A footman stepped forward. “Miss Damson,” he murmured, pulling out the chair next to Wick.

Two slender silver candelabra threw light on the silk damask covering, the gold-plated dishes, and a greater assortment of cutlery than she knew existed. For a moment, Philippa felt dizzy. Was it really only yesterday that she had been lying in the straw under Rodney?

Could it really be her, sitting in a castle, eating with royalty? She didn’t dare look to her right, at Wick, or even more terrifying, to her left, at the prince himself.

Across from her, Princess Sophonisba sucked vigorously at the chicken bone she clutched. “You’re pretty enough, but you look like a bit of a goose,” the old lady said. “Haven’t you ever been in a castle before?”

“No, I haven’t, Your Highness,” she said, picking up her napkin and spreading it in her lap.

“Most people in this one are dim as a snuffed candle,” Sophonisba said. “In fact, one castle is the same as another. The lot of them sit around buggering each other, if not the sheep.”

The prince cleared his throat and leaned forward, giving Philippa a charming smile. A smile she recognized from his—

Brother? They looked almost identical, which couldn’t be accidental.

“You seem to have performed miracles already with Jonas,” he said. “I don’t know how we’ll be able to thank you.”

“Give her a gold chastity belt, I’d think,” Princess Sophonisba said. “The way your brother’s looking at her, she’ll be dropping a bastard in a matter of nine months.”

So Wick was the prince’s brother. No wonder they looked so much alike.

The prince closed his eyes for a moment. “I apologize—”

The princess talked right over His Highness. “Actually, that’s just what we need around here. More bastards. Look at Berwick, here.”

Philippa didn’t dare look. She could feel him sitting next to her, could feel his large body, his eyes resting on her.

“Look at him!” the princess ordered.

Philippa looked.

To her relief, he was grinning, his eyes alight with a deep pleasure that sent little shocks down her spine.

“A bastard,” the princess said with satisfaction, licking her fingers. “And yet he’s the best of the lot. My favorite, and I’m a judge of men. Always have been, ever since I dumped my barking-mad betrothed and decided never to marry.”

Philippa felt a smile playing on her lips as well.

“You may be in a castle, among royalty of sorts,” Prince Gabriel remarked from the other end of the table, “but I’m afraid you’ll find, Miss Damson, that we descend to the lowest type of behavior while in private.”