we do have things to discuss,” I say. “As we both care about Alexander. I will go into the living room and pour myself a cup of tea. You have every right to decline a cup if you prefer. But we do need to talk about your son.”
“We need to do no such thing. How dare you, you ordinary, insipid little girl, order me about?” Queen Antonia says, her voice dangerously low. “I am your queen.”
“You are my queen,” I reply, using all the control I have to keep the shake out of my voice. “And I respect and admire all you have done to serve your people, both here and across the Commonwealth. You are a woman of great influence, and so much of it is to be admired. But I am speaking to you as the mother of the man I love. I never wanted to get off to this start with you. After that article was leaked, I knew we needed to meet in private, face to face, to discuss this, just you and me. My sincerest hope is that we can start over. That we can learn more about each other and see that we both want the same thing, and that is what is best for Xander.”
“Oh, do you mean the article you so merrily lied about being relieved about?” she counters. Queen Antonia turns on her heel and strides into the living room, gracefully sinking into a chair and immediately putting her legs into that slant—knees pressed together, legs perfectly poised at an angle—and laying her clutch across her lap.
I feel myself blushing and frantically will it to recede. Because this woman is a shark, circling me, waiting for the first specks of blood to appear in the water.
And this would be the first speck.
I sit down in front of the lavish tea I prepared, complete with elegant finger sandwiches, such as a smoked salmon with crème fraiche, English cucumber and fresh mint, and egg salad studded with truffles. I have both plain and fruit-studded scones paired with clotted cream, honeycomb, and Sicilian lemon curd. Finally, my dessert offerings: a passion fruit panna cotta, a Matcha Génoise layer cake, and a dark chocolate and Bailey’s tart.
I place a strainer over the top of my teacup and carefully pour the tea. I can feel Queen Antonia watching every move I make, and I focus on the water, forcing calmness to flow within me.
“While that article was unkind,” I say levelly, “there was some truth in it. I’m the daughter of fish and chip shop owners. I grew up working in that shop, and I’m proud of that. I went to uni an—”
“Please don’t waste my time giving me an oral presentation of your history,” Queen Antonia interrupts. “Let’s get down to the issue at hand. You are dating my son. My son, who is the heir to the throne. And I will not, repeat, will not, have a simpleton who doesn’t even have the common sense not to dress like a banana weasel her way into the palace.”
My cheeks burn. Her lips curve up in a smile.
The shark has detected blood.
She might have nicked me.
But I will be damned if she wounds me.
I retrieve a plate, placing an egg salad sandwich on it as if I don’t have a care in the world.
“If I marry Xander one day,” I say, “and I hate the fact that we are already having to jump ahead in thinking like this, that we aren’t truly getting to know and understand each other instead—I will take my duties seriously. I will be the best duchess, and then queen that I can be.”
“Poppy, you delusional idiot, you can’t merely be the ‘best you can be’ in our family. You must be perfect. And being with Xander puts a bigger target on your back. This family has held a mystique for thousands of years to keep the throne. We can’t have a baker, one who isn’t willing to detach from her apron, be the queen. That is dragging the whole family into commonality. I have to put up with it in the form of Clementine and Roman. But I will not have it for the heir to the throne.”
I pause and take a bite of my sandwich. I deliberately chew delicately and thoughtfully, making her wait for me to finish before speaking.
“I don’t see what you can do about it,” I say casually. “Xander loves me. If I weren’t a threat, you