A Crown For Two

The sun had barely crested the horizon when the latest edition of Lady Whittleby's Society Letters found its way into parlours, drawing rooms, and breakfast nooks across the realm. Gilded edges fluttered as eager fingers tore open the sealed folios, whispers spreading like fire on dry parchment.

"The Princess may soon announce a surprise betrothal…"

"A certain Viscount has been seen entering the east wing unchaperoned…"

Lords blinked behind monocles. Ladies gasped over buttered scones. Debutantes clutched their pearls. Footmen were seen peeking at the edges of the page, eager to know what scandal their masters might be implicated in next.

The line most talked about, however, was not one of names—but of implication. And Princess Helena's name, though not explicitly stated, was delicately laced in every line.

In her chamber, Helena held the paper in trembling fingers. The parchment crackled faintly under her grip, already wrinkled from how many times she'd crumpled and smoothed it in disbelief. Her gaze clung to the bold ink on the page, the scandalous headline repeating in her mind like a curse.

Her heart thundered—half panic, half memory.

The kiss.

It had only been days ago, and yet it haunted her with maddening clarity. It lived behind her eyelids when she closed her eyes, a feverish echo that refused to fade. She could still feel the velvet hush of that moonlit garden—the soft patter of rain over roses, the scent of damp earth and blooming petals, the faint chill that had made her shiver just before Jamie had stepped into the space between them and changed everything.

He had touched her as if she were something rare. Not a princess. Not a title. Just a girl. His hand had cupped her cheek with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things, and then—his lips, gentle yet sure, had met hers. Not with hunger, but with meaning.

And she had let herself feel it.

No duty. No decorum. No royal decree.

Just Helena.

A girl who had dared, for one fleeting moment, to fall.

She swallowed hard, the memory trembling through her as she clutched the edge of her writing desk. The ornate wood dug into her palm. Her breath hitched. No one knew. Not even Nara. That kiss had been hers and Jamie's alone—tender, unspoken, unrepeatable. Untouched by court, untainted by expectation.

Until now.

Her eyes flicked downward, drawn unwillingly back to the printed words sprawled across the gossip sheet.

"The Princess may soon announce a surprise betrothal…"

Her stomach turned to stone. A dull roaring filled her ears as she flipped the page, heart slamming in her chest.

There. Clear as ink and just as cruel.

"Rumour has it again, Lord Cavanaugh has secured a most royal alliance…"

Her blood ran cold.

No. No. No.

She hadn't accepted anything. Not a courtship. Not a conversation. Certainly not a proposal. She had endured Lord Cavanaugh's endless flatteries, sidestepped his veiled intentions, dodged his suffocating charm with as much grace as she could summon—but she had never said yes. Not in word, not in gesture.

And yet this…this lie was being paraded as truth.

Jamie would see this.

He'd read it.

He'd think—

Her heart splintered. She could barely breathe. A sharp sound slipped from her throat—somewhere between a sob and a gasp—as she leaned against the desk, forehead pressed to her clenched fist. The air felt thick, her chest caving under the weight of what he might now believe.

Would Jamie think she had used him?

That the kiss had been a performance? A fleeting indulgence before she returned to the gilded cage of duty?

Would he think she had traded him—for a crown?

Tears threatened, but she blinked them back, furious with herself for the weakness. No. She would not cry over lies.

She would not let her story be rewritten by palace whispers and gossip sheets.

She was not a pawn to be moved by powerful men. Not Jamie. Not Cavanaugh. Not even her mother.

She would fight this.

Even if it meant tearing down the drawing rooms where the lies had bloomed.

Even if it meant facing Jamie—and telling him everything.

By afternoon, the palace buzzed like a hive, the whispers spread like wildfire. Courtiers stole glances her way and bowed with too-sweet smiles. Behind fans, women whispered. Behind curtains, servants smirked. Everywhere she turned, the rumor followed her like a ghost in lace.

Some congratulated her with false delight. Others offered mournful smiles, as if watching a young girl walk knowingly into a trap.

And somewhere in that sea of gossip and glittering pretense—Jamie had read it too.

She knew it.

The thought made her sick.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Her spine straightened.

She would not be reduced to ink on someone else's parchment.

Let them whisper.

She had a truth to set free—and a man to face.

Even if it shattered everything.

The Queen's receiving room was a study in cultivated calm—gilt-trimmed mirrors reflected filtered sunlight, the cloying scent of amber and lilac clung to the heavy brocade drapes, and a silver tray of untouched tea sat steaming between mother and daughter like a peace offering neither would accept.

Helena didn't wait for an invitation. She swept past the startled footman, fury woven into every stitch of her gown, her slippers barely making a sound on the polished marble floor.

"Mother," she said, her voice cutting through the still air like a blade drawn too quickly.

The Queen glanced up from her embroidery hoop, her expression placid, unreadable. "Helena. You look a touch overheated. Perhaps a walk in the garden—"

"There's another rumour circulating through half the kingdom," Helena snapped, holding out the crumpled gossip sheet like a bloodied flag. "It says I've accepted Lord Cavanaugh's proposal."

The Queen set her needlework aside with deliberate grace, her fingers folding neatly in her lap. "It was bound to surface sooner or later. The Council has discussed it at length. The garden party presents the perfect opportunity for an announcement."

Helena stared at her, aghast. "Announcement? I gave no such consent!"

"You gave a smile in public," the Queen replied coolly. "He is someone close to most of the council members. You did not rebuff him harshly enough. That, in their eyes, is consent."

Helena's fists trembled at her sides. "He's a vulture dressed in velvet. He flatters when he means to consume. You know this."

"Lord Cavanaugh," the Queen said, her voice low but firm, "has the backing of the Council, the ear of Parliament, and the coffers to strengthen England's future. Jamie has charm and a name he barely uses anymore. He is not a prince, although a Viscount, he recently assumed the position. He is not safe."

Helena's heart twisted. "He is honest. And I care for him."

The Queen's expression flickered—something almost human beneath the mask. But it vanished just as quickly. "Feelings, my darling, are luxuries afforded to women with fewer responsibilities."

"I will not be paraded into a match I despise," Helena breathed. "Not for alliances. Not for headlines. Not for you."

"You will do what your station demands."

"I will do what I choose," she shot back, spinning on her heel, fury and heartbreak surging in her throat.

Behind her, the Queen picked up her embroidery once more, but the thread trembled in her hand.

Jamie hadn't disappeared entirely.

But he had drawn back with the precision of a soldier retreating behind enemy lines—quiet, efficient, intentional.

No more stolen glances across the ballroom. No more excuses for a dance. No more soft laughter shared in alcoves only they remembered. Where once he found reasons to be near her, now he seemed to find equal cause to remain away.

Helena noticed every shift.

At court, he stood among lesser nobles, making polite conversation as if her presence carried no more weight than the chandelier's glint. He bowed, when required. Smiled, on cue. But his eyes—his eyes no longer sought hers.

The distance was surgical. Devastating.

She penned a note late one night, her hands trembling as she sealed it with her personal crest. No title. Just his name. Just Jamie.

No response came.

Not even a returned seal.

She caught sight of him once from behind a velvet curtain, his head thrown back in laughter at something Lord Mercer had said. The sound—light, practiced—stabbed through her like a shard of glass.

Was it real? Had she imagined all of it?

The kiss. The promise. The tenderness in his eyes as he'd whispered her name.

Had that all meant nothing to him?

Or had he believed the lie?

The one printed in elegant script, repeated in a thousand whispers:

The Princess has accepted Lord Cavanaugh.

She clutched the edge of the curtain, breath shallow.

Was he punishing her?

Or worse… had he stopped fighting for her?

The ache that bloomed in her chest was not delicate—it was violent. Raw. A storm gathering behind her ribs.

She would find him.

She would look him in the eyes.

And if he had truly let her go, she would demand to know why.

The ballroom at Lady Danwell's was a glittering affair of champagne laughter and string quartets, but Helena only saw him.

Jamie stood near the terrace doors, half-shadowed by a marble column. The moonlight spilled across his shoulders like silver armor. His posture was straight, composed—too composed. A glass of untouched wine dangled from his fingers, forgotten.

Helena's heart battered against her ribs as she stepped into the crowd, weaving through swirls of silk and whispers. When she reached him, she didn't hesitate.

"Jamie."

He turned, slowly. His expression was unreadable—glacial, like he'd carved it from stone just for her.

"Your Highness."

Not Helena. Not even a smile. The formality stung.

She swallowed. "Please—"

"Congratulations," he said, his voice quiet but cutting, like frostbite. "He's a fine match. Title. Power. Approval. Everything a princess should want."

She blinked, breath catching in her throat. "I didn't agree to anything."

Jamie's smile was thin. "You don't owe me explanations. I'm merely a Viscount who had just assume his position."

Her fingers curled into her skirts. "You're not just a Viscount to me, and you know it."

His jaw clenched. For a flicker of a second, something vulnerable flickered in his eyes—wounded hope, buried deep—but it was gone too quickly.

"I know what I am to you," he said. "A mistake you're trying to forget before it becomes scandal."

"That's not true," she whispered.

He bowed—too low, too sharp—and without another word, turned and left her standing in the candlelit crush of gowns and gossip.

Later that night, long after the guests had departed and the musicians packed away their instruments, Jamie stood alone beneath the veranda at the Harrington estate. The garden stretched before him in silence, moonlight turning the hedges into ghosts.

He gripped the balustrade so tightly his knuckles blanched.

"She didn't say yes," a voice murmured behind him.

He turned. Cecilia, his mother stood there in a midnight-blue robe, her hair unpinned, eyes soft but steady.

"She didn't," she repeated, coming to stand beside him. "The Council assumes. The Queen hopes. But Helena hasn't given her word."

Jamie looked away. "She doesn't have to. The silence is enough."

"No, it's not." Cecilia's voice was gentle. "She's scared, Jamie. She's been trained to be. And she has everything to lose. Her crown. Her family's favor. Her future."

Jamie said nothing. His breath came shallow.

"But you know better than most that fear makes people cruel," Cecilia added. "Don't punish her because the world makes it impossible for her to be honest."

He dropped his gaze. "It's easier to believe she chose him."

"Is it?" she asked, tilting her head. "Or is it easier to believe you were never enough?"

That struck home.

Cecilia reached out and placed a hand over his clenched fist. "Are you more afraid of loving her, Jamie—or that she might actually love you back?"

He inhaled sharply.

"You two shared a moment, didn't you?" Cecilia said softly.

He already knew what she was implying.

His eyes flew to hers, wide and startled.

"A mother knows these things," she said with a small smile. "And I saw the way you looked at her. Like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe."

He turned away, throat thick.

"So here's your choice," Cecilia said. "Fight for her. Or let her go. But don't—don't—stand there waiting for someone else to decide for you."

Jamie closed his eyes.

The scent of rain. Her fingers in his hair. The soft sound she'd made just before pulling him closer.

Maybe he had something left to fight for, after all.

The royal gardens bloomed in gold and ivory. Lanterns swayed in the breeze. A quartet played beneath the marble arch.

Helena wore the Council's chosen gown—a symbol of tradition. Ivory silk, stiff bodice, crown-like tiara. A costume for a coronation she hadn't asked for.

Lord Cavanaugh approached, all smiles and smug confidence.

"My lady," he began, raising a glass. "In honor of new beginnings, and a union that shall—"

He paused.

Jamie stood at the edge of the dais, hands behind his back.

"Forgive me, Lord Cavanaugh," he said smoothly. "But I believe your speech implies something not yet confirmed. A proposal, after all, requires an answer."

Gasps fluttered.

Helena stepped forward.

"I have not accepted any proposal."

The air stilled.

Cavanaugh's face darkened. "Your Highness—"

"I said no," she said clearly. "Let no one twist my silence into consent."

Jamie turned to walk away.

"Wait."

Her voice was soft. Private. But he stopped.

She stepped forward—not touching, not speaking further—but her gaze locked with his.

Her heart in her eyes.

His breath faltered.

And for a moment, the world forgot to breathe.

And somewhere, in the shadows of the garden, a woman in silver inked her thoughts by lantern light.

"The Princess has surprised us all…"

"A war brews beneath the lace and pearls."

"And my quill trembles with anticipation."

Lady Whittleby whoever she is smiled.

She smelled revolution in the air.