Page 43 of His Royal Matchmaker

Hugo sighs. “Mother…”

“I only push because I care, darling.” She reaches over and pats his hand. “I don’t want you to end up alone. Your father and I had many wonderful years together before he was taken too soon. That kind of partnership… it makes everything else bearable.”

Her words touch me, making me think again about how I need to get serious about finding my own happiness away from work.

“I know, Mother,” Hugo says quietly. “I just need to do this my own way.”

His gaze briefly flicks over to me, and heat rushes into my face. Why is he looking at me like that — so intensely?

“Which is why we hired Miss Neale,” the queen says, turning back to me with renewed energy. “Now, tell me about the other three women.”

By the time dessert arrives — a delicate lemon cake that melts on my tongue — I’ve detailed all four potential matches for Hugo, and the queen seems cautiously optimistic.

“Well, it sounds like you’re in good hands, Hugo,” she says, placing her napkin down. “Miss Neale clearly knows what she’sdoing. Thank you for indulging an old woman’s curiosity and bringing me an update.”

“You’re hardly old, Mother,” Hugo says fondly.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, my son.” She rises from her chair, and Hugo and I quickly stand as well. “I’ll leave you two to discuss the details of these upcoming dates. I find I’m rather tired this evening.”

She crosses to Hugo and kisses his cheek, then gives me a nod. “Good night, Emily. Keep me updated on my son’s progress.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

As she leaves, a weight seems to lift from the room. Hugo’s shoulders relax, and he lets out a long breath.

“Nightcap?” he suggests, gesturing toward a sitting area near the fireplace.

I should say no. I should go back to my room and stay the hell away from this man unless I’m giving him pointers on how to make small talk. But instead, I hear myself say, “Sure. One drink.”

A servant appears with two crystal glasses of amber liquid before we even sit down. The chairs are close together, closer than they were at the dinner table, and at this point Hugo’s scent is a familiar one that draws me in right away.

“Your mother really loves you,” I say, taking a small sip of what turns out to be very good whiskey.

“She does,” he agrees. “Though her love can be suffocating at times.”

“She just doesn’t want you to be lonely.”

“I’m not lonely.” He swirls his drink. “I’m busy. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” I ask.

He looks at me, his eyes reflecting the firelight. “You tell me. You’re the expert on relationships.”

I stare into my glass. “I think people can be busy and lonely at the same time. I think sometimes being busy is a way to avoid admitting you’re lonely.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” His voice is gentle.

I laugh, but it sounds hollow. “We’re not here to talk about me. We need to discuss your dates for this week.”

“About that…” He leans back in his chair. “I’m not sure I’m ready for more dates just yet.”

I frown. “What do you mean? I’ve already scheduled them.”

“I think I need more… coaching,” he says. “More preparation.”

“Hugo, I already gave you some coaching. How long are you going to draw this out for?”

He shakes his head. “I need more time.”

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