The Unwritten Duchess

Luncheon with a Prince

The lavender dress itched. Of course it did. That was the thing no one tells you about nobility: beauty is a full-time job, and the uniform is lined with invisible needles.

Mina, the head maid, hovered beside me like an anxious vulture, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the gown and rattling off etiquette reminders as though I might forget which fork went with which course and accidentally stab someone with the oyster knife. Which, given my mood, wasn’t entirely off the table.

"You must smile gently, my lady. Not too wide. His Highness prefers gentility in tone. Don’t mention politics. Don’t mention horses. Don’t mention... well, yourself, really."

"So just sit there and breathe?"

"Gracefully," she added, like that made all the difference.

I smirked as she pinned the final strand of hair into place. "And if I accidentally dump wine on him?"

"You will not."

"If it’s red, it’ll match his sash."

She gave me a look that could wrinkle stone.

Downstairs, the dining hall smelled like roasted duck and barely disguised tension. The nobles seated at the long oak table turned as I entered. The prince was already there, seated at the head like a doll dressed in blue brocade. His smile widened at the sight of me.

Here we go.

Time to play the part of the ungrateful, secretly modern, very tired duchess-to-be.

I curtsied—gracefully, just to spite Mina’s expectations—and approached my place at the table. A footman pulled out my chair with an exaggerated bow. I sat, spine straight, eyes fixed somewhere slightly to the left of the prince’s gleaming teeth.

"Lady Vivian," Prince Leonard said, his voice the embodiment of a polished boot. "You look... well. Recovering, I presume?"

I gave him a smile honed for retail jobs and customer service: all surface, zero sincerity.

"Alive, astonishingly."

He chuckled like that was the height of wit. "Indeed. The court was terribly worried."

"I'm sure the court was riveted," I said, lifting my glass of lemon water.

As the first course was served—a delicate arrangement of goose pâté and pomegranate—the small talk began in earnest. Leonard launched into a story about one of his hunting dogs, which, according to him, had an uncanny ability to recognize deceitful women. He kept glancing at me as he said it.

"What a useful skill," I said sweetly. "Does the dog advise on your courtships?"

He blinked. The countess across from me choked on her wine. I reached for a bread roll.

"Only jesting, Your Highness," I added, batting my lashes.

He relaxed again, apparently satisfied that I’d remembered my role. He had no idea the script had changed.

Midway through the main course—roast duck with honeyed carrots—I caught the gaze of a man at the far end of the table. He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t even pretending to. He observed everything with the kind of stillness that made you feel like you’d just stepped onto a chessboard without knowing it.

Lord Nathaniel Harroway.

The King’s second advisor, if I remembered correctly. Reserved. Brilliant. Untouchable. In the book, he was a footnote.

But in real life, he was staring directly at me.

And I had the uneasy feeling he was already rewriting me in his head.

I met his gaze for just a second too long. Not enough to start rumors, but enough to be deliberate. His brow twitched, not quite a frown, not quite curiosity. A calculation, maybe. I filed that expression away in my mental library under: Men Who Might Be Useful Later.

"Lady Vivian," he said across the table, finally acknowledging me aloud, his voice smooth and unreadable, "I trust your recovery has been swift?"

There was a ripple around the table. Apparently, Lord Harroway didn’t often make polite conversation.

"Swift enough," I replied, folding my napkin with theatrical precision. "Though I can’t say much for the mental clarity. Some days I wake up and feel like I’ve fallen into another life entirely."

A lie. Wrapped in truth. Wrapped in irony.

He tilted his head slightly, something flickering in his gaze. "How curious."

Prince Leonard leaned in, clearly displeased at having been out-mysteried. "Vivian has always been... imaginative."

"Among other things," I said, sipping my lemon water.

Lord Harroway didn’t smile, but I thought I caught the ghost of amusement in his eyes.

Dessert arrived—a delicate rose tart. I barely touched it. I was too busy watching the others watch me. Gossip bloomed in silence. I had been too poised. Too sharp. Not quite the fluttering i***t they expected.

As the final toast was made, I leaned just slightly toward the prince.

"Your Highness," I murmured, "might I ask for a brief walk in the garden after lunch? I believe we should speak. Privately."

He puffed up like a goose presented with its own reflection. "Of course! Yes. Splendid idea."

The court whispered.

Let them.

The garden behind the manor was sprawling, manicured within an inch of its life, and offensively serene. Stone benches, clipped hedges, fountains that burbled like they had no idea a woman was about to fake a nervous breakdown on them. I chose a path shaded by tall cypress trees, where the gravel crunched dramatically underfoot.

Leonard trailed beside me, beaming with the pride of a man who thought being invited to a walk was akin to a marriage proposal.

"You’re looking well," he said again. "There were rumors, you know. Some said you wouldn’t recover at all."

"Yes," I replied sweetly. "Imagine their disappointment."

He laughed—too loud for the stillness. I led us around a curve in the path where the hedges thickened and the noise of the manor faded behind us.

"Leonard," I said, stopping beside a rose-covered trellis. "About our engagement—"

"Ah, yes! I knew it!" he interrupted, grinning. "You wished to speak of our future."

"Exactly," I said. "I'd like to cancel it."

The silence that followed was glorious.

He blinked once. Then twice. "I beg your pardon?"

"I don’t think we’re suited. I’ve recently taken ill, had a fall, possibly divine inspiration, and decided I’m not interested in becoming queen or your lifelong accessory."

He looked at me like I’d just spoken ancient draconic.

"Vivian, I realize you’ve... changed. But this is highly irregular."

"I agree. That’s why it’s interesting."

He sputtered. Actually sputtered. Somewhere behind a hedge, a bluebird chirped in time with my inner triumph.

"You’d give up a crown? Just like that?"

"A crown? No. I’d give up yours."

He turned scarlet.

There it was—the real Leonard. Spoiled, humiliated, and too self-important to walk away without retaliation. I smiled like a blade.

"You’ll regret this," he said finally.

"Probably," I said. "But you’ll regret it first."