"How is this *possible?*"
Sophie's voice cracked with outrage, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
"I'm certain every *rat* in the stables knew that story! Every scullery maid, every footman, every half-wit stable boy! And yet *we*—" She jabbed a finger at her own chest, then toward Adelina. "—knew *nothing!* It's *unthinkable!*"
The maid looked ready to storm out of the room and begin physically assaulting the household staff. Given Sophie's temperament, it wasn't entirely outside the realm of possibility.
But there were more pressing matters than punishing treacherous servants.
Sophie's gaze fell on the newspaper still lying crumpled on the table. The front page featured a large photograph of the Duke of Pembroke—dark-haired, violet-eyed, impossibly handsome even in grainy newsprint. Above his image, a headline screamed in bold letters:
> **THE LARGEST RAILROAD INVESTMENT SCAM IN HISTORY**
> *Is the "Half-Breed Duke" Behind It?*
Gossip columns could be dismissed as rumor and speculation. But newspaper articles—*these* carried weight. These had sources. These would be read and believed by thousands.
Sophie's righteous fury began to curdle into something more complicated.
She turned to face her mistress, her expression shifting from anger to worry.
"My lady..." The words came out cautiously now, carefully measured. "Are you *truly* planning to marry the Duke of Pembroke?"
It was not a servant's place to question her mistress's decisions. Sophie knew this. Had known it since her first day of service.
But Adelina's choice seemed impossibly rash. A marriage to a man she'd only just met, announced mere hours after their first encounter, coming hard on the heels of scandal and accusation?
It didn't make sense.
Unless...
Sophie's face hardened with sudden suspicion.
"My lady." Her voice dropped to something low and dangerous. "If the Duke of Pembroke *threatened* you—if he coerced you in *any* way—I will *not* remain silent!"
Her expression cycled rapidly through emotions—fury, determination, protective rage—like storm clouds racing across a summer sky. Adelina watched this display with something approaching amusement, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"And what," she asked gently, "would you do about it?"
"I would—" Sophie's fists pumped with conviction. "I would *tell* someone! I would *definitely* tell someone! I would—I would—"
Her voice trailed off.
Nothing sensible seemed to present itself.
The sight of Sophie desperately searching for a solution—so fierce, so loyal, so utterly out of her depth—finally drew a laugh from Adelina. It was a soft sound, genuine and warm.
Comparing people to animals was considered terribly impolite in noble circles. But in that moment, Sophie reminded Adelina powerfully of a small but fearless Maltese—all bristling white fur and protective growls, ready to throw herself at any threat regardless of size or consequence.
*Having someone who can be angry on your behalf*, Adelina thought, *is a rare and precious gift.*
"You needn't worry." She reached out and gently covered Sophie's clenched fists with her own hands. "The Duke of Pembroke was perfectly polite. He asked my consent properly and respectfully."
A pause. A rueful smile.
"So unfortunately, you won't have the opportunity to give anyone a dressing-down."
Sophie's eyes narrowed with skepticism.
"*Polite?*" She practically spat the word. "The Duke of *Pembroke?*"
Based on everything that circulated through society's whisper networks, "politeness" was perhaps the last virtue anyone would attribute to Alexio Pembroke. *Ruthless*, certainly. *Cunning*, without question. *Devastatingly effective* in all matters of business and finance.
But *polite?*
Sophie opened her mouth to voice these objections—then caught the look in her mistress's eyes.
It was stern. Reproachful. The look of someone who had made up her mind and would not be swayed by gossip.
"Sophie." Adelina's voice carried a gentle warning. "Was the Duke of Pembroke rude when we met him in person? Did he treat us with anything less than courtesy?"
The maid's mouth worked silently.
"It is wrong," Adelina continued, "to judge a person based solely on rumors. You know this."
"But—" Sophie tried one last time. "There's a saying, my lady. *Where there's smoke, there's fire.* And the *amount* of smoke surrounding the Duke of Pembroke—"
She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
In the presence of the woman who had just agreed to *marry* the Duke, it would be unconscionable to catalog his alleged sins. His reportedly cold nature. His rumored ruthlessness. The whispers about his illegitimate origins and questionable methods.
Adelina's smile softened. She released Sophie's hands and sat back, her expression growing contemplative.
"Sophie. This time, my father is *determined* to see me wed."
The words fell like stones into still water.
"He's in desperate trouble. The only way to raise the sum he needs—quickly enough to save himself—is through a marriage contract. Through *me*." Adelina's gaze dropped to her lap. "And given my... *situation*... I cannot avoid marriage forever."
Sophie's protest died in her throat.
Because it was true.
Marriage was the inevitable fate of a woman who carried the blood of two royal families. The miracle was that Adelina had avoided it this long—and that miracle existed solely because of her father's greed. Arthur had always wanted *more*. A higher price. A better match. And so he'd kept delaying, kept searching, kept treating his daughter like fine wine aging in a cellar until it reached peak value.
Adelina's own wishes had never entered the calculation.
Ironically, her father's vulgar hunger for profit had been the only thing protecting her from the altar.
"My marriage has always been in my father's hands." Adelina's voice had gone quiet, almost detached—as though she were discussing someone else's life. "That's how it was before. That's how it remains now. Nothing has changed."
She looked up, meeting Sophie's anguished gaze.
"Not a single man who has ever sought my hand bothered to ask whether *I* wished to give it."
The words hung in the air between them.
Then, softer still:
"Except one."
Adelina's thoughts drifted to the storm. To the broken carriage and the muddy road. To the tall figure emerging from the rain, taking the umbrella from her hands, lifting it so she could finally see his face.
*I came to make a counter-offer.*
A strange shiver traced down her spine at the memory.
"The Duke of Pembroke came to *me*," she said. "As though it were the most natural thing in the world. As though my consent actually *mattered*."
She smiled—small, crooked, tinged with something between wonder and resignation.
"If they're going to sell me anyway... I should like to choose the buyer myself."
A pause.
"That's naive, isn't it?"
Sophie's lips pressed together. Her eyes glistened.
She wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that her mistress deserved *better*—deserved love and choice and freedom. But she had served Adelina long enough to understand the cold realities of noble life. Had watched, helpless, as prince after prince and duke after duke had approached Prince Arthur with offers, never once acknowledging that the princess herself might have opinions worth considering.
Looking at Adelina now—shoulders slumped, hands clasped too tightly in her lap, smiling that small, sad smile—Sophie felt something fierce rise up in her chest.
She squared her shoulders. Drew herself to her full height.
"*What?!*"
The word burst out with startling volume.
"My lady, you *chose* your husband yourself! How can you call that selling? How can you call that *naive?*" Sophie's eyes blazed with conviction. "That's not weakness—that's *strength!*"
Adelina blinked, startled by the outburst.
"Besides!" Sophie's voice was deliberately bright now, her tone shifting to something more cheerful. "The Duke of Pembroke is handsome. And wealthy. And of the highest status outside the royal family itself!"
She began ticking off virtues on her fingers.
"He has excellent posture. Very elegant hands. And—" A grin tugged at her lips. "—it was *incredibly* amusing to watch him call His Highness '*Father-in-Law*' with that perfectly serious expression."
Despite everything, Adelina felt a laugh bubbling up in her chest.
"He's certainly an unusual choice," Sophie continued, "but all things considered, he could hardly be called a *bad* one."
Then her expression sobered slightly.
"Although..." The maid hesitated, broaching a delicate subject. "Will the royal family approve of this marriage? Considering that the Duke of Pembroke is..."
She paused, searching for diplomatic phrasing.
"...of mixed heritage?"
*Half-nobleman*. That was the polite term.
*Half-breed Duke*. That was what people like Prince Arthur actually said.
Origin. Blood. Family.
The nobility was obsessed with these things—with bloodlines and breeding and the careful calculus of inherited status. They would do *anything* to protect the purity of their lineages. Wage wars. Arrange loveless marriages. Disown children born to the wrong mothers.
And the royal family stood at the very center of this madness.
During her reign, the Queen had personally overseen noble marriages, using them as instruments of policy and alliance. She was known for her broad views and practical wisdom—but she was also bedridden, fading further each day.
In her place stood Prince Leopold, the Regent.
And Leopold, by all accounts, was a very different sort of ruler.
Conservative. Principled. Rigidly traditional.
Would such a man permit *tainted* blood to marry into the royal family?
Sophie voiced the question neither of them wanted to ask.
"Will the Prince Regent even allow it?"
---
## — The Prince's Study —
*A wedding in ten days.*
No matter how Prince Arthur turned the proposition over in his mind, it remained absurd.
Alexio sat across from him, perfectly relaxed, sipping tea he had earlier deemed inferior with apparent contentment. His posture suggested a man without a care in the world—as though arranging a royal wedding in less than a fortnight were the most reasonable request imaginable.
"Now, listen here, Duke of Pembroke—"
"*Son-in-Law*," Alexio corrected smoothly. "Please, Father-in-Law. We're to be family."
Arthur's eye twitched.
He had lost all desire to argue about forms of address. The battle had been comprehensively lost. "Father-in-Law" and "Son-in-Law" it would be, apparently, forever.
"*Son-in-Law,*" Arthur ground out, rising from his seat with agitated energy. "It seems you don't fully understand the complexities involved. Royal marriages aren't *simple*. They require protocols. Approvals. *Time.*"
He began pacing, arms waving for emphasis.
"In Adelina's case, the situation is even more delicate! She holds the title of Princess by the Queen's own decree. Any marriage requires royal approval—and with Her Majesty incapacitated, that authority rests with the Prince Regent."
Arthur stopped pacing, facing Alexio with an expression of genuine anxiety.
"My brother *Leopold*," he emphasized the name with a mixture of fear and resentment, "is not... *favorably* disposed toward me. If we rush this—if we show *any* sign of impropriety or desperation—he will certainly cause problems."
His voice dropped to something approaching a hiss.
"It must be a *perfect* marriage. Without a single flaw. Otherwise, Leopold will tear it apart just to spite me!"
Alexio set down his teacup with a delicate *clink*.
"Of course, Father-in-Law." His tone remained utterly untroubled. "This wedding will be the most grand and spectacular celebration the kingdom has witnessed in years. Nothing less would suit my bride."
Arthur stared at him.
The words sounded like empty rhetoric. Flowery promises without substance. How could *anyone* arrange a flawless royal wedding in ten days? It was logistically impossible. Financially ruinous. Politically suicidal.
He opened his mouth to say exactly this—
The study door slammed open without warning.
No knock. No announcement. Just the sudden crash of wood against wall, followed by the hurried entrance of Prince Arthur's personal secretary.
"Your Highness!" The man's face was flushed, his breathing ragged. "Urgent news! There are problems—serious problems—with the meeting we arranged!"
Arthur's attention snapped away from Alexio entirely.
"What meeting? What problems?"
The secretary swallowed hard.
"The Rossi estate, Your Highness. The meeting between the Princess and Lord Derek Pembroke." He paused, clearly dreading what came next. "It seems... the Princess never arrived."
Arthur's face went pale.
"*What?*"
"Her carriage was found abandoned on the road—broken wheel, no passengers. And now—" The secretary's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Now there are reports that Lord Derek Pembroke is on his way *here*. To the Roche estate. With his mother."
The blood drained from Arthur's face entirely.
He had been so focused on the unexpected windfall of Alexio's offer—the ten billion klons, the hastily signed agreement, the Hartmann watch heavy in his pocket—that he had completely forgotten about the *original* arrangement.
Madame Pembroke.
Derek Pembroke.
The five billion klons he had already essentially promised.
And now both of them were coming *here*.
Arthur's gaze swung wildly toward Alexio, searching for some sign of concern, some indication that the Duke understood the catastrophe about to unfold.
Alexio smiled.
It was a pleasant expression. Perfectly composed. Utterly without worry.
"How fortuitous," he said mildly. "I haven't seen my stepmother in weeks. It will be lovely to catch up."
He reached for his teacup once more.
"Don't you think, Father-in-Law?"
---