Page 1 of Royally Matched

Chapter 1

Sofia

I adjust my tiara, the one Father gave me to wear for this special occasion. I hope I don’t look overdone. With my long dark hair pinned in an elaborate updo the women ofBridgertonwould be proud of, my face tastefully made-up, and ruby jewels at my neck, I know it’s a fine line.

Do I look appropriate for a ball?

Am I wearing what’s expected of me as a princess?

And, most importantly, even though I’m only twenty-seven, do I look like my mother? No disrespectto Mummy, of course. She’s a gorgeous woman, but she is actually middle-aged and I’m… not.

That said, as a princess in Ledonia, I’m expected to dress a certain way. Nothing flashy or attention grabbing, nothing too fashionable, and certainly nothing revealing. So, I opt for demure. Modest. The very opposite of a contestant onLove Island(not that I watch the show, of course, but my sister does, she tells me).

The thing is, when you’re labelled “pitiful,” “boring,” and “old before your time” in the media you tend to get a little bit of a complex about these things. And as a sidenote, it’s not at all fair they labelled me the Pitiful Princess, all because I had my heart broken years ago and felt rather sad about it for a month or two. Okay, a year or two. But “pitiful?” It’s unnecessarily harsh.

Have I been able to shake it off? That would be a hard “no.” But I’m hoping tonight will change all that.

I adjust my red gown, the color of Ledonian royalty, wondering whether maybe I should have gone for something that at least showed a little more skin than just my forearms and neck.

I blow out a breath at my prim and proper reflection.

It’s not as though this is all new to me. I’ve been to about a thousand balls in my life. But tonight’s ball is different. Tonight’s ball isn’t about my parents. It isn’t about tradition. It isn’t even about my siblings, Alex, Amelia, and Max, who relish the limelight, all of them unilaterally adored by the media.

Not that I begrudge them that, of course.

Well, perhaps a little. I seem to have missed out on that particular gene.

No. Tonight is all aboutme, Princess Sofia, first-born child of King Frederic and Queen Astrid of Ledonia.

The purpose? For me to find a husband.

I know. It sounds like some sort of modern fairytale, totally out of touch with the real world. A Cinderella story that will end in a romantic happily ever after.

But let me get one thing straight right now, I’m not expecting my Prince Charming to come waltzing through the palace doors, looking ridiculously handsome and taking my hand in his, lifting it to his lips in some achingly romantic gesture.

I’m far more pragmatic than that.

And besides, I have zero interest in trying to find the “great love of my life.” No thank you. I’ve walked down that path before, wearing my heart on my sleeve, and let me tell you, it only ends in heartbreak.

These days my heart is tucked neatly away in a thick metal box. Locked. Wrapped in chains. With high tech laser beams, warning of intruders.

So much safer that way.

In Ledonia, when you’re a member of the royal family you either find a suitable spouse before you turn twenty-eight, or your parents arrange a marriage for you. Even though I’ve got a year to go, I’ve chosen the arranged approach.

It’s fair to say I’m freaking out a little.

Okay, I’m freakinga lot.

I need to put on a brave face and be the princess everyone expects me to be. Confident, regal, and totally put together, ready to meet what may be my future husband at what the media is calling my Husband Hunting Ball. It should probably offend me, but the truth is, that’s exactly what tonight is. Me looking for a husband.

With nerves pinging off the walls, I turn to face Amelia, my younger sister by three years, she of the sparkling media love. She too is in a red ball gown, the color that’s been associated with our family since theyascended to the throne some 800 years ago—and when I say ascended, I mean brutally took the throne on the battlefield, and stubbornly refused to give it back.

But this isn’t a history lesson, and we like to think of ourselves as so much more sophisticated these days. Although, as I smooth my skirts, readying myself to meet a slew of eligible bachelors, I wonder whether we’ve really moved on at all. I mean, I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman in the 21st century, readying myself to meet a string of potential suitors intent on being my husband.

I’m not going to analyze it too deeply.

“Chill out, Sofe. You look like you’re heading to the wrong side of a firing squad, not about to meet a whole roomful of men, all here for you,” Amelia instructs as she plunks herself down on the edge of my bed and flops over in about the least princess-like way imaginable.