Chapter 1: Miles

I have to give credit where credit is due. Caroline’s really gone all out for this thing.

I was expecting to meet five, maybe even six women at tonight’s mixer. Imagine my surprise when I walk into the room and see almost thirty gorgeous beauties, all of their eyes on me. One of whom may just be my future wife.

It’s overwhelming.

The glittery shimmer of heavy jewelry is blinding. Emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and diamonds bejewel every neck, wrist, ear, and head in sight. The collection of different perfumes is so strong it burns my nose—not a trace of subtly to be found. The women are all dressed in exorbitantly elegant gowns that seem more impractical than impressive. How they’re able to move about in those layers of heavy satin and eight-inch designer heels is beyond me.

It’s an extravagant affair.

Too extravagant for my taste.

Caroline’s a petite woman. Pretty. Long blonde hair and dark brown eyes. She reminds me of a young Audrey Hepburn—put together, elegant, and fashionable. She radiates confidence like the sun, totally in her element as she takes me around the room and introduces me to everyone with an air of charming familiarity.

Don’t get me wrong. They’re all very lovely. They’re all different levels of nobility, the pique of etiquette and royal grace.

But after the fourth or fifth woman, it’s hard to distinguish them from one another.

“Prince Miles, this is Lady Anna of Media,” she says, smiling at a young redhead in a black dress. “Lady Anna, this is Prince Miles of Oxland.”

I shake the woman’s hand. The poor thing looks like she’s two seconds away from fainting.

“It’s v-very n-nice to meet y-you, Prince M-Miles,” she stutters, her cheeks burning as red as her hair.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” I reply calmly.

“Are you e-enjoying your e-evening?”

I kiss the back of her hand. “Better now that I’ve met you,” I say.

Her eyes roll back into her skull as she swoons, passing out into the arms of a waiting attendant.

“Oops,” I mumble under my breath. “There goes another one.”

Caroline clears her throat. “Would you please stop doing that? You’re trying to make a good impression, not traumatize them.”

“I swear I’m not doing it on purpose.”

My matchmaker sighs and quickly instructs Lady Anna’s attendant to take her aside and grab her a cool drink from the refreshments table. Caroline passes him something small and cylindrical.

“If she doesn’t come to in the next minute, here’s a smelling salt,” she explains.

“You’ve really thought of everything,” I say. “I can see why Lord Greyson speaks so highly of you.”

Caroline gives me a coy smirk. “He does? I didn’t think it was possible for the man to say a kind word.”

I nod sympathetically. “He must have really meant it. Why else would he risk bursting into flames?”

She laughs, guiding me over to the last marriage candidate in the room. The woman is incredibly beautiful. Long black hair, sparkling blue eyes like diamonds. There’s an air of maturity to her that the others lacked, a self-assured calm.

Oh, good. I don’t think this one’s a fainter.

“Prince Miles,” Caroline says, “please allow me to introduce you to one of my good friends, Lady Ainsley of Tenebrae.”

Ainsley takes the initiative to hold her hand out first. I shake it with a polite smile.

“A good friend?” I echo. “How do the two of you know each other?”

“We went to business school together,” Ainsley explains coolly.

I raise my eyebrows, intrigued. “Is that so? Why business, of all things?”

“I was originally an economics major, but I thought I’d apply my knowledge toward a business degree. As most people know, Tenebrae’s a small kingdom. I wanted to put my education to good use and help advise my uncle, the King, on financial matters.”

The corner of my lip tugs up into a small grin.

Smart. Beautiful. Polite.

So far, Lady Ainsley is ticking off all the boxes.

And yet…

She holds out her hand with a smile. “Would you mind escorting me over to the bar for a drink?”

If I’m being perfectly honest, I want to tell her no. I have nothing personal against her, but I’m just not feeling a spark. I don’t want to lead her on either, but declining isn’t exactly an option.

Everybody’s eyes are on me.

Caroline. The other women at the mixer. Ainsley.

At the end of the day, I don’t care about any of their opinions. There is, however, someone with high expectations that I wouldn’t dare wish to disappoint. My father, King Albert, no doubt has a few of his advisors hidden amongst the crowd to keep tabs on me. Out of everyone here, he’s the one who really wants me to walk away with a wife.

I would never tell him that I’d rather be home drinking a couple of beers while watching Sports Center with Jingles, my Golden Retriever. He’d have my head if I weren’t next in line for the throne. The only reason he’s had such a loose leash on me until recently is because I’ve been good, kept out of the spotlight as much as possible to keep from embarrassing him like some of my younger brothers.

‘You have to set an example, Miles. Find yourself a nice wife, have a bunch of children, and don’t make a fool of yourself.’

‘But what if I don’t love her?’

‘Love has nothing to do with it. Your wife is an obligation, nothing more.’

Caroline clears her throat again and nudges me in the rib with the tip of her elbow. Ainsley’s been waiting patiently, but now it’s starting to get a little awkward. I offer her my arm, which she takes immediately with a grand smile.

“Shall we?” I ask, even though I already know her answer.

I’ve grown up in the public eye. I’m used to the gossip mill and what BS late-night entertainment shows have to say about me and my family. My every move is under a microscope, every single one of my motivations dissected and discussed by people who claim to know me. Crowds like this normally don’t bother me, but this one has my collar feeling uncomfortably tight.

The air’s thinner. My nose is still burning from the amalgamation of everyone’s overly sweet perfumes and the flower arrangements that fill the room. It’s way too hot in here, not enough space between me and my guests to keep me cool. A couple of the windows are open, but it makes little to no difference. The loud murmur of conversation and laughter and the clinking of utensils on ludicrously small appetizer plates rings in my ear.

I can feel the threat of a migraine coming on.

It doesn’t occur to me that Ainsley’s been talking this entire time about…I don’t actually know what she’s been talking about, but judging by her expression and occasional hand gesture, it sounds important.

“Here,” she says. Ainsley holds up a fresh glass of bubbly golden champagne in a delicate crystal flute. “This is for—are you feeling all right, Prince Miles?”

I snap back to reality, forcing myself to concentrate. “Of course. Perfectly fine.”

“I’m not boring you, am I?”

“No, not at all.”

“Oh, good. I have to admit, I’ve been very interested in your recent charity work helping Oxlandian farmers during last year’s drought. I thought it was very interesting that you decided to—”

I stop listening.

I swear I’m not trying to be rude. Ainsley seems nice enough, obviously a conversationalist. I’m admittedly flattered that she’s heard about some of my work. But no matter what I do, I can’t seem to focus my attention on her.

Instead, my focus is trained on someone on the other side of the room.

Caroline’s hired a live string quartet for the mixer. They’re set up on a small platform tucked away in the corner. There are two violinists, a viola player, and a cellist.

It’s the cellist I can’t look away from.

I hear the music she plays before anything else. Sweet, soulful, every note tinged with a hint of sadness despite the song’s major key. Long, nimble fingers expertly fly over the strings. There’s no hesitation, no second guessing. The music comes as naturally to her as blinking or breathing. Simple and easy and gorgeous.

That’s when I actually notice her.

Others may think she’s washed out amongst this crowd of gorgeous, done-up women. She’s in a simple black dress with a sweetheart neckline, a simple gold chain around her delicate neck. Her skin is pale like snow, a scattering of light freckles across her collarbone and arms like stars. Her long black hair is pulled up into a simple bun, loose strands curling at the sides of her face.

She has no makeup on whatsoever, but there’s an odd charm to seeing the dark circles beneath her eyes. In a weird way, they suit her. They make her seem wise beyond her years, more patient than anyone in the room. Her lips appear glossed over with a bit of balm, her lashes are short but curly, and her brows are thick and perfectly frame her dark black eyes. They’re so deep I feel like I could drown in them, swimming forever in search of the secret to her beautiful music.

It’s only when the song comes to an abrupt end that I realize I’m a few feet away from the small stage. I’ve accidentally abandoned Ainsley somewhere behind me, totally unaware that I did so.

The cellist looks up at me like a deer caught in the headlights, eyes wide as our gazes lock.

My heart stops.

My breath hitches.

“What’s your name?” I ask without thinking.

She glances over at her colleagues, unsure. The first violinist shoots her an immediate come-on-don’t-keep-him-waiting look.

“Lisabet,” she mumbles, almost a whisper.

Her voice is so soft and sweet it catches me off guard. She looks young, no older than twenty-five, but she sounds so much younger. Innocent, even; borderline naïve. But the look in her eye tells a different story. There’s something about her that screams she shouldn’t be taken lightly. There’s experience behind her dark black eyes.

Hardship.

I’ve been standing here long enough that I’ve drawn a bit of a crowd. All of the eligible women in the room—those who haven’t fainted, of course—are all looking at me expectantly. Everybody seems to want to grab my attention.

Except Lisabet.

I look away for only a second, but when I look back, she’s already packed up her cello and is now stepping away. She bows quickly. It’s awkward, unpracticed.

“I have to go,” she whispers before disappearing behind the crowd.

“Hey, wait a second—” I try to call out to her, but my voice is drowned out by everyone else calling my name.

“Prince Miles, would you like to dance with me?” asks one woman.

“How about we get a drink, Prince Miles?” asks another.

“The caterer’s really outdone himself. Why don’t we grab a bite to eat?”

“Will you tell me more about your life in Oxland?”

“Do you think my dress is pretty, Your Royal Highness?”

They’ve all got a hand on me, some attempting to pull me one way while others drag me in the opposite direction. It’s suffocating. I really want to tell them to back off, to give me some space, but I’m more than aware of the scrutinizing eyes my father has planted in the room. If I make a scene, the news will get to him faster than a Twitter post.

I have no choice but to let Lisabet go.

For now.