Page 50 of His Royal Matchmaker

I push off from the column, decision made. I need to find her.

The ballroom is a sea of elegant gowns and suits, faces turning to me with practiced smiles as I pass. I nod politely but don’t stop. My feet carry me toward the eastern balcony where I last saw Emily slip away when she said she needed some air.

When I step through the French doors, the night air hits my face, cool and fresh after the perfumed warmth of the ballroom. The balcony stretches along the side of the ballroom, with stone balustrades overlooking the gardens. And there she is, at the far end, a solitary figure in her emerald dress, looking out over the moonlit landscape.

Even from behind, I can tell something’s wrong. Her shoulders are tense, drawn up toward her ears. Her hands grip the stone railing so tightly I can see the strain from here. This isn’t someone getting air. This is someone fighting battles in their head.

I approach slowly, giving her time to notice me. The click of my shoes on the stone makes her straighten her spine, but she doesn’t turn around.

“Emily?” My voice sounds different to normal. Softer. Uncertain.

She turns then, and I catch my breath. Her makeup is smudged under one eye, as if she quickly wiped away a tear. But she’s smiling that professional smile that never quite reaches her eyes.

“Hugo,” she says, and the lack of formality reminds me of how far we’ve come from our first meeting. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

I step closer, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her cheek. “Not particularly.”

Her smile falters. “Oh?” There’s a trace of hurt in her voice — but why?

“The problem isn’t the people,” I say carefully. “The problem is me.”

She studies my face, and I wonder what she sees there. Does she notice how I can’t look away from her? How my hands are restless at my sides because they want to be holding hers?

“Did you meet anyone interesting?” she asks, and I can hear the professional matchmaker taking over, pushing whatever was bothering her aside.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Hugo.” My name is half sigh, half scolding. “You have to try. There are at least a dozen women in there who would be perfect for you. Women who tick every box on your list.”

“I tried.”

“Really? Because Rowan Steele is brilliant and passionate about conservation. And Marie has that dry sense of humor you appreciate. And?—”

“Emily,” I cut her off, moving a step closer. “None of them are you.”

The words hang in the air between us. Her lips part in surprise, her eyes widening.

“What?”

“None of them compare to you.” My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure she can hear it. “I’ve been sitting through these introductions for days, meeting women who match every criterion you say is right for me, and none of them make me feel the wayyoudo.”

Her mouth opens and closes, like she’s searching for words and coming up empty. “Hugo, I don’t… I’m your matchmaker.”

“I know.” I run a hand through my hair, probably messing up what my stylist spent an hour on. “I know how this sounds. But I’ve been thinking… and when Catherine believed us to be together, it was like something clicked. I couldn’t stop thinking about it — about you.”

Emily takes a small step back, bumping into the stone railing. “This isn’t— we can’t?—”

“Why not?” I move forward, closing the distance between us. “Tell me you don’t feel it too. This connection between us.”

Her breath catches, and I see the conflict in her eyes — professional responsibility warring with personal desire. “Your mother expects you to marry someone suitable. Someone who?—”

“Someone who understands me,” I finish for her. “Someone who challenges me and makes me laugh and sees me as Hugo, not just the Prince of Marzieu.”

A shiver runs through her that has nothing to do with the night air. “I’m not royal material.”

“Neither was I, according to half the European press.” I smile, remembering some of the less-flattering headlines from my younger days. “But here I am.”

The moonlight catches in her eyes, illuminating the raw emotion there. My hands are trembling slightly as I reach up to touch her cheek, half-expecting her to pull away. She doesn’t.

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