Page 33 of His Royal Matchmaker

I stop brushing and rest my forehead against Midnight’s warm side. “She’s working for my mother. To find a wife?—”

“That you don’t want.”

I grimace. “If you must know, I’m biding my time. Wearing my mother and Emily out until they forget about this nonsense entirely.”

Saying it out loud, I realize for the first time how cowardly it all sounds.

“It’s not that bad,” Guy says. “Having someone around.”

I gaze at him over Midnight’s back. “You’ve been single for as long as I have.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yes, but the difference is that I am starting to think it’s not a good thing.”

I finish grooming Midnight in silence, thinking about this. All done, Guy and I make plans to play tennis next week, and I leave with a slightly clearer head, if not a resolved heart.

Back at the palace, with my schedule still clear for the day, I retreat to my office. It’s a room that was my father’s before me, with its antique desk and walls of leather-bound books. Today it feels both like a sanctuary and a cage.

“Your Highness?” Maurice appears in the doorway. “Ms. Neale has requested a meeting with you. She says it’s regarding the results of yesterday’s event.”

My pulse quickens. “When?”

“She’s waiting in the small reception room. I told her you might not be able to today, but she insisted it was time-sensitive.”

“It’s fine. Tell her I’ll be right there.”

Quickly, I check my reflection in the window. I look normal enough, I think, though I changed into jeans and a shirt to go riding, which isn’t my usual attire at all.

Emily stands when I enter the room, and I don’t miss the way her eyes widen slightly in surprise at the sight of my outfit.

“I went horseback riding,” I explain.

“Oh. That’s nice.” Her smile seems strained.

“Maurice said you have some results to share with me?”

She opens a leather portfolio and removes several glossy photographs. “Based on your interactions last night and the feedback forms I had the women complete, I’ve identified four candidates who would be excellent for second dates.” She lays the photos on the coffee table between us.

I glance at the photos without really seeing them. I remember these women vaguely — a brunette who talked about her charity work, a serious academic type, someone in fashion, and a woman with an impressive family tree. None of them had made me feel anything close to what I felt sitting across from Emily at that little restaurant.

“They all found you charming and engaging,” Emily continues, her voice bright. “Each expressed interest in seeing you again in a more intimate setting. I was thinking perhaps a private dinner for each, spaced over the next two weeks? It would give you time to?—”

“I don’t think I want to,” I interrupt.

She blinks. “I’m sorry?”

But I’m even more surprised, for I have no clue where that statement came from. It seemed to pop out of my mouth without any foresight. Yet here I find myself, scrambling to come up with an excuse, desperate to explain it away before this woman — perceptive as she is — sees right through me.

“For second dates. I don’t think I’m… I think I need more coaching.” The excuse sounds thin even to my ears.

“More coaching?” Her brow furrows. “But you did wonderfully last night. All the feedback?—”

“Was positive, yes. But I was… performing.” At least that part is true. “I was saying what I thought they wanted to hear. I wasn’t being authentic.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Do you remember what you said at dinner? About how I seemed afraid of letting someone down?” I pace, trying to avoid her or myself, I don’t know. “You were right. Iamafraid. I’m afraid of promising someone a life I can’t deliver. I’m afraid of being a disappointment as a partner when my country has to come first.”

“That’s… very self-aware of you.”

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