Page 21 of His Royal Matchmaker

Better to frustrate my mother now than make some woman miserable later.

If I’m stubborn enough, if I sabotage enough of these matchmaking efforts, eventually Mother will give up and forget about even organizing an arranged marriage. She’ll have to. She’s persistent, but I inherited my stubborn streak from her, so this is one battle I might actually win.

Satisfied that I’m doing the right thing, I make my way through the palace corridors toward the east patio, where Mother and I often have breakfast when the weather permits. April in Marzieu is particularly beautiful, with the gardens just coming into bloom.

As I step onto the patio, the sunlight momentarily blinds me. When my vision clears, I freeze. My mother sits at our usual table, elegant as always in a light pink dress, her hair swept up. But she’s not alone.

Emily sits across from her, a cup of coffee cradled in her small hands. She’s wearing a simple white blouse and navy pants, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail that makes her look younger than her — what? Late twenties?

Great. The matchmaker is still here. I’d hoped she might have given up after last night’s disaster and caught the first flight back to Los Angeles.

“Ah, Hugo!” My mother spots me and waves me over. “You’re just in time for coffee.”

I plaster on my diplomatic smile and approach the table. “Good morning, Mother.” I bend to kiss her cheek, then straighten and give Emily a polite nod. “Hello.”

“Good morning. I was just telling the queen about some of the challenges I’ve encountered in my career.” Her eyes glint. She’s taunting me.

“I imagine I’ve just become your biggest challenge,” I say with a smile that I know doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Oh, not at all,” Emily says, matching my fake cheeriness. “I’ve worked with billionaires, celebrities, and politicians. Trust me, Your Highness, difficult clients are my specialty.”

My mother’s eyes dart between us, no doubt sensing the tension crackling in the air.

“Please, sit down,” she says. “Breakfast will be served shortly.”

I take my usual seat beside my mother, leaving Emily across from us. A server appears instantly to pour my coffee, and I thank him quietly.

“I was surprised to see you still in Marzieu,” I say to Emily after taking a sip. “I thought perhaps after last night’s… event… you might be reconsidering the engagement.”

Her smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, I never give up that easily, Prince Hugo. In fact, last night was quite informative.”

“Was it?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Absolutely. I learned a lot about what doesn’t work for you.” She leans forward slightly. “And that helps me figure out what might.”

My mother practically beams. “Emily has come up with a marvelous new approach.”

Wonderful. That’s exactly what I don’t want to hear.

Breakfast arrives — fresh fruit, pastries, and eggs cooked just how I like them. I use the distraction of food to collect my thoughts, but Emily doesn’t give me much time.

“Prince Hugo,” she says, setting down her cup with purpose, “I believe we should take a step back from formal introductions.”

“Meaning?” I cut into my eggs, keeping my expression neutral.

“Meaning I’d like to set you up on a practice date.”

I nearly choke on my food. “I’m sorry?”

“A practice date,” she repeats, as if this is a perfectly normal suggestion to make. “With an actress. Someone who can help us identify any… areas for improvement.”

I carefully set down my fork. “You want me to go on a fake date.”

“I use this technique with some of my more challenging clients,” she explains, apparently unfazed by my skepticism. “It’s especially helpful for people who haven’t dated in a while or who have specific obstacles to overcome.”

“And what obstacles do you think I have?” I ask through gritted teeth.

Her blue eyes meet mine directly. “Well, for starters, you spent most of last night hiding behind either your phone or a fern.”

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