It’s only when my uncle announces in his rough voice, “I now seal this betrothal between Prince Andrew Phillip von Bergan and Elizabeth Agnes Rochat,” that reality comes crashing back in again.
Because she might not be Elizabeth.
And those hundred or so reporters who just photographed us staring deep into each other’s eyes might have been capturing the most embarrassing moment of my life. Even if I can keep the fact that I rode through the ceremonial arbor with the wrong girl a secret, the whole world is going to see that I was played for a fool. That I was head over heels for this woman, and she left me high and dry.
But better that my country believes I’m a love-sick fool than a coward who turned my back on my grandfather’s dying wish.
If the woman holding my hand as our horses start up the trail my ancestors have traversed on the eve of their engagements for centuries is Sabrina, then she owes me that much.
She’ll be the one to end it, and I’ll save what little face I can.
Soon, I’ll know for sure.
“You were made for that dress,” I murmur, some pathetic part of me needing to get all the nice things I want to say to her out of my system before self-respect won’t allow it anymore. “I’ve never seen anyone look more lovely in our colors.”
She turns to me, her eyes shining. “Thank you. And you look very handsome.”
I arch a playful brow. “You like me in floral patterns?”
“Well, you know how I feel about flowers,” she says, but her teasing tone falls flat, and a moment later, she adds in a whisper, “Andrew, I need to talk to you about something. Something important. Do you think we can find a few minutes to be alone?”
I nod. “Absolutely. We’ll sneak away as soon as we can. I want to talk to you in private, too.”
“About what?” she asks, then shakes her head. “Sorry. Never mind. We’ll talk when we’re alone. I just…don’t like surprises.”
I smile but hold my tongue.
She’s really not going to like this surprise—no matter how it plays out. She’s either going to be rushed to the hospital, fighting for her life, or she’ll be off as soon as I can get her bags tossed into a helicopter.
Unless you keep the flask to yourself. You don’t have to do this. Just enjoy the night and worry about solving the mystery tomorrow.
It’s a tempting thought. I’ve had no luck getting Jeffrey on the phone, but tomorrow might be the day he calls with the evidence I need. Or Nick might still come up with some physical trait that will set the princesses apart, a mole or a birthmark—anything that will solve the mystery without putting a woman’s life on the line.
I have to be patient for a little while longer.
But I don’t know if I can. The need to know who I’m falling in love with is like a burr stuck between a horse and his saddle, driving a previously sane animal out of his damn mind.
We reach the picnic site, where the white tents with the Gallantian royal seal on top are already staked into place to protect our guests from the rain forecasted later tonight. But for now, the sky is all rose and gold, the sunset so glorious it makes even ugly things beautiful. Even portable toilets arranged discreetly behind a stand of trees at the edge of the clearing look romantic, for God’s sake. By the time the feast begins and the finely dressed guests sprawl on bright blankets with pillows propping them up as they stuff themselves with sumptuously presented food, it feels like I’m living in a painting.
A masterwork. One of those rare pieces of art that persuade you that life is beautiful and our gorgeous world an unparalleled gift.
“It’s so pretty it hurts,” Lizzy murmurs, gazing out over the golden hills, one hand pressed to her heart as she nibbles on a date from our fruit and cheese tray.
The first course will span half an hour and at least two glasses of wine. Now is as good a time as any to sneak away. But I’m still so torn. I need the truth, but I also need to sit here and share a beautiful moment with my maybe-future wife.
Her blue eyes shift my way, and my heart twists. “Should we go now?” she whispers.
I pull in a breath, holding it as my thoughts race, but I don’t have to decide right now. We can walk, talk, and I’ll make the call on the flask when the time comes.
Maybe whatever she has to tell me will change things.
Maybe we can still have a happy ending.
But as I rise and take her hand, leading the way over the rise to a place where we can talk in private, I have a horrible feeling that this is the last time I’ll be alone with her, the last time I’ll touch her. The last time I’ll look into her eyes and see my future shining there, so close, but still out of reach.