“So, what does your mother think about all this?” Elizabeth asks, gazing up at me through her long lashes, making me very aware that her fingers are still warm in mine.
And that they feel nice.
Far too nice…
I release her with an awkward spasm that I cover by batting away a non-existent bug and running a hand over my hair. “The month-long engagement party? She thinks it’s a waste of time and money. But it’s tradition, and Mother’s as much a slave to it as the rest of us.”
“Really?” Elizabeth asks, her brow furrowing. “Even though she married for love? I would have thought she’d want you to choose your own partner and celebrate however you wish.”
I blow out a breath through pursed lips. “Well, my mother definitely has her own mind, but she loved my grandfather more than anything in the world. She knew how much he wanted this marriage to happen. That’s why she went along with the betrothal. But she always told me that I was free to back out of the agreement. Always. Even after her relationship with my father fell apart and her views on arranged marriage began to change.”
Elizabeth’s eyes go wide. “Really? So she’s pro arranged marriage now?”
I shrug. “I can’t say for sure—she doesn’t try to sway other people with her opinions—but I think so.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
I lean back against the smooth trunk behind me. “An arranged marriage has a lot of people invested in its success. People eager to offer advice and support. She never had that. My grandfather tolerated my father, but it was clear from day one that he thought my dad was a loser who would never be worthy of my mom. And he was a loser and a crap dad. But maybe…” I trail off, gathering my thoughts before continuing. “I think my mother believes that if my father hadn’t been reminded of his perceived inferiority so often… If he’d had people rooting for him to make good instead of waiting for him to fail, he’d have been a better husband and father.”
Elizabeth studies me before she nods. “I’ve never thought about it that way, but I can see your point. Though, you could also make the argument that love marriages would be more successful if the extended family would just get on board with the match and be supportive.” She lifts a hand, fingers spread wide. “No offense to your grandfather, of course.”
“None taken.” I smile. “I worshipped him, but he wasn’t perfect. I know that.”
Her lips quirk. “I think all our gods are imperfect if you look at them too closely. It doesn’t mean they can’t inspire us to be better people, though.”
“Well said.” I narrow my eyes. “I had no idea my fiancée was a philosopher.”
She rolls her eyes with a self-conscious laugh. “Hardly. But wandering around in the woods alone gives a person a lot of time to think.” She flutters a hand in the air. “And sewing alone, too. It keeps your hands busy but gives your thoughts plenty of time to wander.”
“And where do yours wander most often?” I murmur, genuinely curious, and wondering why she’s never felt comfortable sharing this side of herself on the phone.
If she had…
I cut the thought short.
It doesn’t matter. It’s too late to start second-guessing things now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy getting to know Elizabeth before she goes. Between making her miserable in my company, of course.
She blinks faster. “Oh, I don’t know. I think about my family a lot. Worry about them. Hope for them. Meditate on the past and imagine how things might be better in the future.”
“And boys?” I ask with a grin, determined to coax more out of her. “You never answered my question about princess hunters.”
She shrugs uncomfortably, her focus falling to the dry earth between us. “Of course I thought about boys.” Her eyes lift, catching mine. “I also thought about you.”
I hold her gaze as awareness thickens the air between us. “You did?”
She nods. “I did. And dreaded your twenty-ninth birthday like a death sentence.”
The confession shocks me, though I suppose it shouldn’t. I’ve been dreading it, too, and so far, Elizabeth and I seem to have a lot in common.
“But now that it’s finally here,” she says in a softer voice, “I’m hopeful that things will work out better than I imagined. No matter what happens, I hope we’ll be friends. Good friends.”
“Me, too,” I say, meaning it. “I like you, Elizabeth.”
“I like you, too,” she says, what looks like sadness tensing her features. “And please, call me Lizzy.”
I don’t know why that made her sad, but I know I don’t want to make her feel that way any more than I absolutely have to. Lizzy isn’t the problem. It’s this archaic bargain we’re both caught up in that’s to blame for the mess we’re in.