Page 7 of A Problem Princess

“Yes.” She frowned, slightly bewildered. “Why would you think otherwise?”

He released her chin and stepped back. “Because it was a long journey, and I am certain it’s fatigued you.” Concern darkened his face. “I also promised Wilhelmina that I would look after you and not let any harm come to you.” His lips curled as he confided, “She’ll flail me into next summer if you so much as develop a cough.”

Cordelia mustered a smile. The palace had thought it best that her aunt Wilhelmina remained in Monrovia for this trip, claiming it would be too stressful on her aunt’s health. Cordelia suspected ulterior motives. In Wilhelmina’s absence, she would be forced to interact more with Queen Charlotte and the royal princesses and so give her future in-laws a good opportunity to scrutinize her.

“I am certain no one expects you to linger tonight,” her uncle added. “Your formal duties will end once the prince regent makes your introduction to his guests and family.”

What Uncle Ernest actually meant was her introduction to the regent’s bachelor brothers. After they met her, they would certainly want her gone so they could discuss the rest of her visit among themselves. Or draw straws to decide who would marry her.

She dutifully replied, “Thank you, Uncle. I appreciate the opportunity to retire early.” Then, seizing the moment, she dared to ask, “Would it be possible for me to explore London while we’re here? I’m certain Devereaux can carve out time between…” When his lips stretched into a patronizing smile, her voice trailed off.

There was no point in finishing her request.

“You are Her Serene Highness Princess Cordelia of Monrovia,” he said, although she certainly didn’t need to be told that. Every day of her life served as a reminder of who she was. “Your duty is first and always to our country, even when you are out of it.”

How well she knew that! In other words, she would be bound to Devereaux’s schedule for every moment of her visit and at the side of one royal duke or another.

Duty…sometimes she simply wanted to scream at the thought.

Yet there was nothing she could do about it. Her life belonged to crown and country, and for her, that meant adhering to a grueling schedule of appointments she did not make with people she did not know, dinners and balls, receptions and ceremonies, until she thought she might simply go mad from it all.

But what other choice did she have? She was born a royal, and she would die a royal. The days in between wouldneverbe her own.

Uncle Ernest squeezed her shoulders. “You must trust me, my dear. I have planned this trip to our best advantage, and I will not risk any threat to our future. The monarchies of Monrovia and England both depend on its outcome.”

“I know.”

He pulled back and stared down at her with such a somber expression that she trembled. “Do you? Do you fully understand its implications?”

Her heart skipped. He didn’t mean a royal marriage. He meant her father’s legacy.

If what her father had done during the last years of his reign ever came to light, the scandal would consume Monrovia and destroy the throne. Her family would become outcasts, considered criminals and murderers, most likely deposed—ifMonrovia didn’t fall into civil war first, because half its people would still lay down their lives in loyalty to her father, despite everything.

Marriage was the best way to save Monrovia. Being seen as a dutiful bride would keep Cordelia and her family in the hearts of the Monrovian people and mitigate any potential scandal. Moreover, marriage into Britain’s royal family would be like granting a royal seal of approval to the House of Renaldi from the most important, most powerful monarchy still reigning in Europe.

Of course, she also needed to bear a son, one who might someday assume the crown of Monrovia, and if she married a royal duke, then possibly the crown of Great Britain as well. Their two monarchies would be entwined, both made stronger by the presence of the other. Their continued reign would be ensured for another generation.

Cordelia pushed down a creeping feeling of dread. She knew what was expected of her in marriage and childbirth. She’d resigned herself to it long ago.

She just didn’t want it to be with one of the royal dukes.

Yet she answered, “Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” He squeezed her shoulders reassuringly, as if he knew they were about to sag in resignation. “Our first duty is always to Monrovia, not to ourselves.”

“I know.”

With a pleased smile, he dropped his hands away, clapped them together happily at her acquiescence, and stepped back.

Cordelia inhaled deeply. She hadn’t realized until right then that she’d been holding her breath.

“I came to tell you that the start of the ceremony has been delayed.” He retreated toward the door. “Remain here. We’ll send word when we’re ready for you.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly. As he left, she turned and caught her reflection in the mirror. As always, her posture was perfect and regal, right down to the way she held her tiara-capped head. Every inch a princess. How many countless hours had she spent walking through the palace balancing books on her head and holding water in spoons to learn perfect poise and deportment? “Far too many.”

“Pardon?” The comtesse frowned.

“Nothing.” She smiled at Marie and gestured at the door. “You should follow Uncle.”