Page 5 of A Problem Princess

Because of all the breakfasts, naturally. Yet Cordelia didn’t dare utter a word. She knew her duty, just as she knew the punishment if she refused to carry it out.

Once, shortly after her parents died, she’d had enough of being a princess and refused to cooperate. The thought of one more royal appearance had broken her. In punishment, she’d been stripped down to her shift, locked into an empty room by herself for a week, and given nothing to eat but plain porridge. No one had been allowed to see her, not even Aunt Wilhelmina. When she was finally allowed out of the room, Uncle Ernest sternly lectured her for an hour about the obligations of the royal family, and Lady Devereaux was made her secretary and constant companion to reinforce that lesson. She’d been warned. If she refused to behave like a princess, then the palace would treat her like a commoner, including sending her away to some distant corner of Monrovia where she would never see her family and friends again.

With no other choice, she’d capitulated and gone on to do exactly what was expected of her.

She was still doing it ten years later.

“Your meeting with the War Secretary is at three o’clock, the Home Secretary at four, the Foreign Secretary at five—”

“And a partridge in a pear tree at six,” Cordelia mumbled beneath her breath.

Devereaux glanced up from her notes and blinked. “Pardon, Your Highness?”

Oh no—she’d thoughtlessly uttered that aloud! With a smile to cover her slip, she lied, “And another perfect treat at six, I’m certain.”

“Oh. Yes.” The secretary checked her pocket watch again and waved at Braun to hurry with the final touches to Cordelia’s hair and gown. “That is when you’ll have your first drawing room with Queen Charlotte at Buckingham House. You’ll be dressed at eight for the evening ceremonies with the Royal Society, the Royal Academy—”

“Is there no free time?” Cordelia interrupted yet kept her head perfectly still so Braun could finish securing her curls.

Devereaux flipped through the pages in her book, scanning each one. “Ah yes!” She smiled triumphantly. “On day three. Your uncle requested that we leave time for you to spend with your English family.”

Her chest sank. What he meant was more time with the royal dukes. That wasn’t at all the type of free time she craved. “If we’ve planned it already, then it isn’t free,” she somehow managed to correct without grumbling…too much.

Devereaux’s lips pressed firmly together. She had no good response to that except “You know how busy your schedule always is. Everyone desires to meet you and discuss Monrovia’s affairs. It’s your duty to avail yourself.”

Oh, Cordelia certainly knew that! Every day was like this, even in Monrovia, where her schedule was planned down to the minute and filled with endless engagements.

Her life was not her own. When she had turned sixteen and officially become part of her uncle’s court, she had come to the startling realization that she would be told where to be at every moment of every day for the rest of her life.

She hadn’t known whether to feel relieved or break down in sobs.

She pulled in a deep breath and announced, “I want to see as much of London as possible while I’m here.”

“Of course, ma’am. The planned events will allow you to—”

“Not the events. I want to see London.” After all, if she’d be marrying a royal duke and moving here, then she needed to learn about the new country where she’d be living out the rest of her days. “TherealLondon.”

Devereaux blinked. “Ma’am?”

“I want to see the Tower and the animals I’ve heard are kept there, visit the art exhibits at Somerset House, ride down the Thames on a wherry—perhaps explore one of the markets—”

“A wherry? A market?” Her secretary gaped, horrified by the idea. “Whatever for?”

“Just to see the city and meet its people.”Just to have a little fun while I still can.

Devereaux tapped her forefinger against the notebook and reminded her, “You are not here as a tourist on the grand tour, Your Highness. You are here to offer our country’s heartfelt support to your English cousins in their time of grief and uncertainty.”

No. She was here to be sacrificed in marriage.

When Princess Charlotte died in childbirth, along with her baby son, the double deaths not only plunged England into mourning but also into a constitutional crisis. Despite a bevy of uncles, Charlotte was the only legitimate grandchild of King George, and none of the royal dukes were in marital positions to produce another. Those royal dukes who were still bachelors would have to marry, and soon, to ensure the continuation of the monarchy, and Cordelia represented everything they wanted in a wife—a continental princess who was young enough to have children and who possessed the fortune of a principality for her dowry.

“That will do, Braun,” Cordelia told her dresser as the woman continued to fuss with her chestnut strands, as if attempting to give her a coiffure to rival none in terms of height and perfectly formed curls. When the woman then pulled at the puffed sleeves of her dress, Cordelia raised her hand to stop her. “Please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Yet Braun couldn’t resist puffing one more bit of fabric before dropping her hands to her sides and moving away.

Thankfully, Devereaux retreated several steps as well, taking that dreadful notebook along with her. When Cordelia had been younger, she’d fantasized about snatching it from the woman’s hands and throwing it into the fire. Now she was old enough to know that another notebook would simply replace it.

“You may both leave me,” Cordelia ordered softly. “I’m ready.”