Page 22 of His Royal Matchmaker

My mother makes a small sound that might be a suppressed laugh.Traitor.

“I wasn’t hiding,” I say, though we all know that’s exactly what I was doing. “I was taking a strategic approach to a situation I had no interest in being part of.”

Emily nods as if I’ve just proven her point. “Exactly. And a practice date will help me understand what you actually want and need in a partner, rather than just what you’re trying to avoid.”

Nonsense. I see her true strategy clearly. She wants to occupy my time, to wear down my resistance through sheer persistence. If I go on this practice date, then she’ll suggest another activity, and another, until eventually I’m so worn down that I agree to an actual date with some princess or duchess just to get all of this over with.

“I appreciate your creativity, but I don’t think that will be necessary,” I say firmly. “I don’t need practice-dating. What I need is for everyone to understand that finding me a wife is not a priority right now.”

My mother’s face falls, and I immediately feel a sharp pang of guilt. Her hands rest in her lap, and I notice she’s wearing the emerald ring my father gave her on their twentieth anniversary. The sight of it makes the guilt intensify.

“Hugo,” she says softly, “I know you’re dedicated to your duties. But your father would have wanted you to find happiness too.”

It’s a low blow, but an effective one. I press my lips together, fighting the wave of emotions that always comes when she invokes my father.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” my mother continues. “Just one practice date. What harm could it do?”

Plenty, I think. But the hopeful look on her face is hard to resist. I’ve disappointed her enough already.

“Fine,” I say finally. “One practice date. One.”

Emily’s smile is triumphant, though she tries to hide it behind her coffee cup. “Excellent. I’ll make the arrangements. How does tomorrow evening work for you?”

“My schedule is rather full,” I hedge, though it’s not entirely true. “I’d have to check with my secretary.”

“I already did,” my mother says. “You’re free after four.”

Of course she did. I should have known they’d be coordinating their attack.

“Then I suppose tomorrow evening it is,” I concede, unable to find another escape route. “And who will this date be with?”

“An actress,” Emily says simply.

“Who exactly is this actress?” I ask, setting my fork down deliberately and leaning back in my chair. I cross my arms over my chest, trying and failing to hide my interest.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. She’s a professional. Very experienced in helping men like you.”

“Men like me?” I arch one brow at her, intrigued and insulted at the same time.

“Well, workaholics with no social lives.” There’s a teasing lilt in her voice that unnerves me more than any harsh criticism would. It’s too familiar, too friendly for our strictly professional interaction.

My mother chuckles lightly, contributing to the absurdity.

I refuse to let Emily unsettle me further. “And what about you? Will you be joining this practice date?”

Her laughter peals through the morning air as she shakes her head. “No, Prince Hugo. This is strictly between you and your… date. I’ll be receiving her feedback on the date later, though.”

I grimace at the innocent stress on “date.” Already, I’m dreading the evening.

“Let me get this straight — you’ve arranged a date with someone who’s going to critique my every move,” I grumble, sinking against the back of my chair.

“Every move? Oh, no. She’ll only report on your major blunders. Which should, ideally, be minimal.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Should I interpret that as a vote of confidence?”

Emily smiles, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Interpret it however you wish.”

My phone buzzes and I check my messages, welcoming the distraction. But when I glance back up, Emily is still smiling, that insufferably knowing smile that makes me feel like she knows more about me than I do — which she probably does, considering the amount of research she’s apparently done for this “project.”

---