Page 50 of Royally Matched
This time I choose a little girl with a blunt bob wearing clothes that are a size too big, and no shoes on her dirty feet.
“I like pheasants,” she says, although there were no pheasants in the story.
“You know what? Me, too,” I tell her and win a big grin.
“Pheasants are our natural bird,” another child offers.
“You’re right,” I reply, although I know she meant national bird, not natural.
I choose another girl from the group, a pretty girl with black hair and sparkling dark eyes. “My mummy says you should wear your hair down because you look much nicer that way. She doesn’t know why you didn’t wear it like that at your Husband Hunting Ball.”
Self-consciously, I touch my hair, curled into a French twist, my hairstyle of choice for all official visits. It’s neat and tidy and I don’t have to worry about it looking like it needs a brush or, worse yet, captured on film blown in my face. People can be so harsh, and I know I’m not the media’s favorite royal. And besides, it’s practical. Smart. Boring? Perhaps a little. But the other reasons far outweigh boring.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I might just do that.”
She grins back at me. “Will you wear it down when you get married?”
Married? My stomach twists into a knot. “Perhaps.”
“Where was your husband hiding?” the boy from before asks, and the adults at the back of the room laugh.
“He wasn’t hiding so much as I hadn’t met him,” I reply, silently cursing the media for coming up with the “Husband Hunting” name. “Not that I have a husband yet.”
“Why not?” one of the girls asks.
How do I answer? I could be honest and tell her that my initial choice hasn’t exactly turned out the way I was anticipating, and in fact I have begun to develop feelings for his brother, a man so wildly wrong for me he may as well drape himself in a giant red flag with the words “guaranteed to break your heart” splashed across his chest.
On second thoughts, that would be a hardno. TMI, as Amelia might say.
“I suppose because it’s not something you should take lightly. You need to be really, really sure before you agree to marry someone,” I say. I’m aiming for sage wisdom—and hoping not to be asked any more uncomfortable questions.
Someone clears their throat, saving me from having to delve any deeper into my current conundrum, and I look up to see Bartholomew, my bodyguard. He taps his wrist a couple of times to indicate my time reading with the children is now over. I thank the children, inwardly sigh with relief, say goodbye, and move to the foyer of the library, where I announce the donation of 1,000 new children’s books to the center, catering to all age groups.
People applaud, and the woman who runs the center, Gwendolyn Tattersfield, calls for quiet.
“We are honored to have Her Royal Highness, Princess Sofia, with us here today, and indeed as patron of our community center,” she says before she turns to me. “To recognize all the good work you have done for us over the years, ma’am, it is our utmost pleasure to present you with this commemorative plaque.”
She gestures at a man in a suit who tugs on a gold rope that opens a set of small red velvet curtains, revealing apolished brass plaque. As people applaud, I read the inscription.
In Grateful Recognition. The Tideswell Community Center extends heartfelt gratitude to HRH Princess Sofia for her commitment to promoting literacy and education. Her generous donation of books and her inspiring visits have opened new doors of opportunity and knowledge for the children of our community. May her dedication to fostering a love of reading continue to inspire future generations to come.
Genuinely touched by the unexpected gesture, I place my hand over my heart. “That’s so lovely of you all. Thank you so very much. I do this work because I am privileged enough to be a member of the Royal Family. It is I who am grateful to you for allowing me the opportunity to do what I can for you.”
“Not at all. You deserve ten such plaques, ma’am, although our budget won’t quite reach that far,” Gwendolyn replies with a smile.
A few minutes later, Bartholomew has bundled me into the crown vehicle and we’re crawling through the busy inner-city streets of Villadorata on our way back to the palace.
“That went very well, ma’am,” he says from his seat at the front of the car.
“I didn’t expect a plaque. It was very kind of them, but they should spend their money on something that would help the community, not on me. Perhaps they could buy more books or—” I trail off as we pass a community garden where people are building raised beds, with lines of small potted plants waiting for their new home. A familiar figure in wellington boots, grubby jeans, and a T-shirt is resting one arm on a spade as he talks with another similarly dressed man.
Before I fully examine my motive, I ask George to pull the car over and I climb out, trailed by a nervous Bartholomew.
“Don’t worry, Bartholomew. I’m just going to say hello to someone,” I reassure him. “I won’t be long, and I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.”
“Who? If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am.”
“Lord Strozzi’s brother.”