Page 15 of His Royal Matchmaker

A smile spreads across my face despite his chilly departure. Phase one of Operation Find Hugo’s Heart: complete. He may think he’s just humoring me until I go away, but little does he know I can’t afford to give up on this match.

Tomorrow, the real work begins. And by the time I’m finished here, I’ll know Prince Hugo Bastien better than he knows himself. Finding him the perfect woman will be a piece of cake.

CHAPTER 7

HUGO

Iwake to the realization that today is the day. The matchmaker begins her shadowing, and I’m already exhausted by the thought.

Five years as the ruling prince of Marzieu, and somehow this feels more invasive than any state dinner or diplomatic crisis I’ve weathered. The clock reads five forty-three a.m., and while I could sleep another seventeen minutes, my mind is already spinning with meeting agendas and treaty clauses — and now, the added complication of a pipsqueak blonde who thinks she can find me true love.

The shower in my suite has excellent water pressure, one of the few luxuries I genuinely appreciate. I let the scalding water pound against my shoulders, hoping it might wash away my apprehension about this arrangement.

By six fifty, I’m dressed in a tailored navy suit, collar starched to perfection, hair combed back neatly, the breakfast and coffee delivered straight to my room all finished. The man in the mirror looks nothing like the party boy I was before Father died. That Hugo disappeared five years ago, buried alongside my father.This Hugo — the one with the straight back and the serious eyes — takes his coffee black and his responsibilities seriously.

Emily stands at the entrance to my private office, precisely on time, her blond hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She wears a professional gray dress that does nothing to dim the spark in her eyes. Those eyes — blue and alert — scan the room quickly, taking in details I’m sure will end up in some matchmaking file.

“Ms. Neale,” I nod formally, ignoring her request from yesterday to call her by her first name. “I trust you’re prepared for a full day.”

“Of course,” she smiles, and the expression transforms her face from merely pretty to something that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.

“Just don’t be… invasive.” I clear my throat, attempting to clear the strange sensation in my chest along with it.

“I can’t match you properly if I don’t know you, Your Highness.”

I check my watch. “The morning briefing begins in two minutes. You’ll need to sign additional confidentiality agreements before we proceed.”

“Already did. Your chief of staff had me arrive at six thirty for paperwork.” She holds up a lanyard with a security badge. “I’m officially cleared to hear state secrets, although I promise none of them will make it into your dating profile.”

I’m not sure if I should be amused or horrified at the thought of having a dating profile. Instead of responding, I lead her down the corridor to the conference room where my advisors gather every morning at seven a.m. sharp. Their voices hush as we enter, eyes flickering curiously toward Emily.

“This is Ms. Neale,” I explain tersely. “She’ll be observing today. Proceed as normal.”

Harold, who is both my senior advisor and Guy’s father, clears his throat. “Very well. Let’s begin with the agricultural reports. The drought in the southern region continues, and farmers are requesting emergency funding.”

I take my seat at the head of the table, hyperaware of Emily settling into a chair against the wall behind me. Not too close — she’s maintaining that professional distance she mentioned — but somehow I can feel her presence as clearly as if she were breathing down my neck.

The briefing continues with updates on diplomatic relations with neighboring Bellevoir (strained), tax-revenue projections (lower than expected), and the upcoming visit from Japan’s trade minister (requiring extensive preparation). Through it all, I take notes, ask questions, and make decisions while trying to ignore the scratch of Emily’s pen on paper.

What is she writing? Is she judging how I handle crises? Does the way I discuss international trade somehow indicate what type of partner I’d be compatible with? The questions bounce around my skull, making it difficult to focus on the ambassador’s concerns about fishing rights in our shared waters.

“Your Highness?” my foreign minister prompts, and I realize everyone is looking at me expectantly.

“I apologize. Yes, draft the statement as discussed. I’ll review it before noon.” I straighten my already straight tie, annoyed at my lapse in attention.

When the briefing ends, we move directly to a meeting with the education minister about university funding. Another room,another set of data projections, and always, always Emily’s presence like a shadow I can’t shake. She sits quietly in the corner, occasionally making notes but never interrupting. Her silence is more distracting than if she were chattering constantly.

During the minister’s presentation about scholarship allocations, I steal a glance at her. She seems genuinely interested in the topic, head tilted slightly as she listens. For someone who spends her days thinking about romance and compatibility, she appears surprisingly engaged by policies regarding science-research grants. An unexpected depth, perhaps.

The meeting runs long, and we barely have time to walk to the east wing for my ten o’clock appointment with the royal architect about renovations to certain areas of the palace. Emily keeps pace beside me through the long corridors, her short legs somehow managing a brisk stride that matches mine.

“Do you have any questions so far?” I ask, breaking the silence that has stretched between us for nearly three hours.

“Not yet,” she answers simply, and falls quiet again.

The brevity of her response irritates me more than it should. Isn’t her job to ask questions? To learn about my preferences, my personality, my needs? How can she possibly gather information if she just sits there like a silent sponge, absorbing but never engaging?

The architect meeting is particularly uncomfortable because it veers into personal territory when we discuss the renovation of my private apartments.

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