Page 42 of Reclaiming His Ruined Princess
But she didn’t wait to see his reaction. She didn’t look back again. She tilted up her chin like he’d tried to hit her there, and walked away from him.
And he told himself, again and again, that this was another win. Another victory. Another feather in his cap, whatever that meant.
The reality was that he sat back down in his abandoned chair and wasn’t sure he planned to get up again.
Amalia did not return. He heard the security system beep when she let herself out, and that was the end of it.
He stayed where he was for a long, long time, until he felt just about as empty as she told him he was.
But at least he’d won.
There was that, if nothing else.
Joaquin sat there for some time, telling himself it was enough.
CHAPTER TEN
BEINGBACKINIle d’Montagne felt like an out-of-body experience.
Especially when Amalia was picked up at the private airfield by the same palace driver who had always picked her up. But then, instead of taking her to one of the private entrances as she’d expected, he delivered her to the front of the palace where anyone could see her arrival. See it and report it to the world.
Someone was making a statement.
Amalia had to adjust her approach to, well, everything in a flash. Because she’d been expecting that they’d sneak her in the side door, cutting down on the possibility of any photographic evidence of her presence. Since she was likely still considered to be an embarrassment.Our Fake Princessthe papers had called her.
The senior aides had never looked at her the same way again.
It had never occurred to Amalia that the palace mightnothide her.
But as the car slowed in front of the public entrance, all her training came back to her in a rush. As if she’d never been away. How to exit the car. How to walk, with perfect posture and a slightly inclined head, to indicate respect for the institution of the monarchy as well as her own quiet confidence. She had dressed for the palace in an understated dress and unobtrusively elegant cashmere cardigan, even if her heels were a trifle too exuberant for a person who could make no claim to the throne. She knew the courtiers would whisper amongst themselves and say she had aspirations above herself.
But the good news was, she didn’t have to care what courtiers thought about anything any longer. Besides, they would say such things about her no matter what she wore.
She was ushered into the palace’s grand foyer and expected to be marched off to some reception room or other, where she would wait to be given instructions. No doubt by some or other member of the senior staff—and likely someone she already knew. She was prepared to pretend she felt no shred of awkwardness whatsoever, because, it turned out, the moment she set foot inside this palace she knew exactly how to play her role.
Any role.
Because she had always been very good at this.
She stopped walking when she realized no one was escorting her, and more, someone appeared to be waiting for her. And Amalia was shocked when she realized that the person standing there beneath a chandelier that had inspired no fewer than seven separate well-known poems was none other than Delaney Clark.
“Well, thank God you’re here,” the other woman said in her warm American accent, which shouldn’t have surprised Amalia at all. And yet it did. When was the last time there had been Americans in the palace? Had thereeverbeen Americans in the palace? Having so recently been in Kansas herself, Amalia found she loved it. “I’m making a mess of everything.”
“You shouldn’t even be greeting me,” Amalia said, in tacit agreement. “That’s the sort of thing you have your staff take care of, if possible. Just so everyone remembers their place.”
Delaney was wearing a similar outfit to Amalia’s. Amalia thought they both recognized that similarity in the same moment. And as Delaney walked—too briskly, too energetically—toward Amalia, it was impossible not to notice how similar they looked, no matter what they happened to be wearing. They both had long black hair. They both had blue eyes. There were differences, of course. The shape of a nose, a chin. Amalia was taller. Delaney had a spate of freckles across her nose.
But they could easily have been sisters.
“I’m an American,” Delaney said as she drew close, smiling. “The only places I’m aware of are geographic.”
“Welcome to Europe,” Amalia murmured. “We like a hierarchy.”
Delaney came to a stop before her, dropping her smile. Her gaze became more intense. “I know how kind you were to my mother. I won’t ever forget that.”
Amalia smiled. “If you mean the Queen, I’ve spent a lifetime being kind to her. If you mean Catherine, well. She’s actually my mother, too.”
“I can’t pretend to understand how hard this must have been for you,” Delaney said, her blue eyes no less intense. “For me, everyone keeps going on and on about my change in fortune as if every moment should be a nonstop delight. I’m a Cinderella for the ages, apparently.”