A Royal Selection: Rumor has it that Her Royal Highness, Princess Helena Amira Matilda Xanthippe, will not only be actively participating in this Season's festivities—but will indeed be selecting a suitable suitor before its end. What a delicious turn of events this is, gentle readers! It is said that the council has presented a list of refined noblemen to the Princess, all of whom are as eligible as they are eager.
But will our Queen-to-be follow the will of the Crown, or will she dance to a tune entirely of her own making? The answer, dear readers, may lie in the arms of a gentleman yet unseen, or perhaps already observed. After all, it only takes one waltz to spark a fire.
This author shall be watching most attentively.
Lady Whittleby's Society Papers, 26 February 1812
---
The ballroom of Simmons Hall was once again dressed in splendor. Soft candlelight flickered from a hundred chandeliers, their glow reflected in the polished marble beneath guests' feet. Golden draperies swept down the tall windows, and strings of musicians filled the air with the waltzes of Strauss and Debussy. Ladies sparkled in pastel gowns adorned with feathers, silk, and satin ribbons, while gentlemen stood straight and stiff in formal military and court attire.
Among them, Princess Helena stood like a blade of tempered steel wrapped in silk. Her gown, a deep emerald green trimmed with gold, shimmered with every movement. Her curls were pinned back in a regal sweep, revealing her long neck and sharp cheekbones. The emerald necklace that had once belonged to Queen Catherine—the first female consort to ever attend a council session—rested above her heart.
As Helena entered the ballroom, escorted by Nara and one of the palace's royal guards, a hush fell over the crowd, followed quickly by polite applause. Her presence commanded attention, not only because of her title, but because of the defiance that lived quietly in her eyes.
Queen Eleanor had not come this time. She had said this event was Helena's alone.
From across the room, Cecilia Harrington narrowed her eyes.
"She looks like a lioness among lambs," she murmured, barely audible over the strings.
Jamie Harrington, standing beside her, let out a small, amused grunt. "I suppose she's the lamb to be sacrificed on the altar of duty?"
His mother glanced sideways at him. "Oh, she's no lamb. And if she is, she has claws. That is no ordinary girl, Jamie."
Jamie gave a slow nod. "She certainly isn't ordinary."
And then, Helena looked up—her gaze sweeping the room like a slow-burning flame—and locked eyes with him.
Their eyes met.
There was no formal introduction. Not yet. But something shifted.
---
Helena had been introduced to countless noblemen that week. She had smiled politely, endured their flattery, nodded thoughtfully at their rehearsed speeches. They spoke of horses, of hunting, of their estates. Not one had asked her a real question.
Not one had looked at her the way he just did.
He stood tall with dark hair and striking hazel eyes that shifted from amber to green in the light. He wasn't the most flamboyant in the room, nor the most polished—but there was a quiet confidence about him. Something unreadable.
"Who is that?" Helena asked, turning slightly to Nara, not taking her eyes off him.
"Jamie Harrington," Nara answered. "Eldest son of the Viscount Harrington. The family has old blood, respectable lineage. He sits on no council, holds no title of power, but has the respect of many."
Helena's lips quirked. "So, he's the only man here who doesn't want to court me for influence?"
"One could hope," Nara murmured.
---
Jamie wasn't planning to dance. Balls were a parade of masks and expectations—neither of which he had much taste for. But something about the way she carried herself piqued his curiosity. Regal, yes, but alert. Her smile polite, but never quite reaching her eyes.
When the music slowed into a classic waltz, Jamie moved.
Helena was speaking with Lord Ashcombe, whose monologue about his map collection had just taken an unexpected turn into cartography in Northern Africa.
"Forgive the interruption, my lord," Jamie said, bowing with a practiced ease. "Your Highness, may I have this dance?"
Helena looked up. A pause.
"Yes," she said, offering her hand. "You may."
The moment her gloved hand touched his, she felt it—a jolt of awareness. Not romantic, not yet. But electric.
They took to the floor. The orchestra swelled. The world narrowed to the rhythm of the dance.
"You're not like the others," she said after a moment.
"I hope that's a compliment," Jamie replied.
"I haven't decided yet."
He chuckled. "You must be exhausted—being assessed from all angles like a prize mare."
"Would you believe me if I said I was used to it?" she said.
"Not at all. You seem like the kind of woman who finds new ways to rebel every morning."
She looked up at him, intrigued. "You don't think I'm suited for the crown?"
"I think you are exactly what the crown needs," he said plainly. "And exactly what it fears."
Helena's breath caught. "That's a bold statement, Mr. Harrington."
"And yet, I suspect you like boldness."
Their steps glided, turned, twisted. There was no fumbling, no awkward shuffle. It was a perfect match of pace and posture.
"You speak plainly," she said.
"Should I grovel instead?"
"Gods, no."
He smiled, and something warm sparked between them. They danced until the last note.
As the music ended, Jamie bowed again, but didn't release her hand immediately. "Thank you for the dance, Your Highness. May I trouble you for another later?"
"You may. But only if you promise not to talk about maps."
He laughed. "I wouldn't dare."
As he walked away, Helena turned slowly, feeling Nara's watchful eyes on her.
"Interesting," Nara murmured.
"I don't know what you mean," Helena said airily.
"You never say yes to a second dance."
"I suppose there's a first time for everything."
---
Across the room, Cecilia Harrington observed the exchange like a hawk.
"He danced with her," she said to her husband.
"He danced with many women tonight," the Viscount muttered.
"No," Cecilia corrected, "he danced. Only with her. That is no passing fancy."
Juliette, their daughter, joined them. "Are you going to meddle, Mother?"
Cecilia smiled, sipping her punch. "Only a little. If anything comes of it, I want to know whether it's fate—or foolishness."
As Helena excused herself from the dance floor, she found herself briefly cornered by Lord Greystoke, his powdered wig slightly askew as he gave a perfunctory bow.
"Your Highness, a splendid appearance this evening, truly. Might I introduce my nephew, Lord Dorian Greystoke of Eastford?" He gestured to a man nearby who was handsome in a rigid, marble sort of way—his features perfectly arranged, but his expression as lively as old parchment.
Helena offered a diplomatic smile. "A pleasure, Lord Dorian."
"The pleasure is mine," he said stiffly. "I have admired you from afar for quite some time."
"Oh?" Helena tilted her head. "And what, may I ask, have you admired exactly?"
He blinked, clearly unprepared for the question. "Well—your education, of course. And...your sense of duty."
"Hmm," she replied. "Two admirable qualities in a man as well, I should think."
The silence that followed was awkward enough for Nara to swoop in under the guise of refilling Helena's punch.
"I believe Lady Ashmore wishes to speak with you, Your Highness," Nara murmured. "Shall I escort you?"
"Please do," Helena said, already turning her back on the Lord of Eastford.
Once they were clear of the earshot of any titled bachelors, Helena whispered, "Are they truly going to parade every eligible man in Britain at my feet?"
"Likely so," Nara answered, her tone laced with dry amusement. "If they could exhume the bones of King Arthur and prop him up in a suit, they would."
Helena nearly snorted into her cup.
"Careful," Nara added, "Lady Whittleby may find even that noise a subject of great speculation."
"I wouldn't be surprised if she were hiding beneath the tablecloths this very moment."
Meanwhile, Jamie had made his way to the corner of the ballroom, where Julian was deeply engaged in a discussion about brushwork with an artist from the Continent.
"Did you just dance with the Princess?" Julian asked between gulps of wine.
"Yes."
"Willingly?"
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "She's sharp, funny, and seems entirely uninterested in being coddled."
Julian gave him a slow look. "Mother is going to arrange for a wedding by morning."
"She wouldn't dare."
"Oh, she would—and she's already whispering to Lady Gresham about it." He pointed across the room, where Cecilia had gathered a semicircle of dowagers and matrons, all observing Helena like hawks in hunting formation.
Jamie sighed. "I don't even know if Helena likes me. She may have just needed a break from the parade of stuffed peacocks."
"Or," Julian said with an annoyingly smug tone, "she sees something in you."
Jamie frowned. "You mean she sees a future Viscount's heir who doesn't want to suck up to the council?"
"I mean she sees a man who doesn't treat her like a title."
Jamie glanced toward the Princess again. She was laughing—genuinely—at something Nara had whispered. That laugh made him feel as though he'd been punched in the chest by something he couldn't name.
"I didn't come here to fall in love," he said aloud.
Julian rolled his eyes. "That's what all tragic heroes say right before they trip into it."
---
Helena found herself near the terrace later in the evening, needing air. The crowd had swelled to the point of suffocation, and although she had given the world every appearance of calm, she was feeling the weight of their expectations grinding into her bones.
She leaned over the balustrade, letting the cold night air steal into her lungs.
"You'll catch your death out here," came Jamie's voice behind her.
"I needed a moment," Helena said, not turning around.
He stepped beside her, careful not to cross her personal space. "Funny. I came out here hoping to do the same."
They stood in silence for a long moment.
"I suppose the whispers have begun," Helena said finally.
"You mean about us?" Jamie asked, half amused. "You're the future Queen. If you so much as sneeze, it becomes news."
Helena turned to face him. "And what do you think they'll say of you?"
"That I'm mad. Or ambitious. Or both."
Her gaze met his. "And are you?"
"I haven't decided yet," he said, echoing her earlier words.
She laughed—really laughed this time.
Jamie stepped closer.
"Do you want to choose a husband?" he asked softly.
"No," she said honestly. "Not yet."
"And if you had to?"
"I'd want to choose someone who sees me."
He didn't answer, but he didn't need to. The look in his eyes said everything.
The sound of footsteps echoed behind them.
Cecilia appeared, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly before shifting into a smile. "Your Highness, forgive me for interrupting."
Helena straightened. "Of course, Lady Harrington."
"I do hope you've found the ball entertaining," Cecilia said with perfect politeness. "My son has a habit of drawing people into corners. He's quite the conversationalist."
"He's been lovely company," Helena said, a hint of challenge in her tone.
Cecilia noted it with a quiet nod. "Well then. I hope we'll have the honor of hosting you at Harrington House sometime soon. There's nothing like breakfast with a Viscount's family to really inspire royal decisions."
Helena smiled sweetly. "I shall consider it."
Cecilia nodded and retreated.
Jamie groaned. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"My mother. She means well, but she could wrangle a wedding out of a nun."
"I rather like her," Helena said. "She's terrifying. In a good way."
They shared a smile.
From behind the curtain, Lady Whittleby's pen danced furiously across the page.
The rest of the night unfolded with graceful deception. Helena moved from partner to partner, each suitor an echo of the last—smiling too broadly, complimenting too sweetly, their words rehearsed to the syllable. She had become the prize on display, and everyone wanted a turn to prove they were worthy of the crown… or what came with it.
Her face remained composed, regal. But behind her poised expression, her mind churned.
Every dance felt like a trap, every smile a negotiation. Only one moment tonight had felt real—when she stood with Jamie on the terrace, sharing the kind of silence that did not need to be broken.
Helena's gaze drifted across the ballroom until she caught sight of Jamie again. He was standing beside Julian, who was engrossed in a half-empty glass of brandy and avoiding every young lady thrown his way. Jamie's eyes found hers within seconds.
The room vanished.
For a moment, neither of them smiled. They simply looked.
Then Jamie gave a nod—subtle, respectful, but unmistakable.
And Helena exhaled. She didn't realize she had been holding her breath.
---
On the other side of the ballroom, Cecilia Harrington sipped her tea with precision, all the while scanning her eldest son's expression like a hawk.
He was distracted.
He was curious.
And worst of all—he was intrigued.
"Do not even think of it," she murmured to Lord Amir Wexham, seated beside her.
"Think of what?" Amir asked without looking up from his folded hands.
"Whatever you're plotting between the Princess and my son."
"I'm plotting nothing. He danced with her once."
Cecilia narrowed her eyes. "Exactly once. And already I know what's coming."
Amir allowed himself a smile. "You always did have a gift for prophecy."
"She's the future Queen of England. He is the heir to a Viscountcy. That's not just gossip-worthy, it's dynamite."
"They balance each other," Amir said quietly. "She needs someone who doesn't fear her power. And Jamie…" He paused. "Jamie needs someone who won't let him drift."
Cecilia's jaw tightened. "And what happens when power and love don't align? When duty overrides desire? You've seen what the council is capable of."
"So has Helena," Amir replied. "But you underestimate her. She's not just her father's daughter. She is her mother's storm."
Cecilia sipped her tea again, this time slower.
She didn't say another word, but her eyes never left her son.
By the end of the night, whispers filled the ballroom.
"They spoke as if they'd known each other for years."
"She laughed—genuinely. Did you see that?"
"He's not even titled yet!"
"Perhaps that's what makes him interesting."
Lady Whittleby, not one to miss an opportunity, scribbled furiously in her private corner.
---
That evening, long after the ball had ended and the palace was cloaked in a velvet hush, Helena sat in her private drawing room with her shoes kicked off and her corset half undone.
Nara sat beside her, brushing out the elaborate coils of her hair.
"I fear Lady Whittleby might be scribbling again."
"She's always scribbling," Helena said, drowsily. "I've half a mind to publicly invite her to dinner to know who she is and ask her to publish my diary while she's at it."
"You joke," Nara replied, "but the woman would likely do it—and footnote your expressions."
Helena chuckled, then went quiet. The fire crackled in the hearth, its light dancing across her features.
"He didn't treat me like glass," she said finally.
Nara paused mid-stroke. "Jamie Harrington?"
Helena nodded.
"He made me laugh. And not the polite sort of laugh—actual, ugly, sudden laughter."
"Well," Nara said, continuing her brushwork, "that's dangerous."
Helena turned her head to look at her. "Dangerous?"
"Anyone who makes a royal laugh like that usually ends up loved—or assassinated."
Helena snorted.
Nara set the brush down and took Helena's hand. "Just… tread carefully, my dear. The council is already buzzing. I overheard Lord Caspian earlier—there's talk of inviting three eligible noblemen to spend a fortnight at court. You can guess why."
"To court me."
Nara nodded.
"They want to parade them before me like prize cattle. As if my heart is a throne room they can walk into uninvited."
"Then lock the doors," Nara said simply. "Or throw them open—but do it on your terms."
Helena stared into the fire.
"I want to choose," she whispered. "I want to be Queen and still have the right to love. Is that too much?"
"No," Nara said. "But you'll have to fight for it."
Helena turned. "Do you think this is foolish? To enjoy the company of someone who doesn't see me as a crown?"
"I think," Nara said gently, "that if your father were alive, he would want you to be Queen in your heart before ever being one by law. If someone helps you feel that... it cannot be foolish."
Helena nodded. "Then let's see where this dance leads."
---
The Next Morning — Lady Whittleby's Society Paper
24 February, 1812
Dearest Readers,
What a splendid evening last night proved to be. Dancers twirled, gowns sparkled, and hearts were no doubt broken—perhaps even won.
The Princess graced the ball with both poise and mystery. But this author could not help but notice the particular attention she paid to one Lord Jamie Harrington. A future Viscount and
firstborn son of the ever-formidable Lady Cecilia Harrington, he is no stranger to the spotlight… though rarely one to seek it.
They shared one dance—and several lingering glances.
Is it friendship? Fascination? Or the dangerous beginnings of a courtship the council cannot control?
Only time will tell, but this author will be watching.
With pen in hand,
Lady Whittleby