Page 3 of His Royal Matchmaker

“But?”

“But sometimes I wonder if I’m so busy creating happiness for others that I’ve forgotten to look for my own.” The admission feels both vulnerable and freeing. “My last date was four months ago, and I spent half of it analyzing his compatibility with my dental hygienist.”

“You’ll find it,” Nova says with such conviction that I almost believe her. “The universe wouldn’t be cruel enough to giveyou this gift for matching others without eventually sending someone your way.”

“I hope you’re right.”

In the meantime, I have a business to run. Apparently, according to my best friend, it’s about to get very busy.

CHAPTER 2

HUGO

Straightening my tie, I walk across the sun-warmed stones of the east patio. Mother is already seated at the table, her back to the palace gardens, a cup of tea steaming next to her plate. The look on her face — eyebrows slightly raised, lips pressed into a thin line of determination — tells me everything I need to know about this lunch. It’s an ambush disguised as a casual meal, and I’m walking right into it.

What she wants to speak about, I have no clue. I only know it will be classically her. There’s always an agenda, always an angle. For her, politics are most at play when she’s not at work as queen of Marzieu.

“Hugo, darling,” she says, rising slightly as I approach. “You’re only seven minutes late today. I’m impressed.”

“Budget meetings ran long,” I say, settling into my chair. A servant materializes at my elbow, pouring water into my glass. “Thank you, Pierre.”

“Always meetings.” Mother sighs, unfolding her napkin with a practiced flick. “Your father managed to be punctual for family meals, you know, even when he was drowning in state matters.”

I reach for a bread roll, tearing it in half instead of responding. She starts most conversations this way lately: your father this, your father that. As if I need reminding of the enormous shoes I’m still trying to fill five years after his death.

“The trade agreement with Bellisime is nearly complete,” I say, changing the subject. “We should see a thirty percent increase in exports by next quarter.”

Mother nods, but her eyes slide away from mine. She’s not interested in trade agreements. “That’s wonderful, dear. The chef has prepared your favorite today — lamb with rosemary potatoes.”

The servants bring our meals, and for a few blessed minutes, we eat in silence. The lamb is perfect, pink in the center just as I like it. The sun filters through the climbing roses that frame the patio, casting dappled shadows across the white tablecloth. In moments like this, I can almost forget the weight of the crown that isn’t yet mine but presses on me all the same.

“Hugo,” Mother says finally, setting down her fork with purpose. “You turn thirty-one next month.”

Here it comes. I take a long sip of water, bracing myself.

“I’m aware of my age, Mother.”

“And yet you show no signs of settling down.” She dabs at her lips with her napkin. “The palace feels so empty these days. So quiet.”

“I thought you preferred quiet. You used to complain about my parties keeping you awake.”

A smile flickers across her face. “That was before…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to.

Before Father died. Before everything changed. BeforeIchanged.

“I’ve been thinking,” she continues, “about the Winterstein ball next month. Princess Isabella will be attending.”

I suppress a groan. “Mother?—”

“She’s lovely, intelligent, and the alliance would be beneficial for both our countries.”

“If this is another matchmaking attempt, I’ll save you the trouble. I don’t have time for dating right now, royal or otherwise.” I cut another piece of lamb, a bit more forcefully than necessary. “Surely you should be happy that I’m following in Father’s footsteps? Building something more important for the family legacy?”

My mother’s face softens into something like pity. “Your father built our legacy by being more than just a good ruler, Hugo. He was a good man, a good husband, a good father.”

The lamb suddenly tastes like cardboard in my mouth. My hands clench around my utensils, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as guilt. Five years ago, I was more concerned with which club had the best DJ than with trade agreements or diplomatic relations. Father’s unexpected death changed everything — for the country, for Mother, for me.

“I am trying to be all those things,” I say quietly. “But right now, Marzieu needs a focused leader. The economic reforms?—”

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