Page 8 of His Royal Matchmaker

When the car finally stops, a woman in a gray suit is waiting for me. She has the kind of perfect posture that makes my own shoulders straighten reflexively.

“Ms. Neale? I’m Claudette, the royal household coordinator. Welcome to Marzieu Palace.” Her smile is small but seems genuine. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”

I follow her through doors that must be fifteen feet tall and into a lobby with a ceiling that seems to touch the sky. My shoes click-clack against marble floors, the sound echoing. Everything gleams — the chandelier overhead, the polished banisters, the golden frames around paintings of stern-looking royals from centuries past.

“This place is beautiful,” I breathe, trying not to gawk like a tourist.

“The east wing was built in 1734,” Claudette says, pride in her voice. “The west wing is newer — only from 1892.”

I almost laugh. In my apartment back home, “newer” means the refrigerator was replaced last year.

My room — or should I say suite — is bigger than my entire apartment. The bed is draped with silk the color of cream, and the windows look out over gardens that stretch to the mountains beyond. A sitting area with plush chairs surrounds a marble fireplace. There’s even a claw-foot bathtub in the adjoining bathroom that I could practically swim in.

“Will this be suitable?” Claudette asks.

“Suitable? It’s amazing!” I bounce a little on my toes, which makes her smile widen slightly.

“Her Majesty would like to meet with you in thirty minutes. Will that give you enough time to refresh yourself?”

I nod, suddenly nervous. “Absolutely. I’ll be ready.”

Once Claudette leaves, I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the room to send to Nova. Then I quickly freshen up, change into my best navy dress with a structured jacket, and touch up my makeup. My blond hair falls just below my shoulders, and I decide to leave it down but tuck one side behind my ear with a small pearl clip. Professional but approachable — that’s my goal.

My heart hammers as I follow another staff member through the maze-like hallways. I’ve worked with celebrities, tech billionaires, and politicians, but never royalty. The queen of Marzieu! I practice what I’ll say in my head, going over my usual client introduction spiel. But when we reach a set of pale blue double doors and they swing open, all my practiced words fly away.

The queen’s sitting room is nothing like I expected. Instead of another grand, formal space, it’s cozy — almost like a normal living room, if normal living rooms had priceless antiques and silk wallpaper. Queen Julia sits on a floral sofa, not on a throne, and she’s wearing a simple blue dress rather than a crown and robes.

“Emily! Come in, please.” She stands and extends her hand. She’s tall and elegant, with silver-streaked dark hair pulled into a low bun. Her smile creates gentle creases around her eyes.

“Your Majesty.” I curtsy, which makes her wave her hand dismissively.

“Please, when it’s just us, Julia is fine. Sit, sit.” She gestures to a chair across from her. A tray with tea and delicate cookies sits on the table between us. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.” My voice comes out higher than normal. I clear my throat as she pours.

“I hope your journey was comfortable?” she asks, handing me a cup so fine I can see the light through it.

“Very, thank you. The palace is incredible.”

“It can be a bit much, can’t it?” Her eyes twinkle. “I’ve lived here almost forty years now, and I still get lost sometimes.”

I laugh, surprised by her candor, and feel myself relaxing a bit.

“Emily,” she says, “I want to thank you personally for agreeing to work with Hugo. I understand it was an… unusual request.”

“Not at all. I’m honored to be here.”

She studies me for a moment, then sets down her teacup with a gentle clink. “I should be direct. My son can be… difficult. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“Most people are,” I say with a smile. “That’s why they need help.”

“Hugo wasn’t always this way.” She sighs and looks toward the window. “Before my husband died — before Hugo had to take on so many royal responsibilities — he was different. Carefree. Sometimes too carefree.”

I nod, knowing from my research about Prince Hugo’s past reputation for partying and dating models. The tabloids had loved him.

“When Gerald — the king — passed so suddenly, Hugo changed overnight. It was like he felt he had to become his father immediately.” Her fingers twist the ring on her left hand. “He threw himself into his duties. Which is admirable, but…”

“But there’s more to life than duty,” I finish softly.

---