♦YOU MUST HAVE READ THE PREQUEL, THE GOLDEN DUCHESS, TO READ THIS BOOK!♦
BEWARE--spoilers in this blurb, for those who have not read previous books! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
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The world is upside down, and those you thought you knew... you no longer...
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The scratchy wool stockings had blotched Prudence's legs. Her worn-down nightgown barely reached her ankles, and as she lifted it, she saw the marks on her skin and sneered at them.
Princess Prudence of Giroma, what a sight you are.
Despite her rank and status, few of those in her traveling party ever communicated with her. Whenever she attempted a conversation, or even a simple question, they smiled at her as if she were a child who wouldn't understand them, and turned their backs on her.
Were they embarrassed by her Totresian upbringing? Or had they somehow spotted the scars on her legs produced by her tight boots and uncomfortable tights, and found them distasteful?
As she scratched her cheek, she recalled one of the few Giromians who spoke to her, aside from her brother. The one with overflowing locks of dirty blond hair and a signature snicker that gave her nightmares.
Cornelius, her future husband.
"Why must I marry that buffoon?"
He was polite—to her shock—and he didn't ignore her. But his every word was a venom that floated into her blood and rendered her nauseous and exhausted. His facial expressions caused her think about convulsing and foaming at the mouth to spare herself the effort of looking at him.
She brushed her curls once more before resigning to lie on the hardened mattress and attempt to sleep. Romain warned her they'd leave early the next day, not wishing to linger in Beaulieu longer than necessary. Westten was close, but two royals journeying through Giroma wasn't as safe as one would think.
When she'd asked him why, he'd declined to reply, and Cornelius had flashed her a flimsy smile that meant mind your own business, young lady. She hadn't pressed the matter further.
She slid under the thick cover and rested her head on the pillow, its material so rigid she could have sworn it was stone. But at least in this inn, she had her own hearth, in her own room. At the ones before, she'd shared with women she didn't know. And her bed had been so far from warm that it surprised her to wake up alive the next morning and not frozen to death.
The looks she'd gotten from those women—other travelers, and mostly French—remained imprinted on her brain. Did everyone hate Giromians?
Romain had explained that Giroma argued—sometimes warred—with nearly every country in Europe. He said the French were irritated with him, as he'd refused to join Général Napoléon's insane expeditions. And the Germans claimed that Giromians had stolen some of their territory. But his was the best army on the continent, so he didn't lift a finger to fix foreign disputes; he remained silent and let them play out, like his father had before him.
Our father.
She wondered about the man named Gregor, the man who'd been her father but that she'd never known. He was a mysterious figure to her, and she had no description of him to go off of. She didn't ask her brother for more details, but her intrigue grew, and she hoped someone would fill in the blanks for her.
