I'm not supposed to love you

1.

The carriage wheels hummed softly against the London road, a steady rhythm beneath the velvet quiet of the night. Princess Alessandra of France sat straight-backed within the carriage, her gloved hands folded carefully in her lap, though the stillness of her posture did little to quiet the restless energy moving through her chest.

Outside the window the city of London glittered with a thousand lamps.

It was brighter than she had imagined.

Brighter than Paris.

The English had lit the streets in celebration for the royal courtship season. Lanterns hung from iron posts, their golden glow reflected in carriage glass and polished horseshoes. Other royal carriages moved alongside them, each bearing crests and banners from different kingdoms.

Alessandra watched them pass with a mixture of curiosity and dread.

Inside those carriages were princes.

Princes who had come to meet her.

Princes who hoped to marry her.

Her mother had spoken of the matter endlessly during their voyage across the channel. Alliances must be strengthened. Friendships between nations must be cultivated. The French crown must secure stability in an uncertain Europe.

Alessandra had listened dutifully.

She had nodded when required.

She had even smiled.

But she had not felt anything resembling excitement.

Now the carriage turned toward the grand palace gates, and the sight before her caused even her careful composure to falter.

Music floated faintly through the cool evening air.

A palace stood ahead, vast and luminous beneath the night sky.

Candlelight blazed through tall windows, pouring onto marble steps where liveried servants moved swiftly to greet arriving guests. Noblewomen in silks and satins stepped down from their carriages like drifting petals, their gowns trailing across the stone.

Alessandra felt suddenly very young.

Her maid, seated across from her, noticed the way her fingers tightened slightly against the folds of her gown.

"Your Highness," the woman said softly, "you look quite radiant this evening. Every prince in England will surely take notice."

Alessandra gave a small, polite smile.

"That is precisely what I fear."

The maid laughed gently, thinking it a jest.

The carriage slowed.

A footman opened the door.

Cool English air brushed Alessandra's face as she stepped down onto the palace steps, the hem of her pale gold gown catching the candlelight like morning sun across water.

She had dressed carefully for this night.

Her gown had been chosen by three advisors, two seamstresses, and her mother herself. Gold thread wound delicately across silk the color of early dawn. A slender circlet of pearls rested against the dark waves of her hair.

She knew how she appeared.

Graceful.

Composed.

Every inch the French princess.

None of them could see how loudly her heart was beating.

Inside, the palace ballroom unfolded like something from a dream.