Derek's face flushed crimson at Adelina's casual dismissal.
*Mr. Pembroke.*
The address was technically correct. Perfectly polite. And somehow, because of that very correctness, utterly devastating.
He didn't fully understand why the words stung so deeply. He only knew that he felt exposed—stripped bare before these women who refused to be charmed by him.
It was as though he were standing naked in a crowded ballroom.
"My lady," Sophie whispered, barely suppressing her glee, "this man looks like a red balloon about to burst."
Derek's flush deepened at the observation, spreading from his cheeks down his neck to disappear beneath his collar.
Adelina shook her head slightly at her maid's mockery.
"You shouldn't tease people so mercilessly, Sophie."
"He's a *lecher* who climbed through the window of his own free will," Sophie countered, completely unrepentant. "I think he's earned a little teasing." She shot another glare at Derek. "Shall I summon the servants to escort him out properly?"
Before Adelina could respond, the chamber door burst open.
"*Adelina!*"
Prince Arthur rushed into the room, his face pale with anxiety. Behind him came Alexio—composed, unhurried, violet eyes glittering with private amusement—and Madame Pembroke, whose elegant features had hardened into a mask of barely contained fury.
Adelina turned to greet them with perfect composure.
"Father." A respectful nod. "Your Grace."
The Duke of Pembroke inclined his head in acknowledgment.
Then, after a pause so subtle it might have been imagined—but wasn't:
"Madame Pembroke."
The sequence was deliberate. Protocol demanded that one first acknowledge those of equal or higher rank before extending courtesy to those below. Prince Arthur was her father and a member of the royal family. The Duke of Pembroke held the highest noble title in the kingdom.
Madame Pembroke, however, was merely the mistress of the Pembroke household. Not a duchess. Not a titled noblewoman in her own right. Simply the widow of the previous Duke, maintained in her position by the sufferance of her stepson.
The distinction was subtle.
And absolutely devastating.
Madame Pembroke froze.
A princess—a *junior* member of the royal family—had just reminded her, in front of witnesses, of her true status. Had expected a greeting bow *from* her, as from a subordinate.
And there was nothing improper about it.
Nothing that could be criticized or challenged.
Simply flawless execution of protocol that happened to place Madame Pembroke exactly where she belonged.
"Your Highness..." Madame's voice emerged slightly strained. She dipped into a curtsy—not as deep as one might offer a queen, but deeper than she had intended.
She couldn't help glancing toward Alexio.
That infuriating smirk had appeared at the corner of his mouth.
Madame Pembroke's lips trembled with suppressed rage. She tore her gaze away from her stepson and fixed it instead on Derek—
And stopped.
Her son stood in the center of the room, face blazing red, posture uncertain, looking for all the world like a schoolboy caught cheating on an examination.
*This* was not what she had expected.
When she'd sent Derek to meet the princess privately, Madame had assumed the girl would be the one left flustered. Innocent maidens always blushed and stammered when confronted with Derek's beauty and charm.
Instead, she found her son humiliated and the princess utterly composed.
*What happened here?*
She studied Derek's face, searching for some explanation.
His eyes darted away from her gaze.
No help there.
Into this awkward silence, Alexio stepped forward and spoke.
"Now that both families are assembled," his voice carried perfectly, pitched to command attention, "there's no reason to postpone the official discussion of the engagement."
The words were casual.
Their implications were anything but.
Madame Pembroke's eyebrow rose sharply. "*Both families?*" She began to protest—to demand an explanation for this presumptuous language—
But Alexio had already moved past her, walking to the window that Derek had left thrown wide open.
He peered out into the garden below and whistled softly.
"Ah. The final guest has arrived. Just in time."
"*Final guest?*" Madame Pembroke felt a cold knot forming in her stomach. She followed his gaze toward the window.
In the distance, a carriage was approaching up the main drive. Even from here, she could make out the crest emblazoned on its door.
The *royal* crest.
"Why would the royal carriage—" The words died in her throat.
Alexio's smile widened into something genuinely pleased.
"The Prince Regent has arrived, Father-in-Law." He turned to include Prince Arthur in the observation. "Perhaps we should go down to greet him?"
---
## — The Formal Reception —
Prince Leopold, Regent of the Kingdom of Riochel, set down his teacup with rather more force than etiquette permitted.
*Knock.*
The sound echoed through the suddenly silent drawing room.
Prince Arthur flinched so violently he nearly fell from his chair. He scrambled to his feet, face ashen with anxiety.
"B-Brother—Your Highness—should I have fresh tea brought? Perhaps a different blend would—"
The relationship between the two brothers had never been warm. After Leopold's recent refusal to bail Arthur out of his financial disaster—accompanied by a blistering lecture on maturity and responsibility—their interactions had grown positively glacial.
Arthur's nervous stammering only seemed to irritate the Regent further.
"Leave it." Leopold's voice was flat with contempt. "I doubt the tea will improve no matter how many times you replace it."
Arthur hesitated, hovering awkwardly, then sank back onto the sofa.
Leopold sighed—a heavy, weary sound—and surveyed the assembled group.
Princess Adelina sat with perfect posture, her expression serene. The Duke of Pembroke lounged in his chair with deceptive casualness, every line of his body suggesting coiled readiness. Madame Pembroke maintained an appearance of elegant composure, though tension showed in the set of her jaw. Derek had recovered enough to arrange his features into something approaching his usual charm, but uncertainty still flickered behind his eyes.
"I never imagined," Leopold said slowly, "that I would encounter such a combination in my entire life."
He let the observation hang in the air.
"So. The two families are considering... *unification?*"
"Yes, Your Highness." Alexio's response came immediately, confident and clear.
Leopold laughed—a short, sharp sound entirely devoid of humor.
"When my messenger first delivered the news, I assumed there had been some error." His gaze swept across the room, lingering on each face in turn. "The princess's marriage is not a matter Prince Arthur has the authority to decide unilaterally. Such a union concerns not only our kingdom but the Duchy of Estria as well."
"Not at all!" Arthur shot to his feet again, words tumbling out in panicked haste. "Mother agreed that Adelina's marriage—"
"*Her Majesty the Queen.*"
Arthur's mouth snapped shut.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Not *Mother*, Prince Arthur." Leopold's voice had gone dangerously soft. "*Her Majesty*. You will address the crown with proper respect."
Arthur's face contorted with barely suppressed resentment.
"Of course. *Her Majesty the Queen*." The words emerged through gritted teeth. "But regardless of formal titles, she remains our mother, does she not? Surely between brothers—"
"Prince Arthur." Leopold cut him off without raising his voice. "You received the title of Duke upon your marriage. You became, at that time, independent from the royal family. I suggest you conduct yourself accordingly."
The warning was unmistakable.
*Continue this childish behavior, and there will be consequences.*
Arthur's jaw tightened. Veins stood out on his temples. The injustice of it—being lectured like a wayward child, having his *own brother* draw such cold boundaries—burned in his chest like poison.
Adelina recognized the signs.
Her father was moments away from saying something catastrophically stupid.
"Uncle." She spoke before Arthur could respond, her voice calm and clear. "Her Majesty the Queen entrusted the matter of my marriage to my father before her illness worsened. The Duchy of Estria has also agreed not to interfere in the proceedings."
Leopold turned to regard his niece.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
He knew, of course, about the Queen's promise. Had been present when she made it. But knowing and *approving* were very different things—and he saw clearly what Arthur hoped to gain from this arrangement.
"So you chose the wealthy Pembroke family."
The words fell like stones into still water.
*Anyone* could see what was happening here. Arthur was selling his daughter to the highest bidder. There was no other explanation for choosing the Pembrokes—a family surrounded by scandal, led by a half-blood duke, forever tainted by that infamous marriage to a common-born woman.
"If two families are to unite through marriage," Leopold continued, "the bride is obviously the princess." His gaze moved between Alexio and Derek. "Who, then, is the groom?"
One question. Simple. Straightforward.
It should have had one answer.
"The groom is the Duke of Pembroke."
"The groom is my son, Derek."
Two voices spoke simultaneously.
Prince Arthur and Madame Pembroke turned to stare at each other in mutual horror.
Leopold's eyebrows rose.
Then, slowly, he began to laugh.
It was not a pleasant sound.
"You haven't even reached consensus on who the *groom* will be?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Arranged marriages are common enough, but if word spreads of how *this* negotiation has been conducted..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
The scandal would be catastrophic.
Discontent with the monarchy was already spreading through the kingdom like wildfire. Abolitionists marched in the streets. Pamphlets circulating in the capital questioned whether nobility had any purpose in modern society. The Queen's long and beloved reign had shielded the royal family from the worst of the criticism—but she was dying, and her protection was fading with her.
If a royal princess were seen to be *sold* like merchandise—if competing buyers were fighting over her like merchants haggling at a market stall—
The damage would be incalculable.
Leopold pressed two fingers to his temple, fighting the beginnings of a vicious headache.
*How did Arthur manage to make such a disaster of the one task Mother entrusted to him?*
He had known his younger brother was irresponsible. Had known Arthur was bad with money, worse with planning, and utterly hopeless at politics.
But *this*?
This was beyond incompetence.
This was a crisis.
"Perhaps," Alexio said mildly, drawing all eyes to him, "I might be permitted to clarify the situation?"
Leopold regarded the Duke with newfound attention.
The half-blood. The Rogue Duke. The man who had built a fortune larger than the royal treasury through methods no one fully understood.
Not, traditionally, the sort of person a Prince Regent would trust.
And yet...
There was something in those violet eyes. Something sharp and calculating, yes—but also steady. Reliable in a way that Arthur had never been.
"Speak," Leopold said.
And Alexio smiled.
---