Page 23 of His Royal Matchmaker

My mother sighs and eyes my phone. “Already, Hugo?”

“Our country cannot wait.”

“I have some work to get to myself.” Emily stands and curtsies at my mother. “Thank you for the invitation to breakfast, Your Majesty. Prince Hugo, I will check in with you later about your upcoming date.”

I force a fake smile, hoping that it looks more like a sneer, then wait until she has left the patio to turn to my mother.

“What did you get me into, Mother?” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose and pushing aside thoughts of Emily’s alluring eyes.

Why am I suddenly thinking about her in this way? It’s not as if she’s done anything to truly catch my attention. Yes, she’s pretty, but pretty faces are a dime a dozen. And so what if she’s also smart? She’s calculating — conniving, even — and that… well, that is something I respect, actually.

“This is a chance to learn some balance in life, dear,” my mother replies. “Maybe you’ll discard some of your arrogance along the way.”

I huff and cross my arms over my chest. “Arrogance? Me?”

Mother looks at me, her hazel eyes sharp. “Yes, Hugo. You.”

The accusation hangs heavy in the air between us, ringing far truer than I’d like to admit. A pair of royal aides start clearing away the breakfast dishes, leaving us alone on the patio, surrounded by the symphony of nature and under the scrutiny of unperturbed statues.

Finally, Mother sighs and stands. “Do as you will, Hugo?—”

“Which is what you wish.” I gaze steadfast back at her.

She tents her fingers on the edge of the table, and the look on her face is gutting. Pity.

But, no. I don’t deserve that. I never have, and I never will. I am doing exactly as I wish, stepping up to lead this country and?—

“I will see you at supper,” she says, choosing to ignore my comment. Leaning forward, she presses a kiss to the top of my head, making me feel like a child before vacating the patio.

“Wonderful,” I mutter. As if Emily weren’t already infantilizing me enough as it is.

CHAPTER 11

EMILY

Icheck my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, pacing the plush carpet of my temporary office in the east wing of the palace. The actress I hired for Prince Hugo’s practice date should arrive any minute now. My heart does a tiny somersault at the thought of tonight’s dinner — not because I’m involved, of course, but because this is one of the last ideas I have. If tonight doesn’t provide me with the info I need, there’s very little left to do.

The palace staff cleared an entire restaurant in the city center for tonight, and I’ve prepared extensive notes on the type of conversation that Hugo needs to practice — less politics, more personal connection. The prince may be gorgeous, but his conversation skills need serious work if he’s going to charm a potential bride.

My phone buzzes against the antique desk, and I lunge for it, nearly knocking over a vase that probably costs more than my apartment back home.

“Emily Neale speaking,” I answer, trying to sound as professional as possible despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach.

“Ms. Neale, this is Miranda Dupont, Annabelle’s agent.” The woman’s voice sounds strained, and immediately my intuition flares with warning.

“Is everything all right?” I ask. “Annabelle should be arriving at the palace soon for?—”

“That’s why I’m calling. Annabelle won’t be able to make it tonight. I’m terribly sorry for the last-minute notice, but she’s come down with severe food poisoning.”

I sink into the nearest chair, my carefully constructed plans crumbling around me. “Food poisoning? But the practice date is in twenty minutes!”

“I know, and she feels terrible about it. We tried to find another actress from our agency who matches the profile you requested, but everyone is either already booked or unavailable on such short notice.”

My mind races through possibilities, each one worse than the last. “I understand. Thank you for letting me know, Ms. Dupont. Please tell Annabelle I hope she feels better soon.”

“I will. Thank you. If you like, we can go ahead and reschedule.”

I bite my lip, already knowing that’s not a possibility. “Thank you.” My voice cracks, but I push forward. “I need to scramble to find a last-minute solution, however. I will be in touch if we can use your assistance elsewhere. Have a wonderful night.”

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