A Crown For Two

Dearest readers,

Rarely does one attend a soirée expecting history to unfold before the final waltz. Yet this author assures you, the Ashton Garden Soirée was nothing short of revolutionary. It is not every day that a Viscount is offered a seat on the Royal Council—and rarer still for such an offer to be made within earshot of the Princess of the Realm herself. But that is precisely what occurred.

Lord Greystoke, the ever-unbending statesman, and Duke Caspian, chief advisor to the Crown, extended a most deliberate invitation to Viscount Jamie Harrington—publicly and in the presence of Princess Helena.

His response? A maddeningly measured, "I will consider it."

Consider this, dear readers: a single sentence, offered not to a woman, but to a future. And the Princess? Oh, she smiled. But we all know—her smile is both shield and sword.

This author dares to ask: when love and ambition dance, who leads?

~Lady Whittleby

Lady Whittleby's Society Papers

16 March, 1812

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"Viscount Harrington, pardon me," Lord Greystoke began smoothly, just as he and Helena stepped into the moonlit garden. "But I believe there is a matter we must discuss."

Jamie offered a wary smile. "And what matter might that be?"

"We believe that now you have formally assumed the viscountcy, it is only proper that you be offered a seat on the Royal Council," Duke Caspian added.

Jamie's brow lifted. The council? A powerful position—one that could open doors and lock others. He knew accepting it could tether him to a political machine that would try to use him as leverage against Helena. Yet... it would also place him at her side in a way no title ever could.

"It would only be right if you allowed me time to consider the offer," he replied carefully, casting a glance at Helena. Her expression, however, revealed nothing.

Moonlight draped itself across the hedgerows as the final notes of music faded into the hush of midnight. Jamie had wandered into the quieter edge of the gardens, the weight of Greystoke and Caspian's proposition ringing in his ears.

Helena followed—her crimson skirts trailing like wildfire through the night.

"So," she said, voice cool and clipped. "A council seat."

Jamie turned to face her. "I didn't ask for it."

"But you didn't refuse it."

"They made the offer in public. I wasn't going to embarrass them—or you."

"Don't use me as an excuse for your indecision."

His gaze darkened. "It wasn't indecision. It was strategy."

"Is that what we are now? Strategy?"

He stepped closer. "You think I don't see the game, Helena? I do. I know why they made that offer—because of you. Because they want to control your narrative by tying me into it. Make me seem like your charity case instead of your equal."

"Then say no. Prove them wrong."

"And throw away the one chance I have to build something that's mine? That I can shape?"

"This isn't yours to shape! They offered it because of me."

Jamie inhaled slowly, voice tight. "So what would you have me do? Step back? Let the whispers win? Be the man standing behind the throne instead of beside it?"

Helena faltered. Her eyes shimmered with something raw, vulnerable.

"I want you to be free," she said at last.

Jamie gave a bitter laugh. "You say that as if love doesn't come with its own cage."

She flinched. "So this is about love now?"

"It's always been about love. And pride. And power. And fear. You just refuse to admit it."

The silence between them pressed louder than any orchestra could.

"I need to think," he said finally, his voice low.

"So do I," Helena murmured, before turning away into the shadows.

At the Harrington's estate the following morning, Jamie stormed into the study, loosening his cravat and tossing it across a chair. Julian glanced up from the chessboard.

"That bad, is it?"

Jamie sank into the nearest seat. "You've heard already."

"Everyone has. Apparently Lady Whittleby has a direct line to Heaven—or at least to scandal."

Juliette swept in, teacup in hand, arching a brow. "So? Are you going to accept the offer?"

"I don't know."

"Why not? It's power. Influence. A legacy."

"Because it comes with strings."

Julian leaned forward. "Or maybe it just comes with consequences."

Jamie stared into the fire. "She thinks I'm only being offered this because of her."

"Are you?" Juliette asked, tone gentle.

He hesitated. "I don't know anymore."

Julian poured a modest brandy. "Then you'd best figure it out. Not what impresses the council. Not what pleases Helena. What you want."

Juliette added, "And ask yourself this: if she weren't a princess, would you still love her?"

"Yes."

"Then stop being afraid of what that love might cost."

Helena leaned on the marble balustrade on the east wing balcony of the Buckingham palace, eyes fixed on the gray clouds shifting over London. Eleanor joined her, cloak fluttering in the breeze.

"You look as though you'd like to jump," Eleanor remarked.

"Only metaphorically," Helena muttered.

Eleanor folded her hands. "So. Jamie."

Helena groaned. "Must everyone bring him up today?"

"Only those who care."

They stood in silence for a moment.

"He may love you," Eleanor said softly, "but that doesn't mean he knows what to do with it."

"Neither do I."

"Then learn. Because love, Helena, is not a luxury for you—it's a battlefield."

Helena frowned. "It can't be both?"

"It can lift you higher than your crown ever will... or it will bring you to your knees. And you will not get to decide which."

Helena's voice dropped. "Which was it for you?"

Eleanor's lips curved faintly. "I am still kneeling."

She placed a gloved hand on Helena's arm. "Don't let your crown convince you that vulnerability is weakness. Sometimes it is your sharpest weapon."

Jamie sat at the end of the long polished table at the private clubhouse of St. James Square as Lord Greystoke and Duke Caspian entered.

"You've had time to consider," Greystoke said flatly.

"I have."

Caspian poured a brandy. "And your answer?"

Jamie stood. "I want terms."

Greystoke scoffed. "You don't get to negotiate."

"Then I decline."

Greystoke's jaw tightened. "You think this is a favor? We are offering you legacy."

Jamie met his gaze. "No, you're offering me a leash. And I won't wear one—not yours. Not the Princess. No one's."

He turned to leave.

Behind him, Caspian called, "She won't wait forever."

Jamie paused only a heartbeat. "She shouldn't have to."

Helena stood beneath the arched glass dome of the conservatory of the palace, bathed in the silver light of stars. Jamie stepped inside quietly.

"I declined," he said.

She didn't turn. "Why?"

"Because I won't be their puppet. And I won't become yours, either."

Helena turned, eyes wide. "Is that what you think I want?"

"I think you want someone who fits the narrative. Who never stumbles."

She walked to him, steps sharp. "I want someone who chooses me. Knowing I'll always choose my country first."

"Then how can I compete with that?"

"You're not meant to compete. You're meant to walk beside me."

"I love you," Jamie whispered. "But I can't lose myself trying to be everything you need."

"And I can't lose myself protecting you from the world I live in."

A pause.

"So where does that leave us?"

Jamie stepped closer. "Right here. Still scared. Still proud. Still too stubborn to let go."

Helena allowed a smile. "Perhaps that's our strength."

"Or our downfall."

"Either way," she whispered, "I'd rather fall beside you than rise alone."

He kissed her hand gently.

"Then we face it all—together."

She nodded. "Together."

---

Lovers quarrel. Monarchs rule. But when two hearts stand at the edge of legacy and longing, they must either burn—or build.

From where this author stands, it appears Princess Helena and Viscount Harrington have just broken ground.

May the foundation hold.

~Lady Whittleby

Lady Whittleby's Society Papers

17 March, 1812

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Dearest readers,

What is power without alliance? What is a crown without a consort?

This week, whispers from within the walls of Buckingham Palace suggest the Council is no longer content with suggestion. Our beloved Princess Helena is being pressed to make a choice—not of policy, but of partner. And while a list of eligible gentlemen has undoubtedly been composed in discreet ink, one must wonder: Will our radiant royal bend to pressure? Or will she once again rewrite the rules?

In the background, some men plot. Others wait. And a few dare to love her.

Let the games begin.

~Lady Whittleby

Lady Whittleby's Society Papers

22 March, 1812

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The gold-and-crimson council chamber hummed with quiet anticipation. Morning sunlight slanted through tall windows, bathing the room in a glow that did little to soften the atmosphere.

Helena sat at the head of the council table, spine straight, face calm. She wore sapphire today—the color of clarity and command. Yet even the strength of her presence could not dampen the agenda placed before her.

"We appreciate Your Highness' dedication to the realm," Lord Greystoke began, voice smooth with practiced civility, "but it is the belief of this council that your continued rule must be supported by a union."

A marriage.

The word wasn't spoken, but it hung there all the same. Heavy. Loaded. Final.

Helena looked around the table. Caspian avoided her gaze. The Marquess of Fenwick, Lord Darrow tapped a finger against his notes. The others said nothing.

"You wish for me to hasten the marriage process," she said, her tone measured.

"We wish for you to secure the monarchy's future."

"And you believe that can only be done through matrimony?"

Greystoke inclined his head. "The people expect continuity. A royal household. A consort."

She leaned back in her chair. "And who is it among the list does the council recommends?"

The question sliced the silence like a blade. Names would be dangerous. Names would be political warfare.

So none were given.

That evening, in a darkened study on the edge of Grosvenor Square, Lord Cavanaugh stood before Councilman Darrow, his gloved hands folded.

"You owe debts," he said coolly. "Monetary, reputational… delicate matters, are they not?"

Darrow's mouth tightened. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, but I would. Unless, of course, you offer me your endorsement. A word here, a signature there… support when the Princess must finally choose."

Darrow's voice was bitter. "You wish to become consort?"

"I wish to become king." Cavanaugh's smile was slow, cruel. "And I've never liked losing."

At the Buckingham Palace, within Helena's drawing room, the fire crackled low. Helena stood at the window, her arms crossed, watching the gardens below. She sensed Jamie enter before he spoke.

"You met with the council this morning."

She turned slightly. "Word travels fast."

"They want you married."

"It seems the fate of the monarchy lies in my choice of husband."

Jamie scoffed. "How romantic."

Helena studied him. "Is that why you're here? To mock me?"

He stepped closer. "No. I'm here because the thought of you being pushed into someone's arms—someone like Cavanaugh—makes me feel like setting the palace on fire."

She raised a brow. "Jealousy, Viscount?"

"Don't mock me."

"Then don't insult me with fire you never light."

That stopped him.

Their eyes locked. The room seemed to narrow around them.

Jamie's voice was low. "Do you intend to accept?"

"Do you intend to ask?"

The silence pulsed. He moved closer.

"Helena—"

"You say you love me, but you step back when it counts."

"Because loving you terrifies me. Because if I lose you, I lose everything."

"Then fight for me."

"I have. Every day. Against the council. Against your name. Against my own doubts."

She stepped forward. "Then show me."

His hand brushed her cheek, hesitant, reverent.

Her breath caught. Their lips hovered.

But before the kiss could fall, the door creaked.

They broke apart.

Nara entered, freezing. "Forgive me—I didn't know—"

"It's fine," Helena said, voice sharp with emotion.

Jamie stepped back. "This isn't over."

She nodded once. "No. It isn't."

---

They stood at the edge of something tonight. Not yet lovers, not yet rulers. But close. Oh, so close.

One proposal is coming. The other? Still waiting to be made.

And this author? She is watching.

~Lady Whittleby

Lady Whittleby's Private Notes

22 March, 1812 – Confidential Supplement