Page 3 of Wedding Night In The King's Bed

Accepting the King’s kind invitation that wasn’t an invitation at all had been an involved process.

Helene had met with a succession of aides, each of whom had arrived with a new agenda and different versions of combative interview styles wrapped up in deadly courtesy. They had seen her alone and with her father. She had been required to surrender all her devices with a list of all her passwords to anything a person might wish to access online. She had been called upon to account for what seemed like her every last movement since she was a child.

Usually they already knew the answers themselves, but wanted to see what she would say.

You texted your cousin about our last meeting. The most ferociously correct of all the aides had confronted her one day, about a month into the process. You told her, if I recall it correctly, that you were beginning to suspect that the King might not, in fact, exist. Is that not so?

I did text that, Helene had agreed, and had been glad her father was not present. He would not have liked the appalled way the woman had gazed at her. He would have forbidden her from contacting Faith, possibly ever again, given he had never cared much for Helene’s mother’s family anyway. Helene had laughed without meaning to. But can you blame me?

The King himself had descended the next day.

She almost tripped, here in the cathedral, as she recalled it. She wasn’t sure how she kept from sprawling out in an inelegant heap right there with the eyes of the Kingdom upon her—though perhaps her father’s grip on her had something to do with it.

Helene let him guide her along. And let herself think back to that June morning that still stood out so clearly to her, marking a before and an after.

Kings did not simply turn up in places, not even when they were attempting to go incognito. So while it was true that he had descended upon her father’s tidy château, there had been some small bit of notice. Another messenger had appeared that morning, followed swiftly by an advance team who had treated her father’s estate to a sweeping security review even though several other similar reviews had already been undertaken.

While the King’s security secured the perimeter of the property, again, Herbert had leaped at the chance to direct Helene in how she needed to behave on such a momentous occasion. He had conferred with both the palace aides and his own staff to curate the perfect introductory scene.

No detail was beneath his notice.

He sent Helene back to her rooms three different times because he felt her hair was first inappropriate, then wanton, and then again, too casual. He was only satisfied when her long, usually wavy, dark brown hair was tamed into submission and woven into a loose French braid that he deemed neither too casual nor too sophisticated, both kisses of death.

Her outfit was subjected to the same scrutiny. And if Helene had learned anything in her time at the Institut, it was not to ask perfectly reasonable questions of unreasonable people. Like, for example, shouldn’t she simply present herself to the King? Given that it was she who had caught his notice? It was certainly not down to her father’s machinations—Herbert had never dared imagine royalty might be within his reach.

Ladies, she had been taught again and again, did not lower themselves to argue. They endured with dignity and then, when it was time, they encouraged their way toward different outcomes.

Meaning, she bit her tongue. She changed as directed into these trousers and then that gown. She exchanged bold accessories for subtle hints. She scrubbed off this round of cosmetics and started anew, time and again, until her father deemed what she wore suitable enough.

How funny, Helene thought now as she measured one step, then the next, that she couldn’t remember any longer what that final outfit had been. Every time she thought she’d come round to the final choice, she remembered instead that her father had ordered her to change it. Or that one of the palace aides had lifted a brow at the sight of it, which her father had taken to mean regal disdain from afar.

What she remembered distinctly was that she had never felt less like herself when she’d been ordered, at last, to go and wait in one of the drawing rooms where she was directed to arrange herself artfully on the settee. Her father would greet His Majesty, she was informed, and then they would all sit down for a bit of a chat. Perhaps there would be a drink, depending on what sort of man this king was, and then Herbert would excuse himself.

And I trust that you will behave as you ought, her father had barked at her, right there in front of the King’s advance team and the entirety of his own household staff. When in doubt, smile and remain silent.

She’d sat in the chosen drawing room, practicing. She and the other girls in her year at the Institut had actually held a contest to see who had the most enigmatic smile of the lot, because they all knew full well that the right one could be used as a weapon. Sadly, Helene had never mastered the art. There was too much hope and too many fairy tales in her smile.

In that she was her mother’s daughter.

And she’d grown rather cross with herself as she waited, because she was actually getting nervous. Helene had not understood why she should be nervous about some man she didn’t even know and might very well never lay eyes upon again. It didn’t matter if he was a king or one of her father’s business associates. It was all the same to her, wasn’t it.

What she chose to believe, then and always, was that her real job was to make certain that she followed her mother’s directives as best she could. Meaning that no matter the situation, she was to look for the magic. She was to find the marvel in the thing, and no matter if it was decidedly un-marvelous.

And if there are no Prince Charmings to be found? she’d asked, presciently, she thought. What will I do then?

You’ll look deep and you’ll find him, her sweet mother had replied, squeezing her hand tight. I have no doubt, mon chou.

Nervousness didn’t help anything, she decided then, and she’d gotten up from her decorative position on the settee her father had indicated. She’d moved over to the great doors, done in a mullioned glass that opened up over one of the château’s many patios. This one in particular let out to her mother’s garden.

That was not why her father had chosen it, Helene knew. He had chosen it because all of the art on the walls were recognizable masterpieces. Herbert did like to show off.

Helene had opened up the doors and stepped outside, breathing in the sweet summer air. She’d walked over to the edge of the patio, glanced back over her shoulder, and had decided she had plenty of time to pad down the stairs, breathe deep of her mother’s favorite flowers, and collect herself.

Blooming lavender made her feel safe again. Hints of rosemary made her smile. And the first flush of the summer roses felt like the sort of happy-ever-afters her mother had always loved best.

Helene had breathed deep.

And when she turned around again, prepared to start back in and arrange herself artfully, silently, and dutifully once more, he was there.

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