Alexander blinked. “Glad?”
Thomas’s expression softened just slightly, and Alexander caught something that looked almost like a smile.
“That you have someone to run to. Not everyone gets that, in your position.” Alexander studied his equerry’s face—the same careful expression Thomas had worn since Alexander was seventeen and drowning in expectation. Some loyalties, Alexander realized, were earned not through title but throughwitnessing someone’s worst moments and choosing to stay anyway. He felt a strange, bittersweet gratitude. Not just for Emilia waiting back there in the cottage. But for Thomas, too—for seeing it, for protecting it, even when palace duty made it difficult.
“Thank you,” Alexander said quietly.
Thomas nodded once, brisk but sincere. And for once, Alexander was beginning to believe he could do this.
5
Let’s Be Honest She Wasn’t Even On Queen Eleanor’s List
The drawing room was as austere as it was beautiful: high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings, gilded mirrors reflecting centuries of power, and a fireplace that had likely warmed the knees of a dozen monarchs. The tea service gleamed on the low mahogany table, each piece precisely arranged with mathematical precision. Not a cushion out of place. Not a clock ticking too loud. The palace’s signature scent (beeswax polish and old money) hung in the air.
Emilia stood in the doorway, painfully aware of every scuffed heel and every heartbeat. Her navy dress, chosen carefully that morning for its modest neckline and appropriate length, suddenly felt inadequate in this room built for royalty. An aide had escorted her to the threshold and then vanished like a ghost, leaving her adrift in uncharted waters.
Queen Eleanor didn’t look up when Emilia entered. She was already seated, gloved hands resting lightly on her lap, her spine as straight as her pearls. Her dark brown hair was immaculately coiffed, not a strand daring to rebel against its assigned position. Just like everything else in her world, Emilia thought.
“Miss Carter,” the Queen said, her tone perfectly even, neither welcomingnor dismissive. “Do sit.”
Emilia obeyed, smoothing her skirt beneath her as she perched on the edge of the settee. The silk upholstery was cool and slippery beneath her fingertips.
There was a pause. Tea was poured from a sterling silver pot, the amber liquid cascading in a perfect arc. One sugar cube was added into the Queen’s cup with a delicate plink.
“I trust your accommodations are suitable,” Eleanor said, at last meeting her gaze. Her eyes were the same shape as Alexander’s, but where his often danced with humor, hers revealed nothing: a masterclass in royal composure.
“They’re more than suitable, Your Majesty,” Emilia replied carefully. “Thank you.”
Another pause stretched between them like a chasm. Emilia resisted the urge to fill it with nervous chatter.
“I won’t pretend, Miss Carter,” the Queen said, setting her teacup down with a quiet clink that somehow seemed to echo in the vast room, “that you would have been my first choice for my son. Or my second.”
Emilia’s throat tightened, but she kept her chin up.Don’t flinch. Don’t you dare flinch.“I appreciate your honesty, Your Majesty.”
“I’ve always believed in clarity,” Eleanor replied, the sunlight catching on her diamond earrings as she tilted her head slightly. “It serves everyone in the long run, especially in this family.”
She studied Emilia then, cool and calculating. Not unkind, but wholly unsentimental, like a scientist observing a specimen.
“You are now the fiancée of the King. That places you within the institution. And whether or not I approve of your presence, I will expect you to be a credit to it.” The words were delivered with precision, each syllable perfectly weighted.
Emilia nodded slowly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap to hide their slight tremor. “I intend to be.”
“Good.” Another sip of tea, a careful dab of the royal lips with a linen napkin. “You’ll begin formal etiquette briefings tomorrow. Protocol, state engagements, internal hierarchy, and media strategy. You will be briefed onyour obligations and expected behavior in public and in private. You will be watched, judged, sometimes unfairly.”
“I understand.” Emilia fought to keep her voice steady, wondering if Alexander had ever felt this small in his mother’s presence.
“No, you don’t,” Eleanor said crisply, setting her cup down again with surgical precision. “Not yet. But you will.”
She leaned back slightly, eyes sharp as a raptor’s. Outside, clouds passed over the sun, momentarily dimming the room.
“This family is bound not by affection, but by duty. That’s what sustains us through scandal and change and history’s fickle gaze. Alexander understands this. He has been raised in it. And now, so must you.” There was something almost like compassion in her tone, buried beneath layers of steel.
There was a long, brittle silence, broken only by the distant ticking of a grandfather clock in the hallway.
Then Eleanor asked, “Do you love him?” The question hung in the air, startling in its directness.
Emilia blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Yes. Completely.” No hesitation there: perhaps the only thing she was certain of in this new life.