The Golden Princess (#4 in the GOLDEN series) ✔

•F O R T Y - O N E•

Romain lifted one leg and crossed it over the other. "She does not speak of herself much."

"Why not?" Prudence's feet tapped to the carriage floor in impatience, and she stopped herself before Romain noted her behavior. "Is she ashamed?"

"Heavens, no." Romain snorted, leaning back in his seat. "She is from the Duchy of Spestein, north-east of Westten. A territory with a strong, pure Giromian bloodline. Mother is the second daughter of the former Duke." He cocked his head, and his eyes creased. "But I received incomplete information on her childhood. She claims it was special, nothing else. Her sister, the Dowager Duchess, still lives, but she rarely comes to court." A hint of sadness peppered his tone, and he deflated, gazing out the window once more.

Prudence couldn't contain her heart's happy beating. She had an aunt, perhaps some cousins, one of which might hold the current Duke of Spestein title. She had a real family.

But the happiness didn't last, as she recalled there was still a lot her mother concealed from them. "How did she come to marry Father?"

Romain rubbed his chin. "I have little details on that, too. Some arrangement between our grandfather and Father's father, the former King. As Crown Prince, Gregor needed a suitable bride of high worth." He removed his glove and scratched at the stubble below his lower lip. "But I am unclear on how they chose Mother. There was no season as far as I read. Maybe our grandfathers were close?"

Despite his discomfort, Romain didn't give off the impression that he lied. If anything, he didn't seem to enjoy speaking of the past, and Prudence understood that.

"Does all this answer your curiosity?" He reached over and patted her knee. "You wonder about your heritage, what with a baby in your belly, yes?"

Prudence placed a hand over her stomach. "Indeed. A half-Giromian, half-Totresian infant. I want to be able to tell this child where it originates from." She sensed her cheeks heating, and she peeked into her lap. She hadn't lied; only morphed the truth of her questioning behind her pregnancy, to better get to know her sly mother.

A wave of nausea slithered from her abdomen to her throat—eventually, she would have to advise Romain of what she'd discovered. He'd throw a fit, deny it all, defend their mother... or become so furious he might lock her up.

All I do is bring more drama.

"A half-blooded Giromian as my nephew or niece... I am still unsure how to take this." He exhaled and closed his eyes, ending the discussion.

He remained silent until they reached the castle's courtyard. Then, with every step from the vehicle, every stride towards their home, Prudence debated grabbing his hands and staring deep into his eyes and coughing it all up. Their mother's deception, their father's games, Cornelius' father's involvement in Philippe's death, Philippe's existence, and of course, Antoine's imminent arrival.

But it was all too much. She couldn't anticipate his reaction—he might have had knowledge of all these things, and kept her in the dark for a purpose. If he found out Antoine had written to her of it, he'd lose his temper, and all the progress they'd made in their sibling relationship would disappear.

He excused himself before she'd made her decision, stating he had evening meetings to attend. Dejected, she hurried to her chambers and requested a bath.

As she lounged in her tub, washing off the filth from her encounter with Adelaide, Prudence blew out her cheeks.

"This is insane," she said, her lips close to the water, scattering bubbles across the surface. "Antoine would not lie. Céleste would not lie. If they believe this, then I am surrounded by snakes here, too!"

She'd thought to escape the gossip-ridden halls of Torrinni, to flee from the pain; but in Giroma, more pain awaited her. Lies and deceit coated the walls, and half-truths came out of the mouth of the person she'd hoped to admire. Her own mother.

Why had Clémentine been so upfront about these new secrets? She'd been prepared to go to the grave with them, and yet she spewed them out with such ease? How had Antoine and Céleste unearthed her story about the Totresian heir murdered by the Giromian heir? How had such a tale been swept under the rug and forgotten by so many for so long?

The only ones who could give light on the situation—Edouard and Gregor—had perished.

"We will never know." Tiny, freezing droplets spiraled down her temples and hung from her chin. "God took them both before we—" she gasped, and shot up from the tub so fast half the water within spilled out. "Did God smite Edouard because of his actions? Oh, heavens; did God smite Father, too?" She shivered from the cold, and hugged herself. "Was that why Edouard fell so suddenly ill, on the eve of the ball when Antoine was to choose his bride? Because of me?"

She'd wondered for a while how Edouard had gotten so sick. His symptoms had progressed so quickly, confined him to bed so soon that most of the castle staff had feared wrong-doing. Clémentine insisted it was impossible, but now, for the first time in many years, Prudence couldn't stop that impossible idea from sprouting.

"Was Edouard poisoned?" Goosebumps populated over her thighs and arms. "Did someone plot his death? An intruder in Torrinni Castle? Or worse," she swallowed, "a member of court?"

Everyone loved Edouard in those days. His men sang his praises, his children respected him, his townsfolk revered him; so who would scheme such a horrid thing?

Another mystery to unfold, but with no resources. Prudence had no tools to solve the puzzle, and too many missing pieces to complete it.

She dried off, put on her nightwear, and snuck into bed. As she closed her eyes, her questions and doubts multiplied.

She never should have left Totresia. The cost had been tremendous, larger than she'd prepared for. She'd abandoned the family—Séb, Jules, Cordelia—she'd grown up with, the best friend she cared for, and the man she sometimes loved, sometimes hated, but never wished ill upon. Their faces haunted her as they pointed fingers at her, calling her a hypocrite. She'd criticized them all, when it turned out her family harbored bigger, more perilous secrets. Her father and his right hand had orchestrated a man's death and her mother knew about it.

Prudence chewed the insides of her cheeks, begging her eyes to stay dry, to not unleash fountains of tears.

"She is not Clémentine," she chanted, squeezing her blankets between her fingers. "She is not Clémentine."

Not for the first time since she'd chosen to take on her role as Princess of Giroma, Prudence yearned to run away from it all.•••