what the media is calling my Husband Hunting Ball. It should probably offend me, but the truth is, that’s exactly what tonight is. Me looking for a husband.

With nerves pinging off the walls, I turn to face Amelia, my younger sister by three years, she of the sparkling media love. She too is in a red ball gown, the color that’s been associated with our family since they ascended to the throne some 800 years ago—and when I say ascended, I mean brutally took the throne on the battlefield, and stubbornly refused to give it back.

But this isn’t a history lesson, and we like to think of ourselves as so much more sophisticated these days. Although, as I smooth my skirts, readying myself to meet a slew of eligible bachelors, I wonder whether we’ve really moved on at all. I mean, I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman in the 21st century, readying myself to meet a string of potential suitors intent on being my husband.

I’m not going to analyze it too deeply.

“Chill out, Sofe. You look like you’re heading to the wrong side of a firing squad, not about to meet a whole roomful of men, all here for you,” Amelia instructs as she plunks herself down on the edge of my bed and flops over in about the least princess-like way imaginable.

My sister, the tomboy.

“I’m fine,” I insist as I check my makeup for the fifteenth time, wondering whether I should have allowed the makeup artist to give me winged eyeliner and false lashes.

Amelia props herself up on her elbows. “Convincing,” she deadpans.

“You’d be worried too if you were about to meet your future husband for the very first time,” I reply. “Sit up properly. You’ll crease your dress.”

She ignores my instruction.

No change there.

“I’m desperate to break out of the confines of this job I was born into, and here you are, painting yourself right into a princess corner,” Amelia grumps.

“I’m not painting myself into a corner. I’m meeting eligible suitors.”

“Same thing, if you ask me.” She props herself up on her elbows. “You know you don’t have to go through with this. So, you had a moment of insanity in which you told Father you want to have an arranged marriage. You can totally get out of this. Just tell him it was your time of the month, and you weren’t thinking straight. You know how much that sort of thing makes him nervous. The mystery of womanhood and all that. He won’t even question you, just mumble something about horses and leave the room.”

“The thing is, Ami, I want to have an arranged marriage,” I explain, not expecting her to understand in the least.

And why not? I’ve hardly had screaming success in the romance department doing it by myself. In fact, you could say my dating life is an abject disaster. Other than a few minor flirtations, I’ve only ever been seriously involved with one man—and he broke my heart.

So, you see? Getting Father to arrange a marriage for me is so much better, particularly when love has alluded me, much like Waldo in those books. I could never spot him.

She sits up and hugs one of the posts on my four-poster bed. “But what about love, Sofe? Romance?” She fixes me with her stare, waggling her brows at me. “What about the sizzle?”

“The sizzle? Ami, I’m not a steak.”

“The sizzle. You know, all those fabulous feelings you get when you meet someone you really, really fancy. The sizzle is the absolute bee’s knees.”

“Sizzle? Bees knees? You sound like you’re from the early 20^th century.” I smooth my updo in the mirror once more, but it’s been hair sprayed to within an inch of its life. It does not budge. “I don’t care about sizzling or any of that stuff. It’s all rather a waste of time if you ask me.”

“Oh, done right, the sizzle is never a waste of time. Not in a million years,” Ami replies, her brows still waggling, like a couple of hyperactive worms.

Of course she would say that. She’s my younger sister, full to the brim of all the younger sister clichés. She doesn’t feel driven to achieve terribly much, she has the unconditional, straightforward love of our parents who also don’t expect her to do anything of note, and she enjoys a jolly good time, particularly if my equally fun-loving brothers, Alex and Max, are around.

Me? I’m cut from an entirely different cloth.

I’m not saying I don’t enjoy having a good time. I’m not a robot. I’m just more sensible than they are. More thoughtful. I like art and architecture, I adore ballet, the Royal Ledonian Ballet in particular. I wouldn’t dream of going to the hottest new nightclubs in town—and I certainly don’t care about anything sizzling. Unless it’s a steak.

I accept who I am, and my siblings should, too.

“You say you’re not a robot, but that’s exactly what a robot would say, you know,” Amelia states. “Fancying someone is utterly divine. The best feeling in the world.”

“Attraction is not all it’s cracked up to be, Ami,” I reply in my “I know so much more than you do, little sister” tone. “It’s fleeting. It might be all consuming for about five minutes, but then you find out what the person is really like, and those sizzling feelings simply vanish into thin air.”

“Tell Alex that. He and Maddie had the sizzle even when they hated each other and they’re madly in love and can barely keep their hands off each other. Major, major sizzle.”

She leans back on my bed once more, her hands placed over her heart. Thread a rose through her fingers and she’d look like she was in a coffin.

“He gave up everything to be with her. Everything, Sofe. It’s so romantic. I hope someone gives up everything for me someday when I finally get to live my life rather than have to be a stupid princess.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” I warn.

“I’m worried about you, Sofe. You have no romance in your soul.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a compliment.”

“I take it as one, and it’s exactly why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

It’s true that our brother fell in love with Maddie, the new Princess of Malveaux. As our father’s heir to the throne here in Ledonia, Maddie would have had to give up her claim to the Malveauxian throne to marry him. Apparently, she was utterly torn between Alex and the Crown, although Ami tells me Maddie has admitted that she would have given it up for Alex if the need had arisen.

That’s love for you. Far too unnecessarily dramatic if you ask me. Dramatic and messy.

With Alex now formally abdicated, even though it hasn’t been announced yet, we all know our younger brother, Max, aka Prince Maximilien, will become our father’s heir, skipping the female line altogether.

Because we are that modern in Ledonia.

But don’t get me started on that topic. Tonight isn’t the time for me to wrestle with the rights and wrongs of the Ledonian law of succession. (Although, for the record, it is most certainly wrong. As our parents’ first-born child, why should I not inherit the throne simply because I’m not male? It’s wrong, it’s old fashioned, and if I had my way, that law would be shoved right out the window.)

Where was I? That’s right. Defending my decision to have an arranged marriage.

Amelia pads over to the window. “So many cars! We should get down there, Sofe. Everyone’s arriving.”

“You go down. I just need to check something.” I pick up my tablet and pull up the spreadsheet. The familiar rows and columns tell me what I already know.

There’s only one man I want to meet tonight.

Lord Strozzi, Enzo Revera.

My destiny.

My spreadsheet is filled with boxes, and Enzo Revera, Lord Strozzi, gets a green tick in almost all of them, head and shoulders above all the other men attending the ball tonight.

He’s everything a princess would need and want in a husband.

Young? Check. An appropriate twenty-nine.

Educated? Check. An MBA from Harvard Business School, no less.

Serious? Check. Opera, chess, and reading are his preferred pastimes.

Handsome? Che… Well, he’s not ugly. So, there’s that. In fact, he’s got a lot going for him. He’s taller than me, and although he looks like he enjoys a good meal, he carries it well. He’s got light brown hair that’s receding a little, but nothing too drastic. What’s more, he has kind eyes, and although I’m not a fan of bushy mustaches, it suits him well enough. And besides, I’m sure he’d shave it off if I asked him. And if not, I might grow to like it over time—even if it does remind me of a furry caterpillar, nestling on his top lip.

But looks are literally only skin deep, and they really don’t matter, not when it comes to choosing the right kind of man to spend my life with.

What’s more, Father has agreed with me that he’s on the top of the list of potential candidates, so it’s a win-win.

“What have you got there?” Amelia peers over my shoulder, and immediately, I snap the screen shut. I know it’s too late and she’s seen my spreadsheet, which has been my closely guarded secret for weeks now.

Dang it! Why did I have to check to see what I already know?

“Sofia!” she exclaims, aghast, her eyes so wide I’m surprised they don’t pop out of her face and roll across the floor. “Is that what I think it is?”

I lift my chin. “That depends. What do you think it is, exactly?”

“A list of eligible bachelors and how many of your impossible standards they meet?”

I press my lips together. She’s hit the nail square on its head.

“I cannot believe you! You can’t choose a husband based on a checklist in some spreadsheet.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because… you just can’t.”

I slot my tablet back into its case and zip it up. “Great argument, Ami. You totally convinced me. I’ll tell Father to call the entire ball off.”

She ignores my sarcasm. “Look at Alex. He kissed about a million frogs before he found his perfect match. Why don’t you do that?”

“Kiss Kermit? No thank you. I’m not Alex.”

“You know what I mean. Get out there and date rather than sit around in the palace, gazing at your naval.”

“I don’t sit around the palace. I do a lot of work.”

She ignores me. “You can’t list a bunch of men’s alleged virtues on some spreadsheet and decide to marry the one with the highest score. It doesn’t work that way.”

“It should, and besides, it’s so much more nuanced than that,” I argue, when in truth, that’s exactly how I did it. I had my personal secretary, Ronan, design it for me, and together, we populated it with everything we could find about Europe’s most eligible bachelors before presenting the list to Father.

As far as I can see, my spreadsheet has saved me a huge amount of time, and it’s meant I haven’t had to kiss absolutely any frogs, Kermit included.

“Amelia,” I say, using my sister’s full name, so she knows I’m serious. “I’ve already made up my mind. I’ve got a plan, and I’m going to stick with it because it’s going to work. You’ll see.”

She quirks an eyebrow at me as if to say you know you’re wrong and I’m right. “But the sizzle.”

“I’m not interested in flying by the seat of my pants, kissing frogs until I find my prince. I don’t have time for that. As cliché as it may be, my clock is ticking. And besides, Ledonian princesses have a long tradition of arranged marriages. Why should I be any different?”

Satisfied with my response, I stride out of the room before she utters another word, heading toward the ballroom—and my future. My mind is made-up. Tonight, I will meet the man who will become my husband. And I’ll happily leave the sizzle for someone else.

Chapter 2

Marco

Why do these things always involve me having to wear a dinner suit? Not that I go to balls all that often.

Okay, never.

But me and suits are barely on speaking terms these days, let alone a formal dinner suit. I’ve found they’re not exactly a requirement when you’re travelling the globe, picking apples in New Zealand, taking tourists on safari in Botswana, or trekking the Annapurna circuit in Nepal.

And ties are just plain weird, literally a noose we tie around our necks. Willingly. Or not so willingly, in my case.

I lift the jacket sleeve and take a sniff. It smells of mothballs, thanks to the fact it’s been stashed at the back of the wardrobe for way too long while I’ve been living my life.

It’s a little on the tight side, too. I last wore it for my high school leaver’s ball back when I was eighteen, so that comes as no surprise. I’ve filled out over the last seven or so years, and I’m a couple of inches taller, too. I glance down at my shoes, my white gym socks poking out from the trouser legs.

I look like I’m on a Michael Jackson video, circa 1981.

I glance at the time on my phone. Have I got enough time to let my trousers down?

Actually, the real question here is, have I got any clue how to let my trousers down?

The answer to both of those questions is a firm no.

So, despite the fact I look like I’m wearing a suit that’s not only too small but smells like it’s successfully repelled moths for over half a decade, it’s going to have to do.

And anyway, I’m fairly confident this princess won’t be looking at me. Not with my much more impressive and successful older brother in the mix, not to mention all the other eligible bachelors who will be in the room, vying for her attention.

Really, what kind of a masochist do I have to be to attend this ball at which there will be a hoard of men, all competing for the attention of one solitary woman, looking for her future husband, like some kind of reality TV dating show?

An employed one, that’s what.

That’s right, I get to go to Princess Sofia’s Husband Hunting Ball as my older brother’s employee. His gofer, aka his general dogsbody. Not that “general dogsbody” is my official title, of course, but that’s what I am, and tonight I get to watch Enzo try to make conversation—and maybe even flirt… ugh—in his awkward way with none other than Ledonia’s first-born princess.

Lucky me.

“Marco? Are you ready to go?” my aforementioned brother says as he strides into my room. He comes to a crashing halt as he throws his eyes over me. “What the dickens are you wearing?” he demands.

“My dinner suit, just as you told me.”

“That’s more like a Halloween costume than a dinner suit.”

“I’m styling it out as a Michael Jackson meets James Bond after a growth spurt. What do you think?” I flash him a grin as I hold my arms out to the side so he can take in my full splendor. Or ridiculousness. Take your pick.

He doesn’t crack a smile. “You look preposterous.”

So not splendor.

“Thanks. You’re not looking too bad yourself,” I reply with a wink.

“Can’t you change or something? Even your shirt is pulling across your chest. Do you own a black suit? A navy one would do in a pinch if the lights are low.”

I shake my head. “There’s not a lot of call for black or navy suits with what I do, brother.”

He glances at my hands. “Did you at least clean the dirt from under your fingernails when you got home from your gardening job?”

I make fists to disguise what’s inevitably lurking beneath. “Of course I did,” I reply breezily, just knowing there’s enough dirt under each nail to grow a host of root vegetables.

But dirt under your nails is part and parcel of working as a landscape gardener, my newly minted career now that I’m back in Ledonia. Well, it will be a newly minted career once I get a commission or two. But that’s a work in progress, shall we say, hence the gofer status for my big bro—and attending this reality TV-like ball.

Enzo pulls his lips into a line. “Hmm.”

“I can throw my jeans and T-shirt back on, if you prefer? They’re a little grubby from working at the community garden today, but at least they fit.”

“I hardly think jeans and a T-shirt are acceptable attire for a palace ball, even if they’re freshly laundered. Although it would be nice not to have to look at your socks. Is that SpongeBob?”

I lift a leg to show off my socks in all their glory. “The man himself. If you can in fact refer to a sponge as a man. More of an inanimate object that’s somehow… animate.”

Enzo is not impressed with my pondering. “What the heck are you going on about, Marco?”

“Look, I can lose the socks. No big deal. But the tux? I’m afraid it’s either this or I don’t go to the ball at all.”

I leave my words hanging in the air, hoping he’ll grab onto the suggestion and leave me in peace. I’m looking forward to this evening’s event about as much as I’m looking forward to my next root canal. In fact, if I get out of going to this thing, I could spend the evening working on my design for the city’s newest park and, as unlikely as it is that I win the commission, say a few hundred prayers and affirmations that I do.

“You have to come. You’re on the invitation list and it would be rude to simply not turn up. And besides, I may need you during the evening.”

“Enzo, I’m your assistant. What are you going to need me to do? Create a bullet point list of your conversation with the princess? Book you flights to Peru during the dancing?”

I’ve been working part time for my older brother for the past couple of months since I’ve been back in the capital city of Villadorata. The cash has been handy, and helping my brother with his businesses feels like the right thing to do, even if it means him bossing me around. Something he relishes. But then I suppose he would describe me as being on the too relaxed side of the equation. We’re like night and day, but despite our differences, somehow, we work.

“I don’t know, Marco. There might be something I need from you during the evening,” he replies, distracted, as he rifles through my scant wardrobe.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to find something to make you look the part.”

“It’s not like there’s a perfectly fitting dinner suit lurking inside. If there were, don’t you think I’d already be wearing it?”

“With you, I do not know. You might have several suits in here.”

“I haven’t had a lot of use for suits over the years.”

“That’s because you’ve been too focused on roaming the world like some kind of vagabond rather than getting a university degree and a proper job.”

Great. That topic of conversation again.

“Landscape gardening is a proper job.”

He shoots me a look. “If you say so.” He gives up on rifling through my wardrobe and huffs a defeated breath. “I suppose at least you’ll make me look good.”

“You’re such a charmer. The princess is going to fall for you at first sight,” I say on a laugh.

“We’ll see. Change your socks. Pull a brush through that mop of hair. Clean the dirt from under your nails. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Busted.

“We’re leaving in three minutes.”

I salute him and, still unimpressed, he turns on his heel and leaves me to it.

I run my fingers through my hair, the thick hair I inherited from our dad. Unlike Enzo, who got our mum’s thinner locks. Dark blonde and thick, it falls below my collar—much to Enzo’s distress—and if I don’t get it cut at least every six months or so, it can look a little Miley Cyrus in her punk rock phase.

I grin as an image springs to mind. That would really complete the look tonight: much less James Bond and more Michael Jackson meets Miley Cyrus.

Enzo’s frown will be a permanent fixture on his face.

Quickly, I change my socks into the only black pair I can find, which goes some small way in hiding the shorter trousers. I clean under my nails and run a comb through my hair, before Enzo frowns at my appearance once more, and we climb into the car to head through the Villadorata city streets to the palace.

“How’s it going to work tonight? Is the princess going to dance with everyone and ask us a bunch of questions? Or is she going to give us each a table and she’ll bounce around between us like she’s on some kind of extreme royal speed date?” I ask as we whizz past the imposing neoclassical Science Museum along the wide expanse of the Royal Mile, which ends with the palace gates.

“I imagine we’ll find out when we get there,” Enzo replies. “She’ll need to speak to all of us, of course. Who knows how many men will be there. It might be quite a long, tedious evening, but we must attend. We’re invited guests.”

I regard the procession of cars moving through the gates ahead of us. “Is she actually going to choose a husband by the end of the night?”

“That’s what the media is saying, and at twenty-seven, I imagine she would be looking to marry soon.”

I let out a whistle. “You know that’s insane, don’t you? How can you fall in love with someone when you’ve only known them for one evening? Is she expecting love at first sight?”

“I imagine she won’t be expecting love at all, at least not to start with. She’ll choose a mate based on compatibility and shared values, guided by her father, the King.”

“How romantic,” I deadpan.

“It’s a good foundation, something you should know all about with your landscaping.”

“Wooden retaining walls: romantic love.” I pretend to weigh the two concepts in each hand. “You’re right, Enzo, they’re absolutely the same. Princess Sofia is really onto something.”

“Why do you feel the need to make jokes all the time?”

“Why do you feel the need not to make jokes all the time?”

He thins his lips. “Hmm,” he grumbles, which seems to be his characteristic response to most things I say in the two months I’ve been back in the country.

The car comes to a stop outside the palace, where guards in ceremonial costumes flank the huge wrought iron gates. Security men in dark suits check our invitations and ID before we’re heralded inside the hallowed grounds of the palace.

I gaze out the window at the splendor of the building, a classic example of Baroque architecture, with its ornate symmetrical design on a grand scale, the colossal columns giving it an entirely appropriate regal presence. As the tires crunch over the limestone, we pass the perfectly manicured gardens, bathed in the soft evening sun, with traditional topiary and statues.

My mind begins to whirr with ideas. If I had my way, I would modernize the gardens while still acknowledging their heritage by updating the fountain and replacing some of the roses with some interesting, more architectural plants, such as Mediterranean Spurge, to add interest.

Not that I’ll ever get the chance to do any of that.

The car comes to a stop under a canopy, and a white-gloved guard in Ledonian red pulls open the door for us. I step out onto cobblestones, covered in a red carpet that runs up the steps and through a grand façade into the palace itself.

“Ready to meet the princess?” I ask my brother as he adjusts his black bowtie.

“As ready as I’ll ever be. And Marco? Please behave. This is royalty, not a bunch of guys at a shabby beach bar.”

“I do love me a shabby beach bar.”

“Marco,” he warns in his best older brother tone.

I shoot him my most serious of looks. “I do solemnly promise not to have a good time tonight under any circumstances, even if the princess turns out to be the most fun human in the country.”

It’s an easy promise to make, even if I’m only teasing him. Princess Sofia, although beautiful, is known for being serious and rather dull, always immaculately presented in prim and proper skirt suits, pearls at her neck, her hair tied up neatly.

She’s about as far from the kind of women I fancy as someone afraid of heights is from becoming an astronaut.

Total opposites, that’s what we are.

I wonder what she’d look like without her princess armor? Her hair is always so tightly controlled. What if she let it loose, maybe even undid the top button of one of her jackets to reveal a couple of centimeters of flesh? Her collarbone, perhaps. Shock, horror! Although the only things I know of her are from the media, she’s always struck me as someone who could do with letting loose and having a good time.

Not that I’ve exactly spent a lot of time in my life thinking about Princess Sofia.

Far too many more interesting things to do.

We walk down the long, red carpeted corridor, following a group of men in dinner suits. It’s hard not to be impressed by the sheer size and opulence of the place. Of course, like all Ledonian children, I came here on a school trip when I was about ten, but I didn’t appreciate it the way I do now.

As we reach the end of a corridor that was probably an entire kilometer long, we enter the ballroom, simmering with gold and elegance. Oh, and men. Lots and lots of men.

Seriously, someone call the city’s mayor because all the male citizens of a certain age are trapped here in this very room, nervously looking around like a mass of herded sheep filling a paddock to its brim.

“This is a lot of men,” I remark, pointing out the obvious.

“Behave,” Enzo growls under his breath.

“I am behaving,” I retort.

We make our way across the polished parquet floor, and as I look around at all the eligible bachelors, I notice every single one of them is in a perfectly cut dinner suit. I tug at my dinner jacket as though it could miraculously grow in size to fit me. Clearly, it does not.

“Duck!” a voice calls, and I look over to see a guy I went to school with, Austin Hargreaves. He bounds over to us, the drink in his hand sloshing onto the skin of his hand, a grin on his face.

“Austin. Good to see you,” I say as I shake his hand. He was in my year at high school, and I remember he was always loud and opinionated. “This is Enzo, my brother.”

Austin greets Enzo, who conveniently spots some of his own friends and peels off to chat to them.

“Where have you been? Wait. Don’t tell me.” He balances his glass of whiskey against his chest as he pulls his phone from his jacket pocket. It’s a bold move for someone who looks like they might have had a few too many already—and with no princess yet, the ball hasn’t even begun.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking your Instagram for updates.”

“I think you’ll find it says I’m in Villadorata,” I say on a laugh, because isn’t it obvious, what with me standing in front of the guy? “I came back from India a couple of months ago. Been here ever since.”

“India? Never been. Far too hot, and I’m not a fan of curries. Too spicy.”

“It’s an amazing place, actually, the curries included. The Taj Mahal is so delicately beautiful, and I got to go on the most incredible camel safari through the Thar Desert, sleeping under the stars, nothing but the sound of nighttime bugs in the air. Very romantic.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Romantic? Were you with some hot bit of totty on this safari?” he asks.

I’ve never loved the way some men refer to attractive women as “totty.” But that’s Austin for you. Not exactly classy.

“I bet you were, you old dog.” He shoves me a little too hard.

“Not in the being in love sense. I’m still a bachelor. Clearly.” I gesture around me at the sea of men.

“Far too many fellows here for my liking,” he sniffs before taking another swig of his whiskey. “I hear camels are horribly smelly, gassy beasts. True?”

“Best to stay upwind of them.”

He barks out a laugh. “You do lead the most incredible life, Duck. Always darting off to here and there, never staying put for long. Not like the likes of me, toiling away at my career. Tell me, where haven’t you been?”

“Lots of places,” I reply vaguely. “But enough about me. What have you been up to, Austin?”

“Running the family business. You know how it is, Duck.”

“Actually, I don’t. That’s Enzo’s gig. Not mine.” I gesture at myself with my thumb. “Younger, utterly irresponsible brother, remember?”

His gaze slides over me. “Who evidently can’t find the right sized suit.”

I shrug because what else am I going to do? He’s right.

“You’re lucky. You’re free. You can do whatever you like with your life, including wearing whatever you want to the palace.”

“Being poor seems to be my choice these days. Traveler’s jobs don’t pay all that well. But I’ve started a landscaping business back here in the city, which I’m excited about.”

His lips sneer in distaste. “Plants, eh? You’ve always marched to the beat of your own drum. And now you’re here in Villadorata, looking for love with a princess?”

I chortle. “That’s more my brother’s style. I’m here in case he needs me.”

“But surely you’re on the invitation list?”

“I’m a single man in Ledonia, aren’t I? But that doesn’t mean I’m looking to marry Princess Sofia. I can’t imagine anything worse than marrying into the royal family.”

He leans in toward me and says, “I’ve got a plan.”

“A plan?” I ask, trying not to breathe in his whiskey breath.

“I’m going to pop the question, just as soon as I can. It’s what she wants, isn’t it? She just needs a man to take control of the situation. Get on with things. She’s the Pitiful Princess, after all. How picky can she be?” He takes another swig of his whiskey, his eyes bright.

I can hardly believe what he’s planning. But he’s right, Princess Sofia is said to be looking for a husband, and Austin, it would seem, is a willing candidate. Who am I to stand in his way?

“How romantic of you,” I deadpan.

He barks out another laugh. “Romance is for the birds. We all know she makes beige look vibrant. Nothing a glass or two of vino couldn’t sort out, though, eh?” He nudges me with his elbow as he holds his glass aloft and grins. “I bet her idea of thrill seeking is alphabetizing the spice rack.”

“Would a princess know what a spice rack was?”

“Good point, Duck. Good point.” He chortles, lifting his glass for another sip.

I may be the younger brother who’s only just found what he wants to do with his life, but I know people are who they are. They don’t change. If Princess Sofia is a serious type of person, then it’s clear she and I will have nothing much in common. In my experience, serious people tend to be interested in the sorts of things Enzo likes: chess, opera, and discussing politics. I’d rather play a frenetic game of soccer, followed by a hike in the mountains, before relaxing with friends around a campfire in the evening, toasting marshmallows and telling stories.

I can’t imagine someone like Princess Sofia would want to do any of those things.

I shake my head, smiling. “I’m here tonight for the only member of my family who stands a chance with the princess, and that person is most certainly not me.”

 

Do you want to read more about Sofia and Marco? Get your copy of Royally Matched. It’s out Sept 26th, at which time it will also be in Kindle Unlimited.