This was the second year in a row I’d attended The Royal Ascot alone.

Single.

Seated next to my younger brother Jack in the carriage. The two remaining Thorne siblings, relegated to the last landau in line. The more glamorous carriages up front were reserved for our grandmother the Queen, and then of course Kit and Emily (married last year) and Robert and Aly (married last month). All that was missing were my parents. It had been more than twenty years since they’d died, but I still felt their absence acutely. Every bloody day.

This time last year, I’d been crushed to be in the back. It was just another reminder of how I’d cocked up. How I’d failed. As a wife. As a person. I’d just announced my separation from Michael, my now ex-husband, and the wounds from our fallout had still been raw.

But now—now I felt okay with it all. Funny the difference a year could make. I was finally learning to stand on my own two feet again. There was a freedom in being single. Michael’s voice wasn’t in my ear anymore, constantly nagging me to act like a proper princess. Honor your heritage. Funny that, to him, honoring my heritage just meant spending gobs of my money and reminding people to bow or curtsey for him.

As was tradition, my family and I did a lap around the racecourse in our carriages. It was a gorgeous day. Sunny and just warm enough. The crowds were more adoring than ever; two royal weddings in as many years had done wonders for our popularity.

Jack flicked the foot-long feather in my hat. I punched him, discreetly of course, in the leg. His bark of laughter made a group of women nearby whistle in appreciation.

He tipped his hat to them. “Ladies.” And then, to an admiring group of blokes: “Gentlemen.”

Jack had come out a few months ago as gay. Considering he was the first member of the royal family to ever do so publicly, it’d been a big deal. The Queen had reacted positively, as had the country. I couldn’t have been prouder of him. Or more envious of the hotties who adoringly fell at his feet.

When the procession was done, Jack helped me down from the carriage. We made our way up the elevator toward the royal box. It was always a bit of a relief, getting to this part of the day. The box was partially open to the outdoors, so people could still see us. But we weren’t really on display anymore. Our duty was done.

Now we got to play.

My heart did a little leap of excitement as I headed down the hall that led to the box. The Queen was a bit of a gambler, and every year Kit helped her put together a betting pool for the family. There’d be Ascot’s famous lobster rolls for lunch, and Pimm’s Cups to sip on while we lost money on the races.

The best part? Our family got to spend the day together—minus baby Josie, Kit and Em’s 16-month old daughter. The Queen always invited a handful of guests to join us. But otherwise, it was just us, drinking and eating and placing losing bets on thoroughbred horses.

Just as we were entering the box, Jack turned to me. His smile was gone. He looked a little worried.

That was weird. Jack never worried about anything.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted.

I blinked. “For what?”

“They made me keep quiet. I wanted to tell you, I did, but…” A sheen of perspiration had broken out on his top lip. “Our grandmother swore us all to secrecy. We knew if you found out you’d never come.”

“Jack,” I said, lowering my voice in mock seriousness. “Are you having me assassinated?”

“Worse.” He winced. “We’re having you set up. Well, really the Queen is. It was her idea.”

I stared at him. This had to be a joke, right? A really bad, really stupid joke. My grandmother—my entire family—knew I had absolutely no interest in love. I’d just spent the past two years putting myself back together. Two years. I was finally in a good place. A nice place I didn’t want to share with anybody else.

“Shut up,” I said, landing my fist into the meat of his broad shoulder.

I waited for Jack to crack a smile. Tell me he was messing with me.

Instead he kept on wincing.

“She asked us for our help. And you know the answer can’t be no when the Queen’s asking,” he said. “I like my allowance too much, Jane. It’s quite generous.”

My heart was leaping again. But not from excitement this time.

Jack wasn’t joking.

Motherfucker.

I glanced through the door into the box. I could see several people, all of them in top hats and tails—full morning dress, required by Royal Ascot’s strict dress code—milling about inside, cocktails in hand.

All of them men.

I turned back to Jack. “What the hell did you do?” I hissed.

But before he could respond, I heard my grandmother’s voice at the door.

“Ah, there she is! Jane, please do join us. I’ve invited some guests I’d like you to meet.”

I stared at Jack. Pursed my lips.

He looked like he wanted to die.

Good. It was only what he deserved for helping coordinate this little surprise attack.

I hate you, I mouthed at him.

Then I stepped around Jack, the hem of my dress swishing around my legs as I pasted on a smile.

There was no hesitation in the Queen’s blue eyes when they met mine. Clearly she didn’t have any qualms about setting me up with strangers. Why would she? She’d been on the throne for more than sixty years. She’d muscled her way through the Blitz and the Cold War and even a Nickelback concert. She’d strong-armed dictators and sweet talked eleven U.S. presidents.

She could strong-arm me, too, no problem. Although strong-arm me into what, exactly? Dating? Love? Marriage?

No, no, and hell no.

“I would be pleased to meet your guests,” I said, trying very hard not to grit my teeth.

The Queen motioned for me to enter the box. I moved inside carefully, like I was stepping through a field of landmines. Fully aware that one wrong move could blow me to bits. Or send me into the arms of one of the arseholes gathered here.

The sounds of the crowd outside filtered through the box. But otherwise it was quiet. All eyes were on me. My scalp prickled with sweat. There had to be twenty—no, more than that, thirty—men here, the mother-of-pearl buttons on their pastel waistcoats winking at me.

Some of the guys smiled at me. Awkward smiles. Shy smiles. Some of them looked me up and down, taking my measure the way you would one of the horses on the track.

My face burned.

I looked away.

And met the bluest pair of eyes I’d ever seen. Blue that reached inside my chest and flipped my heart upside-down. It was clear and honest and just as surprised to be discovered as I was to discover it.

The eyes belonged to a handsome man I’d never seen before. He had thick, neatly parted dark hair and a beard that, if it were a bit shorter, would qualify as scruff. Maybe it was the beard, but there was something that drew my attention. His lips were…

I blinked. No more looking at his lips.

He wasn’t so tall or broad as much as well-proportioned. In a Hollywood way—he was too perfect for real life. He belonged on a screen. Or a billboard. Thick chest and shoulders and arms. Handsome face. And those eyes.

He was standing a bit off to the side. Alone. A full glass of champagne in one hand. His other hand was poised over his coat, like he couldn’t find the pocket he’d been looking for.

Morning coats didn’t have pockets on the outside. Had he never worn one?

“You look lovely,” the Queen murmured in my ear, breaking the spell.

I blinked, looking away.

Probably a good thing. I didn’t want to look at a man the way I’d been looking at that one. Chances were he wasn’t any different from blokes I’d met—and married—in the past anyway.

Blokes who wanted the princess, not the person.

“Why are you doing this?” I said under my breath as Her Majesty gently but firmly steered me toward one end of the loose semi-circle the men had formed.

The Queen turned her head, just a little. Just enough so I could see the determined glint in her eye.

“Meaning no offense, Jane, but I think it’s fair to say you don’t have the best taste in men,” she replied. “I didn’t, either. You and I—we’re alike in that we fall for the wrong ones.”

My anger softened. The Queen was right on that account. It was a well-kept family secret that my late grandfather, Prince Alexander, had been unfaithful throughout the course of their marriage. Repeatedly. He’d even gotten one of his mistresses pregnant. I don’t know what happened to the baby. But I do know the incident had almost broken my grandmother, one of the most indomitable women on the planet.

But it was no secret at all that Michael, my ex, was a tosser. He’d conned me into thinking he loved me for me. But the second the wedding band was on my finger—and the generous prenup signed—he’d shown his true colors. He’d wanted me to change into a completely different person than the one he’d married. A person I’d tried—and failed—to become.

The Queen stopped. Looked me in the eye. “Jane, I want to save you from what I went through.”

“You really think these peacocks are going to be any better than the wankers we’ve been with?”

“I do. These peacocks are good men. Men who just might make you happy. I’ve had each of them thoroughly vetted. If you don’t like any of them, fine. But give them a chance.” She elbowed me. “You wouldn’t deny a dying woman her last wish, would you?”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re not dying.”

“I could be.” She shrugged. “I’m ninety-three years old.”

“Stop playing coy. We all know you’re going to live to be a hundred and twenty.”

Her lips twitched. “Humor me. Just for today.”

“Just for today,” I repeated. “Promise?”

“You have my word.”

I looked at her. Sighed. This was the last thing I felt like doing. But the Queen had defended me—protected me—during my divorce. She’d called in favors. I owed her some favors in return.

Besides. It wasn’t like I was going to actually bring any of these peacocks home. I just had to play nice. Say hello, shake some hands, pretend to be interested when they talked about their portfolios or name dropped their way through anecdotes about St. Bart’s. It wouldn’t be fun. But it would make my grandmother happy.

Letting my shoulders fall back in resignation, I stepped up to meet the first peacock.

All the while feeling the heat of those blue eyes on me from across the room.