It is a truth universally whispered among the ton that when the council grows desperate, they cloak their schemes in lace and invitations.
Last night's moonlight had barely faded before a certain royal household found itself awash with parchment—not from adoring subjects, but from the council. Yes, dear readers, it appears our beloved Princess Helena Amira Matilda Xanthippe has been presented with a formal list of suitable bachelors.
The implication? She must choose one. Soon.
And what of Lord Jamie Harrington, who stole a waltz and perhaps a heartbeat at the last ball? Notably absent from said list.
This author wonders, what becomes of a future Queen who finds herself surrounded by titles but yearning for truth? We watch. We speculate. We sip our tea.
With anticipation,
Lady Whittleby
Lady Whittleby's Society Papers
25 February, 1812
---
Helena stood in the throne room, not upon the dais, but beside one of the tall leaded-glass windows, staring out at the bleak February morning. The river glimmered like a thread of cold silver, and beyond it, the city hummed with life she could never quite reach.
She held the parchment in her hand. The list.
It was longer than she had expected.
"Thirty-seven names," she said flatly.
"They pared it down from ninety-two," Nara replied from the side, hands clasped demurely. "Lord Caspian was quite insistent on pedigree."
"Pedigree," Helena echoed. "As if I were selecting a racehorse."
She turned and walked to the great oval table at the center of the room, where her mother—Queen Eleanor—stood beside Lord Amir Wexham. Both wore carefully constructed expressions of neutrality, though Eleanor's jaw tightened whenever her daughter looked away.
"This," Helena said, placing the scroll down with a thud, "is an insult."
"It's a performance," Amir corrected gently. "One you must pretend to accept."
Helena shot him a look. "And what if I refuse to play pretend?"
"Then you give the council exactly what they want," Eleanor said. "A reason to claim you're unfit to rule."
Silence settled like fog between them. Helena stared at the list again. Each name written in ink as bold as it was suffocating. Dukes, Marquesses, Viscounts, Barons. Each with holdings, connections, and—most importantly in the council's eyes—untainted English blood.
Not a single name she trusted. Not one she cared to know.
Certainly not Jamie Harrington.
She didn't dare ask if he had ever been considered. That would be revealing too much. Her mother would see it, Nara would understand, and the council might hear it in the walls.
"So what do you propose I do?" Helena asked.
Eleanor walked around the table slowly. "Entertain them. Attend the events. Dance with their favorites. Smile as if your kingdom depends on it—because it does."
Helena exhaled slowly. "You ask me to become what they want."
"No," Eleanor said, stepping close. "I ask you to let them believe you might."
---
By midday, the invitations began arriving. Society luncheons, garden promenades, theatre outings, and, of course, an endless stream of balls.
Each name on the list corresponded with an event. Each event was an opportunity.
Helena had never hated her wardrobe more.
"You're to meet the Viscount Redcliff at Lady Astbury's opera party," Nara read aloud while adjusting the embroidery on Helena's lavender gown. "Then Sir Alastair Wyncombe at Lord Gravesend's hunt—though I doubt he'll expect you to ride."
"He'll be disappointed," Helena muttered. "I outride most men."
"Precisely why he won't expect it."
"And after that?" Helena asked, already dreading the answer.
"A garden tea with the Honorable Mr. Percival Sterling." Nara paused. "He's known for writing dreadful poetry."
"How thrilling."
"He once compared a woman's eyes to boiled eggs."
Helena choked on a laugh. "Perfect. I shall bring toast."
---
The events began. And so did the farce.
At Lady Astbury's opera night, Viscount Redcliff spent the better part of the intermission recounting his hounds' lineage. Helena nodded politely, then asked if his dogs held more nobility than his intellect. He didn't catch the insult. Others did.
At Lord Gravesend's hunt, Sir Alastair offered Helena a seat in the carriage instead of a mount. She accepted, then challenged him to a race. She won by four lengths. He called her intimidating. She called him slow.
At the garden tea, Mr. Sterling presented her with a poem. It rhymed "maiden" with "bacon." Helena returned the favor by composing her own verse:
"The poets I meet,
All think they are sweet,
But compare me to meat,
And earn swift defeat."
Lady Whittleby published it the next morning.
---
All the while, Jamie Harrington observed from the periphery. He hadn't seen Helena since the ball, but her presence haunted every room he entered. The whispers were constant:
"Did you hear what she said to the Duke of Withering?"
"She rode like Diana herself at Gravesend's estate."
"She made Lord Pembroke spill wine down his breeches just by looking at him."
Jamie didn't know whether to laugh or to worry.
His mother, Cecilia, certainly worried. "She's baiting them," she muttered one afternoon. "The council will only tolerate so much."
"She's protecting herself," Jamie replied.
Cecilia arched a brow. "Is that all she's doing?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because every time he pictured her, it wasn't her sarcasm he remembered.
It was the sadness behind it.
---
Back at the palace, Helena threw herself onto her chaise, groaning.
"I've had seven events in four days, Nara. Seven."
"You're surviving."
"Barely. I danced with a man who quoted military strategy while stepping on my feet. I nearly lost a toe."
"You smiled through it."
"I smiled through everything." Helena sat up. "Is this what queenship is? Swallowing pride and pretending to enjoy banquets with men who think I'm a womb with a crown?"
Nara looked at her. "It's surviving until you have enough power to stop pretending."
"Then I'm tired of pretending."
"Then we keep going. Until they tire first."
Helena nodded slowly.
Her eyes drifted to the fireplace, where the marriage list had curled into ash the night she first received it.
Let them parade their suitors.
She would outlast them all.
---
On the eve of a masquerade ball hosted by Lord Wexley, word spread that Helena would be attending—mask and all. It was whispered that the Princess had two final suitors left to meet, a late addition.
Helena, intrigued but exhausted, agreed to attend.
The ballroom glistened with candlelight, the air thick with perfume, gossip, and expectation. Lords and ladies drifted across the marble floor in silks and satin, faces half-hidden behind feathers, jewels, and velvet.
"Do you know who the final suitors are?" Helena asked Nara quietly as she adjusted her golden mask.
"They wouldn't say," Nara replied. "Only that one has just returned from military service abroad. The council believes he will appeal to public sentiment while the other, a bit close off."
"So they're likely dull and obedient."
Helena scanned the crowd, her breath catching when she spotted a familiar stance—a tall frame by the champagne table, head tilted as if resisting conversation.
Jamie Harrington.
In a deep green mask and tailored suit that did little to hide the tension in his shoulders.
He turned.
Their eyes met.
Recognition.
A pause.
And then he smiled—just slightly, just enough.
Helena's heart tripped.
She crossed the room slowly. Purposefully.
And as Jamie offered his hand, Helena knew the dance was no longer just for show.
It was war.
And she intended to win.
The music swelled as they moved onto the dance floor. The touch of Jamie's hand at her waist sent a thrill down Helena's spine, despite the controlled poise she forced into her expression. He leaned in slightly, voice smooth but low.
"Was it poetry or politics that nearly made you leave the season entirely?"
Helena laughed softly, tilting her head toward him. "I believe it was boiled eggs and a recitation of war maneuvers over duck pâté."
He chuckled. "The ton's finest."
They moved in time with the rhythm, their steps a practiced ballet of deflection and daring. Around them, masked gazes lingered. Whispers rose like candle smoke. It was a scene so drenched in elegance and tension, Helena half-expected Lady Whittleby to leap from behind the curtain with quill in hand.
"I must say, Your Highness," Jamie said, twirling her lightly, "you've made quite the impression on the eligible men of the realm."
"They seem more eligible to be sent far away."
"You mean you're not considering Lord Sterling's ode to bacon?"
Helena grinned. "I had to resist asking if he preferred scrambled or fried."
Their laughter mingled, easy and true. For a moment, the room blurred. The obligation, the politics, the list—it all receded.
Then Jamie leaned closer.
"You know, Helena," he said gently, "I'm not on that list. I never was."
She looked up at him, heart pounding. "I know."
"And does that make a difference?"
The music dipped into a slow cadence.
Helena met his gaze squarely. "It makes all the difference."
And with that, they danced. Two rebels cloaked in silk and shadows, spinning against a world that refused to believe in them.
The music began to swell again, this time with a more playful waltz. The golden chandeliers overhead flickered as the dancers swirled across the marbled floor, masks shimmering in the candlelight. Helena and Jamie remained in the center, turning slowly, the echo of their conversation clinging to the air like mist.
As the dance concluded, Jamie bowed, and Helena curtseyed, their eyes lingering longer than propriety allowed. It was not merely attraction—it was something keener, more dangerous. Mutual recognition. A shared understanding of what it meant to play roles in a world designed to bind them.
Before either could say more, the spell was broken by a voice sharp and laced with disdain.
"Your Highness."
Helena turned, finding herself face to face with Lord Greystoke. He, too, wore a mask—a pale silver thing that barely concealed the thin-lipped distaste beneath. He bowed, stiffly, but his gaze flickered between Helena and Jamie.
"Your presence on the floor is most radiant, as always," he said. "Might I request the next dance?"
Helena was about to decline—her polite excuse forming on her tongue—when Jamie spoke first.
"My Lord Greystoke," he said cordially, though there was an edge to his voice. "I'm afraid Her Highness has promised the next dance to me as well."
Helena raised an eyebrow, surprised but not displeased. She nodded. "Indeed I have. Another time, my lord."
Greystoke's mouth tightened, but he bowed again and withdrew.
When the music resumed, Helena and Jamie danced again—this time slower, with more freedom to speak without fear of others listening.
"That was bold," Helena said.
Jamie smirked. "And necessary. He would have spent the entire dance trying to intimidate you. I couldn't bear it."
"You couldn't bear it? And here I thought you liked observing from a safe distance."
Jamie paused, then said more seriously, "I used to think distance was the smart choice. But I'm realizing that silence serves the wrong side."
Helena looked at him carefully. "You realize what this means, don't you? People are watching. The council will talk."
"Let them. You've danced with dozens of suitors on their precious list. Why not one who actually respects you?"
Helena wanted to answer, but the weight of those words struck deep. Her heart quickened—not just from attraction, but from relief. Someone saw her.
The dance ended. Jamie bowed again and gently released her hand. "I imagine I've caused enough of a scandal for tonight. I'll leave you to it."
Helena watched him disappear into the crowd, a shadow against the light. For the first time in weeks, she smiled without bitterness.
---
The next morning, the palace was abuzz.
Lady Whittleby wasted no time.
Lady Whittleby's Society Papers
26 February, 1812
Dear readers, while the council may attempt to place reins upon our Princess, it seems the heart remains a steed untamed.
At last night's masquerade ball, hosted in glittering splendor by Lord Wexley, Her Royal Highness danced twice with none other than Lord Jamie Harrington—the very same lord curiously absent from the council's marriage list. Twice, dear readers.
Some say it was merely coincidence. Others whisper of a private understanding. This author merely asks—who penned that list, and who might regret it most?
—Lady Whittleby
---
Helena tossed the gossip sheet onto the table, her lips twitching.
"You're amused?" Nara asked, stepping into the drawing room.
"A little."
"Shouldn't you be worried?"
Helena shrugged. "They already think I'm a threat. Might as well give them a reason."
"They'll summon you again. The council doesn't take lightly to defiance."
Helena stood and walked to the mirror. Her reflection stared back—composed, poised, but burning. "Let them summon. I've danced with poets, idiots, and noble lapdogs. I finally chose someone with a spine."
Nara studied her carefully. "Do you like him?"
Helena turned. "Does it matter?"
"It might. One day soon."
Helena walked past her. "Not yet."
---
By midday, her prediction came true. She was summoned to the council chambers.
Unlike the first meeting, Helena arrived calm. Composed. Her gown was a deep navy velvet, regal and severe. The list—what remained of it—was tucked into her gloved hand.
The chamber was filled with the usual suspects: Lord Greystoke, Lord Caspian, Lord Wembley, and a handful of lesser nobles. Amir Wexham sat to her right, unreadable as always.
"Your Highness," Greystoke began, "we hope your experience thus far with our recommendations has been… informative."
Helena gave a tight smile. "It has."
"We are aware of your appearance at Lord Wexley's ball," Caspian said. "And the… unplanned engagements therein."
Helena met his gaze. "You mean the dances?"
"With Lord Jamie Harrington," Greystoke clarified.
"Ah."
"We merely wish to remind Your Highness that the list was curated with great care—"
"—And remarkable mediocrity," Helena interrupted.
A pause. The air tightened.
"With respect, Your Highness," Wembley said, trying to smooth things over, "public perception is delicate."
"Then perhaps you should be more careful about what the public sees. Or allow me to decide who I allow close to me."
Amir's lips twitched in subtle approval.
Helena placed the crumpled list on the table. "I've attended every event. Smiled through every encounter. I have done my duty, and I have yet to find a man who respects the throne more than he desires it."
She paused, letting the words linger.
"Except perhaps one who was never given the chance."
The council fidgeted. Murmurs buzzed like flies.
"Are you implying a preference for Lord Harrington?" Greystoke asked stiffly.
Helena leaned forward. "I am implying that I will not be told who I may and may not consider. You wanted a queen who could follow your rules. You got one who knows how to write her own."
She stood. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have tea with the Queen."
---
Cecilia Harrington lowered the paper and sighed.
"She's playing with fire."
Julian leaned against the piano. "Is that a problem?"
"It is if she gets burned."
Jamie entered, buttoning his coat. "Am I interrupting?"
"No," Cecilia said, standing. "But I'd like a word."
He followed her into the study.
"You know the ton is whispering," she said, shutting the door.
Jamie nodded. "Let them."
"The council sees you as a threat."
"Because I danced with her?"
"Because you matter."
Jamie hesitated. "Mother—"
She stepped forward, her expression softening. "I raised you to think for yourself. To act with honor. But you're treading into dangerous waters."
"I know."
"Then you must decide—are you willing to face what comes next? Because this isn't just affection. It's politics."
Jamie looked out the window.
Then he said, "I think she's worth it."
Cecilia closed her eyes. "Then don't let her stand alone."
---
Back at the palace, Helena stood on the balcony of her private apartments. The city lights shimmered below. Behind her, Nara stepped out with a shawl.
"You should rest."
"I can't."
Nara wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. "Then don't. Think. Plan. But do not doubt yourself."
"They won't stop until I marry someone they can control."
"Then marry someone they can't."
Helena smiled faintly. "You mean Jamie."
Nara didn't answer directly. "You once told me the crown felt heavy. Perhaps it becomes lighter when shared."
Helena closed her eyes against the wind.
A storm was coming. She could feel it.
But for the first time, she welcomed it.
Because a queen who dances through fire learns to make it her own.
And Helena Amira Matilda Xanthippe was just getting started.