“Ridiculously charming.”
With that, they descended into the crowd like socialite gladiators, ready to collect moments, give quotes, and hopefully avoid any missteps.
“How’s the wedding planning?” trilled an ambassador’s wife with the enthusiasm of someone who absolutely lived for this sort of event.
“More challenging than expected,” Emilia said, all serene composure. “Apparently deciding on the exact shade of white for the invitations is a multi-month process.”
Alexander chimed in, perfectly deadpan, “The wrong ivory and we risk national collapse.”
Their audience laughed, disarmed, and just like that—another conversation navigated.
By the time they reached their third diplomat cluster, Emilia was easing into the rhythm of it—like muscle memory she didn’t know she had. She and Alexander moved as one, smiling here, dipping heads there, navigating the minefield of tradition with practiced ease and a touch of subversion.
Even Lady Aberdeen didn’t rattle her.
Eighty-five, vaguely terrifying, dressed like she’d robbed a historical exhibit of its crown jewels, and deeply skeptical of anything invented after 1956. Her voice, sharp and unnecessarily loud, cut through the room.
“Miss Carter,” she bellowed. “Do you speak Latin?”
Emilia blinked. “Not fluently. I read it, though.”
Lady Aberdeen sniffed, the diamonds at her neck giving a series of tiny, judgmental clinks.
“A proper education, then. None of that feminist nonsense they peddle nowadays.”
Alexander stiffened, no doubt preparing to respond with somethingcutting—
but Emilia beat him to it, all honeyed composure.
“Oh, absolutely,” she said lightly. “Which is why I wrote my dissertation on the gendered rhetoric used to discredit Queen Theodora of Byzantium. Very traditional.”
Lady Aberdeen nodded in satisfaction, blissfully unaware that she’d just been skewered with academic precision.
Alexander’s mouth twitched. Emilia kept smiling.
It was—against all odds—almost enjoyable.
Until, of course, it wasn’t. Because nothing good could last when you were a royal target at a public event.
They were making their way toward the exit—an early departure framed as a busy royal schedule but mostly a desire to escape before anyone mentioned floral arrangements—when a voice sliced cleanly through the hum of conversation.
“Your Majesty. Miss Carter.”
Smooth. Polished. And cold enough to refrigerate champagne.
Lord Charles Hawthorne, Earl of Avondale, stood in their path. At first glance, Charles seemed the epitome of refinement—cultured, charming, handsome. But beneath that polished exterior lurked a man whose greatest delight was found in someone else’s complete destruction.
Alexander’s spine went rigid. Emilia felt it immediately.
“Charles,” Alexander said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Immensely,” Charles replied, eyes sweeping over them, smug as ever. “Though one does notice the… evolution of palace standards.”
Emilia replied, her tone was sugar-laced cyanide. “Progress does tend to make traditionalists itchy.”
“Progress,” Hawthorne repeated, like it tasted bad. “Often just a fashionable excuse for pandering to the masses.”
Alexander’s hand settled at the small of her back. Not for show. For grounding.