"Miss Lovet, you are to meet Lady Lovet andMonsieur Dupont in the ballroom," Agnes said from the doorway.

I glanced up at her, anticipation knotting my stomach. "Thank you, Agnes," I shut my book and put on my satin slippers before making my way down to the ballroom.

As I entered, I saw Mother and Monsieur Dupont talking in hushed voices, though both stopped when they saw me standing there.

"Bonjour, Demoiselle," Monsieur Dupont greeted, bowing with a flourish.

"Good morning, Monsieur," I said, curtsying to him.

Monsieur Dupont was a tall, rather thin man with a beaked nose and sharp eyes. He had black hair and light brown skin. He'd been my dance instructor as a child and I hadn't cared much for him back then. Perhaps things would be different now.

I distinctly remembered his words being as sharp as his eyes, used as weapons against me when I made mistakes.

He narrowed his eyes at me. "Why are you standing so awkwardly? No one is going to want to dance with you when you look so unapproachable. You must take up space in the room, stand tall and regal, show that you belong there, that you deserve to be asked to dance," he said in his thick French accent, gesturing wildly with his hands as he spoke. "You should exude confidence, even if it is false. Thriving in society is all dependent on your ability to act. And stand up straight—no slouching. Unclasp your hands and look me in the eye when I am talking to you."

"Monsieur Dupont," my mother interjected. "I am paying you to teach her to dance, not to survive in polite society. We are well past that at this point."

My face heated and I looked down at my feet.

"Nonsense, Madame," Monsieur Dupont brushed off her comment with a wave of his hand. "All the pieces work together like a puzzle. If she is to be a confident, elegant dancer, than she must act the part. She could learn all the right steps, but if she does not make them with all the poise and confidence of a queen, then what is the point? So, I am teaching her to dance." The look he gave her held a challenge. "Is that not what you asked me to do?"

Mother pressed her lips together firmly, but she ceded the point with a quick nod of her head.

Monsieur Dupont turned back to me, his look assessing and critical. "And you, Demoiselle, it has been only a moment since I told you to stand up straight and you have already returned to your . . . hunched, apologetic position. You look like a wilting flower. Back straight, head high." He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point.

I straighted my shoulders as much as I could and met his gaze, trying very hard to resist the urge to stare at my shoes.

He stared at me for a long moment before nodding his head. "Well, that is a start, isn't it?" He said, his voice a little gentler than before. He held out his hand to me. "Now, then, let us begin."

#

Monsieur Dupont was merciless. He pointed out every flaw, every mistake—and there were so many of them. He criticized everything I did, even the things that I thought I did relatively well. If I stepped on his foot or stumbled, or even was a little slow to match his footing, he would begin speaking angrily in French, which was almost more intimidating than his constant criticisms.

By the time our lesson was over, I was tired, sweating, trying very hard not to cry, and completely prepared to swear off dancing forever. I wanted to disappear into the floor and hide for the rest of my life. The worst part was how long it lasted. Hours. It lasted hours. Despite how angry he had gotten with me during the lesson, how impatient, how critical, by the end, it was as though the last several hours had never happened.

He bowed to me and then to my mother—yes, my mother watched the whole lesson just as critically as Monsieur Dupont, pointing out my flaws when he did not, or even adding on to his own critiques.

"Well done, demoiselle, I look forward to our future lessons," he said pleasantly.

How can that be? I wanted to ask him. How could it be possible to look forward to more of that? The mere idea of more dance lessons made me feel nauseous.

I curtsied to him on shaking legs. "Thank you, Monsieur. Your instruction was invaluable."

"Of course," with another bow, he bade me and my mother adieu and swept out of the room.

Mother and I were quiet for several moments after he left. My feet ached and I wanted nothing more than to go fall into my bed and sleep for an eternity.

Finally, Mother turned to me, as though reading my thoughts. "You will be dancing with many potential suitors at the ball tomorrow night. You must continue practicing in order to become a better dancer, which is what you want." She added the last bit a little too pointedly, as though to remind me that I asked for this.

I took a shuddering breath, already dreading another dance lesson. "Yes, Mother."

She nodded her head stiffly and then exited the room, leaving me alone. Nothing sounded less appealing than continuing to practice my dancing, so I waited until Mother's footsteps faded down the hall before sneaking out of the ballroom and back upstairs to my own bedroom.

Though, I told myself I really wanted to sleep, I ended up reading for a time instead. Though, I could have sworn I had only been reading for a couple minutes when the dinner bell was rung. My legs and feet ached still—maybe even worse than before—as I rolled out of bed, shutting my book as I did so.

When I reached the dining room, everyone was already seated and Mother gave me a scathing look as I sat down across the table from Alice. "Late again, Erika," she noted.

I murmured an apology, though I wasn't even that late, as I began adding food to my plate.

"Did you practice your dancing after your lesson today, Erika?" She asked.

I hesitated. "No," I said slowly. "I did not. I danced for hours this morning, Mother. I needed a break."

Mother sighed exasperatedly. "Erika, how do you expect to get better if you do not practice?" I opened my mouth to respond, but she continued without waiting for an answer. "Your lesson today was dreadful. Truly horrific. I was ashamed that you had absolutely no idea how to dance. None! After so many years of lessons."

"Years of lessons years ago—" I interjected, but she held up her hand.

"Do not interrupt me. You were clumsy and shy and apologetic. It was a truly horrendous first lesson."

My eyes burned and I ducked my head, ashamed. "I tried, Mother, I really did."

"Well, you did not try hard enough. Alice never would have made as many mistakes as you did today."

I blinked back tears and stared hard at my plate. "I'm sorry," I said, hoping that would be the end of the conversation. Perhaps my apology would appease her and we could move on. Though, sadly, that was not the case.

Mother shook her head, her face looking severe in the candlelight. "Do not apologize to me about it, just improve, try to be better, Erika. We will never be able to find you a husband if you continue to fall short of our expectations."

Don't say it, Erika. Do not say it. I could not help myself. "There's Prince William. What if he . . . and I . . ." I did not even get to finish the thought before Mother cut me off impatiently.

"Oh, Erika, do not be silly! The prince is to marry Alice and that is that." There was a faintly mocking edge to her voice.

I took a deep breath and tried again. "But he does not have to marry her. I mean . . . If it could be me instead, then would that not accomplish the same goal of having a daughter on the throne?"

Her eyes narrowed on me, no longer looking quite so amused. "Alice is going to be queen. She knows how to behave, how to speak, how to lead—"

"I do too, Mother," I continued, a little defensively. After all, I had learned the same things she had.

"Oh, please," she said harshly. "You do not. You are awkward and clumsy, shy and oblivious, clueless about anything besides those books you are always going on about. You do not know how to run a household, throw a party, how to be a good wife or mother. His Highness would be ashamed to have you for a wife."

"Katherine," Father hissed in a futile attempt to intervene.

But the damage had already been done. My fork clattered against my plate—which only seemed to prove her point about my clumsiness. I took a shaking breath, trying to blink back the tears that were forming in my eyes. "Excuse me," I said softly, my voice breaking as I pushed back my chair from the table.

No one stopped me as I hurried from the room before I could start crying.

"Really, Catherine," Father sighed. But that was all I heard as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, tears still forming in my eyes, clinging to my lashes, trailing down my cheeks.

His Highness would be ashamed to have you for a wife.

Those words echoed in my head as I reached my room and shut the door behind me. I sank onto my bed, my shoulders shaking, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

The worst part was that she was right. Alice was better than me in every way. I was everything Mother accused me of being and probably more that was left unsaid. I had no place being a princess or a queen, not the way Alice did. She was born to rule. I was born to hide away behind the pages of a book.

A feeling of hopelessness swept over me, threatened to crush me. William would never choose me over Alice. No one would.

As I lay in bed that night, my thoughts swirled around in my head, making it nearly impossible to sleep. Tears dripped onto my pillow from the corners of my eyes, my breath shook from the effort of keeping my crying quiet.

I wish it could be me. I wish I could be the one that people think of, look at, dream about. The one people hope to marry. Just once, I wish I could be like Alice. Just once, I wish I could be first.