Page 39 of Royally Matched
I push it away. Marco could never be the right person for me. I’m moving on. I’ve got important things to do today, just as I have every day. I’m due at the National Ledonian Portrait Gallery to open the new wing. So, I fold the newspaper in half and head to my waiting car, where George, my usual driver, is waiting. He’s been my driver for years now, and he probably knows more about me than my own family.
“Good morning, Your Royal Highness,” he says as I slip into my seat.
“Good morning, George. A little rainy for an outing.”
“The traffic is heavier as a result, ma’am, so I’ll go thefastest route to Ronan's place, and then onto the Portrait Gallery.”
“Thank you.”
A short drive later, I make a quick visit to Ronan. His leg is in a cast, but he seems bright enough, offering to return to work in the next day or two.
“It's perfectly fine, Ronan. You take the time you need to recover. I've got everything handled,” I tell him.
He offers me a smile. “It has been rather nice to be able to relax at home.”
“Make sure you do that.”
“I promise.”
I leave him with a hamper of delicious treats, promising to return to visit soon, and then George drives me to my first official appointment of the day.
He pulls up outside the imposing neoclassical facade of the National Ledonian Portrait Gallery. With Alex’s decision to move to Malveaux, and with Max still away at Cambridge, both Amelia and I have stepped in to take on more public appearances. Even though Amelia would rather pluck her eyelashes out slowly, one by one, as she told me, I for one enjoy the work.
A crowd’s gathered at the steps that lead up to the gallery, and I notice there are more people here than usual. I suppose with all the chatter in the media about my love life, people want to see for themselves.
I do one last check of my hair and makeup in my compact. As usual for official royal appearances, I’m wearing a simple skirt suit with a string of pearls at my neck, my hair tied up in a French twist with my favorite diamond studs in my ears.
“I’ve received notification that Lord Strozzi is in the car behind us, ma’am,” George says.
Enzo. I’d forgotten he was attending today. Marco andI set that up the day we met in the library. I swivel to look out through the rear window to see a polished black car. Unlike mine, it doesn’t have a couple of Ledonian flags sitting proud at the front, but other than that, it could be royal.
“Right. It’s showtime. Ready when you are, George.”
George climbs out of the car and holds my door open for me. As I step out onto the footpath, there’s an instant buzz of excitement as reporters and the public lurch forward to snap my photo and call out questions.
“Are you dating?” someone calls as camera flashes snap.
“Where’s your husband from the ball?” from another.
“Is it love with Lord Strozzi, Princess Sofia? Because it looks more like duty to me.” This from Fabiana Fontaine herself, the journalist whose column I read only this morning. As usual, she’s right at the front of the pack with her blonde hair in a high ponytail, looking intently at me through her tortoise shell glasses. She’s brandishing a microphone at me, expecting me to answer, and when I don’t, she moves on to her next question.
“What about that knight in shining armor who came to your rescue at the ball? Is he your choice?” she asks. “Word amongst the guests was you were rather taken with that man.”
I blink at her, not sure how to respond, when a man in a pinstripe suit offers me his hand, giving me a welcome reprieve. “Your Royal Highness, Samuel Beatson at your service. It’s wonderful to have you here today to open the new wing of the gallery.”
“Thank you for having me, Mr. Beatson,” I reply, recalling his name from the prep document I was given for today’s appearance, and shooting him a grateful smile.
I need to get far away from Ms. Fontaine and her probing questions.
Enzo appears at my side to shouts from the crowd of, “Are you the princess’s new squeeze?” and “Do you even fancy her, mate?”
Although he looks dapper in his three-piece navy suit and tie, his hair brushed back from his face in his usual style, he scowls at me. “How rude. We’re not even in a relationship. What do they expect?” he growls.
“Enzo,” I warn. I know he’s new at this, but people can overhear what you say and, worse yet, they employ people who can lip read.
“Let’s just smile sweetly and go inside,” I say through a plastered-on smile.
Was it a bad idea to meet him here at such a public event?