Page 53 of The Backup Princess

“Me winning the American princess over,” I finish for her.

Sofia places her hand over her heart in mock surprise. “Are you telling us there's a woman outside of our family who isn't swooning at your feet, Alex? Never!”

I chortle. “Trust me, Madeline Turner isn’t swooning.”

“She can't resist you for long. None of them do,” Amelia says with confidence.

I think of Madeline’s and my conversation last night, how I hit a nerve and made her cry. Guilt worms its way across my chest. I've never purposely made a woman cry before. It doesn’t feel good.

I pour myself a cup of tea at the sideboard and add a dash of milk. “Something tells me our American princess will be more than capable of resisting me.”

“Rubbish. She's a woman. She’s got eyes, hasn’t she? You'll have her eating out of the palm of your hand before you know it,” Amelia says.

I take a sip of my tea, somehow forgetting how horrendous Malveauxian tea actually is. “Oh, this stuff is truly awful. Can’t we get some coffee?”

“Why don’t you add some of your magic cordial to it?” Amelia suggests.

I chortle. “To tea?”

“I think you’re going to adore her once you get to know her, Alex,” Amelia says assuredly.

“Perhaps.”

Madeline and I may have had a poor start, but she’s certainly feisty, and I can’t say that’s something I dislike in a woman. Last night she oscillated from looking as comfortable as a mouse in a roomful of hungry kittens, to haughty defiance.

It’s an intriguing mix.

Part of me would rather clean up after the famous Malveauxian peacocks than stay here and “woo” her. The other part? I can’t deny it, even to myself. The other part of me wants to know this feisty, vulnerable, beautiful American more. Even at the risk of once more suffering her impressive right hook.

Chapter 13

Madeline

I lower myself gingerly down onto the chair, concentrating super hard on, a) not wobbling or jerking, b) not looking like I’m about to be executed—Vlad’s exact words from a few moments ago—and, c) not hurtling myself into the chair like a cricket ball into a wicketkeeper’s mitts. Again, Vlad’s exact words from a few moments ago. Because cricket? No clue.

“Well done,” Alice exclaims as I let out the breath I've been holding during the maneuver—a maneuver that up until a few days ago I'd never given a second thought to in my life. It’s this exciting new thing called “sitting”. Apparently, there are lots of rules on sitting here in Malveaux, for a princess, anyway. Where I’m from, you sit down. Period. Now, sitting has to be done elegantly and carefully so as not to look like a common peasant—Vlad’s exact words yet again—and definitely not flash anyone anything they shouldn't be seeing.

“May I make a suggestion?” Alice asks.

“Shoot,” I instruct.

“Perhaps you could cross your ankles in the other direction. It may feel more natural,” she suggests tactfully.

One glance in the mirror positioned in front of me and I see that, although I look the part in my pale green shift dress and matching pumps, I’m sitting like a contorted piece of string. Quickly, I switch ankles.

Alice smiles. “Much better.”

“Awesome. I'm a 24-year-old who’s successfully mastered sitting.”

“Now, perhaps you could stand?” Vlad suggests.

“Easy as pie, Vlad.” I hop to my feet.

“In the way we taught you might be preferable.”

Oops.

“All righty.” I repeat the sitting maneuver, this time crossing my legs in the correct direction, and then concentrate on uncrossing them and rising to a stand as I hold my hands delicately in front of my belly button. “Good, right? I have so got this.”

---