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Fiancé, she reminded herself, clutching the pencil a little more tightly. He was just her fiancé. He wouldn’t be her husband for a few more weeks. She still had time to back out of this whirlwind of an arranged marriage, she could even back out of ruling if she wanted. And she couldn’t say she wasn’t tempted. She loved the life she’d lived up til now—owning a toy store, putting smiles on kids’ faces, designing new and better toys. In her store, she knew who she was and what she was doing. On a throne? Not so much.
She sighed as she shaded in the roof of the treehouse and wrote down its rough dimensions. It wasn’t like she was the only one who had doubts about her leadership abilities, either. That was why her family had shipped in the Duke, after all. Technically “Strict Simon”—as the press were fond of calling him—was supposed to bring stability to her rule, but she wouldn’t be shocked if her mother half-hoped he could take the reins himself. The guy certainly had the pedigree for a throne. The training for one, too. And Penelope, she was flighty, unreliable, too quirky to be a queen. Of course, she’d carefully cultivated that persona so as not to be involved with the crown, but after the deaths or abdications of the last four monarchs in a span of just over a decade, she wasn’t left with many options. It was either take the throne herself, or leave it to her nine-year-old cousin. When King Nathaniel had finally abdicated she’d felt some small desire to rule, thinking maybe she could find a way to translate her skills as a small business owner to running a nation, but now she was wondering if handing all of this stuff over to her cousin might be the better option.
The treehouse was nearly done now, except for a problem with the roof she’d have to figure out later. She stopped sketching and stared down at her handiwork. If she was honest, this was the only reason she was even considering sticking around. As Queen, she could help the children of her country in a far bigger way than she’d ever dreamed. That would make all the
rest worth it, right?
A knock sounded at the door. She yelped and leapt off the couch, nearly snapping her pencil in half. The guard stationed at the far end of her sitting room—well, the Queen’s sitting room—glanced over, and she gave him a weak smile to let him know she was fine. Terrified, and suddenly doubting her sanity for even considering this plan, but fine. She cleared her throat. “Come in,” she called, turning her bracelets around and around on her wrist as she often did when her nerves got the better of her.
The door opened, and her fiancé walked in.
And holy hell was he hot. His lips were full and one-hundred-percent kissable. He had gorgeous, wavy brown hair that she instantly wanted to run her fingers through, though it would look even better if he let it grow out of that boring sensible cut. He wore a single piece of jewelry, a rustic-looking iron signet ring. He moved with a decisive gait, the same way a soldier might walk—and he was a ranking officer in Danovar’s navy, judging from the intimidating full dress uniform he was wearing. The way he held himself made her think he might be buff beneath that starched shirt. But it was his eyes that hit her hardest. They were warm brown and crinkled at the corners like he was thinking about smiling even though his mouth was flat and serious, and it put her just a little bit more at ease.
“Hi,” she squeaked out, and then winced. She was supposed to be a damn queen soon, for crying out loud. Queens didn’t squeak.
He stopped, catching sight of her, and she waited to see what he would do.
His eyes swept up and down her figure. She mentally went over her outfit: a loose Bohemian-esque ivory dress that basically looked like a pile of lacy fabric, silver bangle bracelets and dark red lipstick, with her wedge sandals across the room instead of on her feet because she hated wearing shoes indoors. Was it too much? Did she not seem royal enough? She’d thought she’d dressed up for the occasion, but standing in front of him she suddenly felt underdressed and a little bit childish.
“Your Majesty,” he greeted her in a voice as smooth as melted chocolate. She melted a little herself—until his words registered. Your Majesty. It was the first time anyone had ever called her that. Oh God, what was happening? She couldn’t be a Your Majesty. Most of her life she’d barely qualified as a Hey You. She had no idea what she was doing. She didn’t want him to call her by such a lofty title when she didn’t even know yet if she truly wanted to stick with this.
“Um, call me Penelope, please. Or… just Pen is fine.”
He smiled then, and it crinkled those beautiful eyes even more, but this time it didn’t relax her. “Pen it is,” he answered, stepping closer to her as the guard moved quietly outside and closed the door, leaving the two alone for their first meeting. “You can call me Simon,” her fiancé added.
She stuck out her hand for him to shake and then immediately felt ridiculous for it, but didn’t know what else to do. A nod seemed too distant, a kiss on the cheek too forward. They didn’t even know each other and yet they were engaged. Or they were about to be, as soon as Simon officially proposed.
He kissed her proffered hand graciously, easing her anxiety over the stupid handshake idea—and then as if on cue, went down on one knee. He pulled a large box he’d been carrying from under his arm and held it out to her.
“Oh my God, surely the ring isn’t that big,” she gasped, and then blushed furiously. But seriously—the thing was the size of a shoebox. She had dainty hands by any measure, and if the rock he’d gotten her was big enough to need that sort of a box, it would eat her alive.
He coughed, sounding like he might be trying to hide a chuckle. “No,” he said, and opened it, showing her a pair of embellished leather clogs inside. “This is the traditional Danovian gift from a man to his future bride. I’d hoped you might wear them during the wedding, to honor the traditions of my country.”
No wonder it had looked like a shoebox. “Oh,” she said, feeling even more ridiculous than before. “Of course.” The clogs weren’t bad, actually. A little old-fashioned, but they’d look funky and chic with the right maxi skirt.
Simon dug in the corner of the box and pulled out a much more normal-sized ring box. He opened it to show her a rock that, while still fairly massive, at least didn’t need its own postal code. “Penelope Vanessa Anne Maria Rinaldi Alcott, will you marry me?” he asked, and, feeling like she was in a dream—one of those super-stressful ones where you were trying to give a speech while naked, not the good fairytale kind most women hoped to feel at this moment—she extended her left hand. He slid the ring on. It was way too loose and fell off immediately, clinking delicately to the floor.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry…” She trailed off as he gallantly swept his hands across the floor, searching for the ring on the patterned tile.
“No worries, here it is,” he said, coming back up onto his knees, ring in hand. “Take two?”
She swallowed and held her hand out again. This had to be an omen. She clenched her hand into a fist to keep the ring from falling off again as they sat on the couch, a solid two feet of space between them. Simon went on about the arrangements and ceremonies they’d have scheduled over the next few days. He rattled off the customs of her country better than she could’ve, which was more than a little unsettling. Just how much research had he done on her—and why hadn’t she done more on him? She really didn’t know him at all, this man she was about to marry.
Well, she did know a few things. Like the fact that he was in a full military dress uniform and had memorized the next two weeks’ worth of events, while she didn’t even remember exactly where she’d put her shoes and was about to have a panic attack if he mentioned one more speech they’d have to make, tradition they’d need to fulfill, or stack of paperwork they’d have to sign before their big day.
This was all wrong. She’d been willing to give this arranged marriage thing a shot, but she could see now that the two of them could never work. He was so strict, so down-to-earth with his perfectly trimmed haircut and his formal small talk, and she craved creativity. She wasn’t silly enough to think she should hold out for Prince Charming or love at first sight, but she and Simon were just a plain bad match. They were simply too different—plus she wasn’t even sure she wanted to be queen anyway, and was it fair to lead him on if she really thought she might abdicate? It would be horrible of her to allow him to tie his life to hers when she felt this uncertain about her own future.
She had to get him out of the room, out of her life. Right now.
She stood. “Simon, look—” she started, but he interrupted her.
“Is that a treehouse?” He’d caught sight of her sketch on the table, and the surprise and delight in his voice broke through his earlier formal veneer.
“Uh… yes,” she said, caught off guard. “It’s a new design I’m trying to work out for my toy store. I keep running into a problem with the roof, though.”
He picked it up, examining it for a moment. “Oh, I see. Hm… Have you thought about pitching it a little steeper? Maybe 45 degrees or so? And give it a wider overhang on the sides. See, like this.” He picked up her pencil and then stopped and looked up, waiting for her permission to tweak the sketch.
“Um, sure, go ahead.” She watched as he erased part of the roof’s line and drew in the new angles. His strokes were bold, smooth, certain. There was a warm sort of joy in his eyes as he worked, completely at odds with the all-business Duke who’d been rattling off schedules at her a moment ago.
