#colonelcaroldanvers

The Prince Imperial is a man of many secrets. Almost everything we know about the heir to the French throne has come via off-the-record comments from people in the imperial circle or unguarded comments from family members.

“Prince Julien is an intensely private person,” one well-placed source told me. “He’s reluctant to say anything about his life, lest he reveal too much.”

It’s a tactic that has worked well for the prince. While his sisters were bombarded with press attention at nightclubs and art galleries, he quietly earned a Master’s degree in political science from the École Militaire de Saint-Cyr, France’s premier military academy. He served in the military for six years—three in the Army, one in the Navy, one in the Air Force, and one in the Gendarmerie—before transitioning to full-time royal work last year. The prince made a handful of annual public appearances during his time as a professional soldier.

Suffice it to say, it was a total shock to learn The Prince Imperial agreed to be interviewed by La Presse on the occasion of his 30th birthday. As if that weren’t enough, Julien revealed he has a girlfriend!

“Your younger sister, Princess Alexandrine, just announced she’s expecting her first child in the spring. How do you feel about becoming an uncle?”

“Very happy, very excited—though more for my sister and her husband than for myself.”

“Would you like to have children of your own someday?”

“Of course. Family is one of life’s great joys, and I can’t imagine my future without children. I’d like to have a small gaggle of them running around and getting underfoot.” Laughing, he adds, “Though we’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves here. There won’t be any children until after I’m married.”

“France would love to see a wedding. Is there a candidate for the second leading role in your fairytale?”

The prince is silent for a long moment after I ask this. All of his answers have been carefully crafted, as though he’s considering every angle of the question in his mind before composing a response. I get the impression he’s being particularly thoughtful in how he responds to this one.

“Yes,” he finally says, “there is. I’ve been seeing a wonderful young woman, who is very special to me, for about a year.”

“Could you tell me about her?”

He’s quick to turn the question back on me. “What would you like to know?”

“Is she French?”

“She is not. However, she’s lived here for six years. She finished her education at a grande école and loved the country so much she decided to make a life here. She wants to see as much of it as she can. We’ve spent as much time as possible, given our respective work schedules, visiting different regions.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Four years.”

“What do you like about her?”

“So many things—her courage and curiosity, for starters—but the crux of my feelings is best explained by Pascal: ‘The heart has its reasons, which reason does not know.’”

“Do you think she’s the one? Your princess charming, as it were?”

A grin breaks across his face. Despite his duties and the responsibilities heaped on his shoulders, His Imperial Highness is a young man who is deeply in love. “I think I know, but time will tell.”

—“The Prince Imperial has a Girlfriend! And Other Highlights from his 30th Birthday Interview” on The Julien Journal, 20 Octobre

PALAIS DES TUILERIES

PARIS, ÎLE DE FRANCE, FRANCE

20 OCTOBRE

There is a single subject of conversation in the palace tonight. Knots of people stand around the room, speculating in hushed tones about the identity of The Prince Imperial’s mysterious girlfriend. Every once in a while, someone shoots a pitying glance our way.

“You don’t have to stay,” I remind my best friend.

“And let the other woman know she’s won? I don’t think so.” Fiona Masséna fusses with her hair.

Fiona has the poise and graceful movements of a trained dancer. She’s tiny, barely over five feet tall, with a waspish waist. Her red hair is chopped into a girlish chin-length bob. It used to be longer, but she cut it as part of The Breakup, and has kept it that way for the past two years. Freckles dot her cheeks. Combined with her full cheeks and button nose, Fiona doesn’t look a day over 20. She is regularly mistaken for a college student.

Tonight, she wears a turquoise gown adorned with sequins. She’s paired it with yellow diamond earrings borrowed from her mother and the family’s small diamond tiara. The tiara is positioned like a headband. Unfortunately, this emphasizes her youthful appearance. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that this isn’t going to be her sexy, look-what-you’re-missing outfit.

“I’m going to stay through dinner, at least,” Fiona says. “For Alexandrine.”

“She told me we’re at the same table.”

Fiona nods curtly. “Good.” Then she leans in and murmurs, “What if they’re engaged? He wouldn’t have issued a public statement unless he’s planning to marry her.”

“I don’t think Julien would do that.” I can’t bring myself to look at Fiona. Instead, I survey our surroundings.

The Galerie de Diane is ablaze with light. It’s named after the ceiling, which is painted with mythological scenes. One standout is a portrait of the Roman goddess Diana caressing the sleeping Endymion. There is also a depiction of Pan, the satyr god of the wild, offering Diana a white wool fleece. Most of the paintings are copies of Carracci’s frescoes from the Farnese Palace in Rome.

Massive chandeliers, at least ten feet tall, are suspended from the ceiling. Like every light fixture in the palace, they feature crystals and gold trim. The walls are lined with enormous oil paintings of mythological scenes. Between the paintings, the walls feature ornate paneling. Gilded benches and side tables decorated with priceless objects line either side of the long hall. Footman are stationed every fifteen feet. They stand still, but looking closely, I can see them warily eyeing the guests.

An elderly woman in a fluffy ice-blue dress and gentleman with a luxuriously thick mustache walk by us. I don’t recognize them, but they must be important, as they both wear the scarlet sash of the Legion of Honor, France’s highest chivalric order.

“Can you believe it?” the woman asks. A sapphire tiara glimmers in her silver hair. “I thought Princess Joséphine would reveal a paramour in an interview. Never The Prince Imperial.”

Fiona turns bright red. When the couple are out of earshot, she says, “Three years ago, The Duchess of Abrantès always said hello to me. Always. And now I might as well be wallpaper.”

“She’s desperate to stay in the imperial family’s good graces. Big deal.”

“She wants her grandsons to be part of Julien’s inner circle, like her husband was part of Emperor Charles-Napoleon’s,” Fiona corrects. “They need a way in.” There’s a smug note to her voice. I have no doubt that Fiona saw through the Duchess from the start and kept the older woman locked out of Julien’s social sphere. Gatekeeping access to the prince is one of the universally agreed-upon duties of an imperial paramour, whether wife, girlfriend, or mistress.

Before she can remark on the new girlfriend’s skills as a social arbiter, I suggest, “Let’s find our table.”

This is too practical an idea for her to refuse. Fiona grabs my arm and guides me toward the round tables set up in the center of the room. A name card, written in calligraphy, has been placed in front of each seat. The centerpieces are different at each table. This is unusual for imperial events, but I like it.

We’re not the only ones pretending to study the decor. A handful of other people are making a slow circuit of the tables. Most of them examine the tables on either side of the podium. The Prince Imperial will sit at one. The Emperor and Empress will sit at the other.

It doesn’t take long to find our name cards. We’ve been assigned the table to the right of Julien’s. His older sister, Princess Joséphine, is stationed there too.

The Countess Rampon stops in front of us. She’s a middle-aged woman with muddy brown hair, a blush pink gown, and emerald jewels. Her face is suspiciously wrinkle-free. Her forehead doesn’t move as she speaks. “Oh, Fiona,” she says. “Did you see that Grand Duchess Tatiana is at The Prince Imperial’s table?”

Fiona balls her hands into fists. “Is she?”

“As is Princess Pomelline of Monaco.” The Countess’ smile is incandescent.

It’s common knowledge in French high society that The Count and Countess of Rampon are desperate to see their daughter advance in rank. When Julien broke up with Fiona, they were quick to throw the young Lady Rampon in the prince’s path. Le Bon Ton ran a couple articles hinting that the prince was interested in her.

Nothing came of it, of course—The Countess wouldn’t be trying to humiliate Fiona by hinting that she’s been replaced by a princess if Julien was dating her daughter.

Another woman comes up behind Countess Rampon and places a hand on her shoulder. The newcomer has shiny black hair, swept into an elegant beehive bun. Like most of the women in the room, she’s dripping with diamonds. Her gown is a sleek column of green velvet. She wears expensive perfume. It’s a masculine scent, with hints of gunpowder. It pairs well with the ever-present whiff of cigarette smoke clinging to her skin.

This is Béatrix de Caulaincourt. She is the younger sister of The Duke of Vicenza. More importantly, she’s one of Empress Christine’s closest friends. She is also The Prince Imperial’s godmother.

“Oh, please,” Béatrix says. “If he were dating a Grimaldi, the press would have found out within a week.”

Countess Rampon purses her lips. “Lovely to see you, Béatrix.”

“I assure you, the pleasure is mine, Léontine.”

I look away from the two women and pretend to be interested in the floral arrangements. They’re quite striking. I expected white flowers—Julien enjoys the classics—but instead the florists have paired white peonies with burgundy dahlias and ample greenery.

“Dare I assume that you know about His Imperial Highness’ girlfriend?” Countess Rampon asks.

“I’m sworn to secrecy on the subject, I’m afraid.” Béatrix pauses for a moment, then asks, “Have you met Mademoiselle O’Brien yet?”

I tear my gaze away from the flowers and politely smile at the Countess. Next to me, I feel Fiona tense up.

“You’re in for a treat.” Béatrix pushes the Countess forward. “Allow me to introduce you to Mademoiselle Evelyn O’Brien. She’s a jewelry appraiser at Drouot. Brilliant eye. Evie, this is Countess Léontine Rampon.”

The Countess offers me a hand. “Delighted to meet you.” She doesn’t sound delighted in the slightest.

We shake hands. “I’m very happy to make your acquaintance.”

Béatrix steps around the Countess, stopping at my side. “Has anything interesting passed your desk recently?”

“Chaumet, mostly. Emeralds are particularly popular at the moment.”

A grin flashes across Béatrix’s face. “Did you hear that, Léontine? You’re on trend.”

The Countess’ expression turns stony. She clearly has no desire to be trendy. “I do love emeralds.”

“They suit you,” I say. I mean it. Her pale skin and brown hair provide the perfect complement to the green gemstones.

“Thank you. Now, Mademoiselle O’Brien, how did you say you know the imperial family?”

It’s terribly forward of her to ask, but less awkward than discussing work in front of the people with the money to purchase the jewels I inspect. “Princess Alexandrine is a friend of mine.”

“Fascinating.”

Too late, I realize Countess Rampon has completed the circuit of the tables. She must have noticed that I am the only person seated at the imperial family’s tables who is not an aristocrat or government official.

Before she can say anything more, trumpets blare, and the royals sweep through the double doors at the far side of the room. Princess Pomelline of Monaco and Grand Duchess Tatiana of Russia are two of the first to enter. They’re escorted by the Hereditary Grand Duke of Luxembourg and the Crown Prince of Saxony. European monarchies are well-represented tonight. I recognize members of the Belgian, Danish, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, and Prussian royal families. The Japanese Emperor has sent his younger sister.

Most of the Swedish royal family is in attendance. The only absent parties are Prince Oscar—the Crown Prince’s oldest son—and his wife, Princess Ingrid. Their first child was born three weeks ago.

The King and Queen are the last of the foreign royals to enter. The King is old, and bald, with kindly blue eyes. Like most of the men in the room, he wears the red sash of the Legion of Honor. His wife’s white hair is pulled into an elegant chignon. Her gown is gold. It pairs well with her red sash, and with her jewels. She wears a suite of white cameos set in yellow gold, accented with small pearls. The tiara is massive.

The guards flanking the double doors salute as the Bonapartes appear. Princess Alexandrine and her husband, The Duke of Magenta, arrive first. The Duke is tall and gangly. The cropped jacket worn with white tie attire does nothing to disguise just how long his legs are. He’s adjusted the Legion of Honor sash to accommodate his strange proportions. His brown hair is slicked back from his face. The top of Princess Alexandrine’s head reaches her husband’s shoulder. Her strapless gray dress hugs her curves, especially her burgeoning baby bump. The dress turns into frothy ruffles below her knees. Her dark hair is loose tonight. She wears a diamond and ruby tiara with a strawberry leaf motif, along with matching earrings and an elaborate ruby necklace.

Princess Joséphine enters next. She’s a delicate wisp of a woman. Her hair is darker than her sister’s, more black than brown. She’s chopped it into a face-framing pixie cut. Teal flowers burst across her gown. They match her turquoise tiara, but clash with the Legion of Honor sash. She wears three earrings in each ear. The eldest Bonaparte child is accompanied by the President of the Corps Législatif. Despite his high-ranking governmental position, he’s a forgettable man. There’s nothing memorable about him: not his face, not his voice, not his hair, not even his politics.

They’re quickly followed by The Emperor and Empress. They’re both innately regal. They both have perfect posture. The Emperor isn’t particularly tall, but his face is striking, with high cheekbones and a straight nose. His dark curly hair is shot through with gray. The Empress seems to float into the room on a cloud of dusty blue chiffon. Her hair is the color of freshly fallen snow. It’s chopped into a cheek-skimming bob. She wears enough diamonds to blind anyone who looks at her. They, of course, both wear the red sash.

The entire room dips into bows and curtsies at the same time, acknowledging Their Imperial Majesties’ arrival. My legs quiver as I rise.

The Prince Imperial is the last person to enter. He’s the storybook ideal of a prince: dark curly hair, high cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose, broad shoulders. He bears an uncanny resemblance to his father. The cut of his suit jacket and the sash swooping across his chest do nothing to disguise his athletic form. He escorts the Prime Minister, head of the French government, into the room. She’s a tiny woman, with long gray hair. She wears a simple black gown.

The royals glide across the Galerie de Diane to their respective tables. None of them hesitates. They have clearly reviewed the seating arrangements. The Prince Imperial scans the crowd as he approaches. His face remains carefully composed, not unlike a Michelangelo sculpture. Tonight, the entire room—scratch that, the entire world, because this event is being broadcast live—is looking for a crack in his facade. He never breaks or wavers, though. He escorts the Prime Minister to her seat, then goes to his own.

The Emperor stops at the podium rather than his table. The rest of the court trails to their seats, aided by footmen armed with seating charts.

Princess Joséphine’s table is one of the first to fill up. I’ve never met most of the people I’ll be dining with tonight, but I recognize their faces. Princess Joséphine. Fiona. The Duke and Duchess of Brabant. General Jean-Pierre Fitoussi, one of the Marshals of France. Bertrand Dupont, the Minister of Culture. And me.

The Empress sits down. The rest of the room follows suit. I am seated between the Minister of Culture and Marshal Fitoussi.

The Emperor watches silently. For a tiny moment, no more than a heartbeat, our eyes meet. I can’t read his expression. He continues his survey of the crowd. I exhale in relief.

When His Imperial Majesty is satisfied that all his guests are settled, he begins to speak. “Vos Majestés, Vos Altesses…”

I’ve lived in France for six years, and spoken the language for twelve, but my French abandons me as I realize my seat is arranged so the entire room has a clear view of me as well as the podium. Ostensibly people are watching The Emperor. However, I have no doubt that some of them are, like Countess Rampon, noticing I’m an outlier at the imperial family’s tables.

I have the sudden urge to adjust the straps of my dress. I can’t do that without causing a scene, though, so I don’t. I focus on breathing deeply and keeping my eyes fixed on The Emperor. The familiar cadence of the French language is oddly soothing. Unsurprisingly, His Imperial Majesty, as a practiced public speaker, enunciates clearly. This is something of a miracle for French speakers.

All too soon, The Emperor stops speaking and returns to his table. The double doors open again. A series of immaculately uniformed servants in imperial green livery strolls through. They carry large golden trays laden with plates.

The Minister of Culture turns to me. He has a well-oiled mustache and goatee, which make him look like Napoleon III. He reminds me of the priest from my childhood parish, if that priest happened to be in charge of the cultural programming for an entire country. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Not that I can recall.”

“How inconvenient.” He holds out a hand. “Bertrand Dupont.”

I take it. “Evelyn O’Brien.”

His eyebrows knit together. “I’m certain I’ve heard your name before. Are you an artist, perhaps?”

“Unfortunately not. I work at Drouot auction house.”

Princess Joséphine, who is seated on the Minister’s other side, leans in. “There’s no need to be so modest.” To the Minister, the princess says, “Evie is Julien’s girlfriend.”

Though she’s seated on the other side of the table, Fiona overhears. Shock flashes across her face.

“Of course,” the Minister says. “Which of the grande écoles did you attend?”

“The École Normale Supérieure.”

“At Rue d’Ulm?”

I nod. I should engage more enthusiastically with the Minister, but can’t bring myself to look away from Fiona. Her hands are shaking, and she’s pale.

“A tremendous institution. One of our best. You made an excellent choice, Mademoiselle O’Brien.”

“The quality of its art history program speaks for itself.”

The serving staff lay the starter course in front of us. It’s blue lobster and crab. Delicious, and oh so French.

“Is there a particular medium or time period you prefer?”

“I’m fond of Gobelins tapestries, particularly from the early years of Louis XIV’s reign.”

“The craftsmanship is exceptional,” says the Minister. “Have you ever toured the manufactory? If not, I’d be happy to arrange a visit.”

I only half hear him. Fiona excuses herself from the table and scurries away, out one of the side doors.

“That would be wonderful,” I say.

From the neighboring table, Julien notices Fiona leave. He looks to me.

I nod. He purses his lips for a tiny moment.

We’ve talked, before, about how to tell Fiona about our relationship. We couldn’t come up with anything. Two years after their breakup, she’s still not over the prince. It seemed better, kinder, to hide the truth from her. We knew it wouldn’t last forever. And now the bubble has burst.

I want to go after her, want to explain myself, tell her that I never planned to fall in love with her ex-boyfriend. Tell her that I know she still loves him. Find a way to tell her that Julien doesn’t feel the same way. That he wants me. That we’re planning to get married.

But I can’t. Not without making a scene.

Princesses—particularly future empresses—don’t make scenes.

So I stay at the table. I make banal small talk with the Minister of Culture and Marshal Fitoussi. I laugh at jokes that aren’t remotely funny. I eat my lobster, followed by chicken with mushroom gratin, and a selection of French cheeses, and crème brulée. I pretend to be interested in The Emperor and Empress’s speeches. I keep an eye on the door, watching for Fiona. She doesn’t come back.

When the applause dies down, Their Imperial Majesties lead the procession into the Salle des Maréchaux. I enter the room on Marshal Fitoussi’s arm. The palace technically doesn’t have a ballroom. However, the salon adorned with giant portraits of Napoleon I’s marshals has filled the role for two hundred years. The ceiling is painted pale blue. Like the Galerie de Diane, it features mythological scenes. The chandeliers overhead are the same size as the portraits.

The upper level is lined with windows. The curtains are imperial green, embroidered with tiny golden bees. A full orchestra is tucked into the mezzanine above the dance floor. I caught a glimpse of them before the party started. They watched nervously as the grand basses and cellos were carried out of an antiquated elevator. There are about fifty musicians, all in black suits and gowns. No doubt tonight is one of the highlights of their careers. Not just anyone is asked to perform for the imperial family and their guests.

The Prince Imperial catches my eye. I shake my head. I approved his decision to reveal our relationship, and accepted the invitation to this party. I did not agree to open a ball, thank you very much.

When the music starts, swarms of people line the edges of the room, gossiping in hushed tones. Julien dances with his mother. A few couples move to the center of the room and twirl in perfect timing with the music.

It doesn’t take long for someone to work up the courage to ask me to dance. I finish out the first song waltzing with a Senator. He doesn’t even know my name, just that I’m The Prince Imperial’s girlfriend. As soon as he realizes I’m American, he asks me about New York City, leading to an extremely awkward two minutes where he refuses to believe me when I say I’ve never been there.

My next dance is with the Duke of Noailles. He’s an elderly gentleman. His grip on my hand is weak. However, dancing with him is far preferable to the Marshal, as he’s happy to discuss his life. Apparently we’re both alumni of the École Normale Supérieure. He studied economics.

I haven’t seen Fiona yet. She loves dancing. Surely she’s here.

Before I can search for her, the Minister of Culture corners me for the third dance. Impossibly, he’s the worst dancer yet. He picks up where our conversation left off during dinner. “Are you interested in the visual arts only, or the performing arts as well?”

“Both are wonderful.”

His entire face lights up. “Do you have a favorite among them?”

I choose the first one that comes to mind. “I appreciate live music.”

“Like The Duchess of Magenta?”

He’s referring to Princess Alexandrine. Julien’s younger sister is a top-notch violinist. She undoubtedly selected the orchestra’s setlist for the evening. Nobody else would have restricted them to classical pieces.

“Not nearly as much, I’m afraid.”

“Her Imperial Highness is a connoisseur,” he agrees, which is the polite way of saying that the princess knows what she likes and ignores anything she doesn’t.

“I’m also fond of ballet,” I add quickly, before the minister starts grilling me about concerts I’ve attended.

“Marvelous!”

He brings us close to the edge of the dance floor, past a knot of women in silk gowns. I overhear snatches of their conversation.

“Isn’t she—”

“Do you think he’s going to—”

“It’s about time the prince settles down, but—”

At the moment, Julien and I are separated by a swirl of silks and satins. His dance partner’s crimson dress shimmers in the light. Diamonds dangle from her ears and twine around her neck. She wears a tiny tiara. When they turn, he searches the room and locks eyes with me.

Something flares in his gaze. I’m expert at interpreting his expressions, but don’t have the time to do so before he finishes the turn, ending with his back to me.

“Do you have any interest in seeing The Nutcracker? The Paris Opera Ballet puts on a beautiful performance every year. Tickets go on sale next week,” says the minister.

I look away from Julien. “My cousins’ ballet class will be performing it alongside a dance company in my hometown. My grandmother insists that the entire family attend.”

“Next year, perhaps?”

I give him my most regal smile. I know better than to answer the question he’s really asking, which is whether I’ll be part of the imperial family next year. “Perhaps.”

As the song ends, the minister raises one of my hands to his mouth and kisses it. “I do hope to see more of you, Mademoiselle O’Brien. The Paris Opera Ballet could use a patron.” He then strolls away.

Three men hover nearby, as though waiting to ask me to dance. Two of them are ministerial aides. I have no idea which minister they assist. It could be anyone, perhaps even the Prime Minister. The third man is the Grand Master of Ceremonies. He’s responsible for planning court events, like tonight’s party. I suspect he already has the christening of Alexandrine’s unborn baby penciled into his calendar.

“Mademoiselle,” one of the aides says. He falls silent when he notices The Prince Imperial walking toward me.

If Julien notices the other three men, he doesn’t show it. He is dignified and poised as always.

We’re mere feet apart when the Empress’ primary lady in waiting, the Princess of Essling, pulls him aside and redirects him to another woman. I recognize her immediately. This is Grand Duchess Tatiana. She is fifteenth in line to the Russian throne—which is the polite way of saying she’s a socialite with nothing better to do than flirt with rich men.

As nonchalantly as possible, I look away. The Emperor as been pulled away from the dancing. He stands on the other side of the room. As usual, he’s surrounded by people. I recognize his private secretary, the Prefect of the Seine, Count Rampon, and Béatrix de Caulaincourt. His Imperial Majesty’s gaze lingers on me a little too long.

The ministerial aide tries again. “Mademoiselle O’Brien, would—”

“Evie,” a familiar voice says from behind me.

I turn around. Hugo Masséna grins down at me. He’s Fiona’s older brother, and also Julien’s lifelong best friend. His reddish-brown hair is slicked into a pompadour. Thin gold wire-frame glasses perch on his hooked nose. Otherwise, he is identical to every other man in the room, in a tailored suit with a jaunty hand-tied white bow tie—albeit without the red Legion of Honor sash. A watch that costs as much as my parents’ house glimmers on his wrist.

“Dance with me.”

I hesitate, because Hugo is rarely this commanding, but take his hand. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Hugo leads me into the middle of the dance floor. “Have you seen my sister? She told me she would be here.”

I can feel the moment my smile freezes in place. “We arrived together.”

He raises an eyebrow. Hugo has an unerring instinct for missing information. “And?”

“She left dinner after Joséphine spilled the beans.”

“We’ve been back in the country for two days. When did Julien—”

I furtively glance around us. Nobody is close enough to hear our conversation, but I still lower my voice. “He didn’t propose.”

“What? But… why else would Fiona…”

“She didn’t know about us.”

His expression turns stony. “You didn’t tell her?”

I shake my head.

“Remind me to punch Julien later.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“He’ll understand. He would do the same thing if someone led one of his sisters on.”

“He did not lead her on. They broke up. And we tried telling her, we really did, but she wouldn’t listen. It’s not Julien’s fault that she’s still in love with him.”

Hugo sighs. “I don’t think you tried hard enough.”

“You’re her brother. You could have said something.”

“I signed an NDA.”

I stifle a groan. Hugo serves as Julien’s assistant private secretary, meaning he coordinates The Prince Imperial’s calendar and accompanies him to events. He is the only member of Julien’s staff pulling double duty as both an aide and a friend.

Hugo wrote his Master’s thesis on the importance of diplomats, particularly the imperial family, abiding by an ethical code of conduct. It caused quite a stir at court. Fiona told me her brother was offered a position with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but turned it down to work for Julien. He’s made a name for himself as a staunch defender of morality.

“I don’t think NDAs cover Julien’s love life, since it’s not part of your job.”

“They definitely do. Just this morning, I turned down a 200,000 franc bribe to talk about you. And let’s not get started on my list of tentative wedding dates. The press would kill for a copy of that.”

“Julien wouldn’t sue you if you told your sister he was dating me.”

“You’re right,” he says, “he wouldn’t. But that’s not the point. You two should have told her.”

“We tried. I think Alexandrine mentioned something, too, and Fiona didn’t listen to that either.”

“You’ve made quite the mess.”

I wince. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize to me. I’m not the one whose best friend has been surreptitiously dating my ex.” His voice is cheery, but the words are still a blow. As the song ends, he says, “I’ll find her and try to minimize the damage.”

“Thank you.”

He nods, and then he’s gone.

I barely get a moment to process it before Julien is standing in front of me. “There you are.”

The prince smells of cedar and sandalwood. I want to bury my face in his chest and inhale him. His eyes are the most beautiful brown, the color of smoky quartz.

He holds out a hand. “I saved the best dance for you.”

“How can I say no to that?”

Julien pulls me into his arms. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, a boyish tilt to his grin. This is the happiest I’ve seen him all evening.

The music starts, and we dance.

“How are you liking court?” he asks.

I shrug. “Ask me again in two months, when I’m no longer a curiosity.”

“Very wise. I think the gossip will even out faster than you expect, though.”

“Oh?”

“I give it two weeks.”

I tighten my grip on his shoulder. “You really think it will take two weeks for a bunch of aristocrats to be comfortable with an American nobody dating their prince?”

“They won’t like it, but they’ll get used to it. And then they’ll start jockeying for their wives and daughters to be your ladies-in-waiting.”

I wrinkle my nose. He laughs, and ushers me into a twirl.

Around the room, people are pointing at us and murmuring to each other. They’re no longer trying to hide their stares. I can feel them examining me, judging me, discussing the odds of me becoming Princess Imperial. I stand a little straighter.

“The French have one weakness,” Julien says. “Beautiful women.”

I’ve never considered myself a great beauty. Not like Empress Christine, Princess Alexandrine, Princess Joséphine, or even Fiona. Even in high school, I wasn’t in the top quartile of the prettiest girls. I’m the mousy, ordinary sort: average height, neither overweight nor model-thin, blonde hair, nose that’s a little too big for my face, off-the-rack purple dress, muddy eye makeup I did myself, two day old manicure already beginning to chip. My one asset is my green eyes, and that’s just because they’re uncommon. Half the time they look hazel, anyway.

“Uh-huh,” I say, trying not to sound as skeptical as I am.

Unfortunately for me, I can’t hide anything from Julien anymore. He’s gotten good at studying people. Especially me. So he knows exactly what I mean. “Not this again.”

“It’s just—”

“I love you.” He smiles at me. It’s a real grin, not the plastered-on copy he shows the public. It’s warm, comforting, like the soft glow of a lamp in a dark room. Like coming home after a week or two away.

“I love you too.” I resist the urge to lay my head on his shoulder and hold him close as we sway to the music. We can do that another time, when we’re not surrounded by people. When there are no cameras.

“I wish I could kiss you.”

“Later,” I remind him. Though I was offered a guest room, I’ll be spending the night with Julien. He can’t sleep alone after that interview. The gossip would be unbearable.

“Darling,” he says, pulling me closer, “everyone else sees me dancing with my gorgeous girlfriend. Not your nose, not your freckles, not whatever else you’re fretting about. They’ll be jealous and upset, but they will get over it.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Fiona enter the ballroom. She’s chatting with her brother, but falls silent when she sees us. Her eye makeup is smudged. She must have been crying and tried to redo it. She swallows hard and looks away.

For the first time tonight, I feel like I’ve stabbed her in the gut and twisted the knife.