“You look, well, you look perfect,” I began, “which is a certain indisputable form of bliss, I mean you look like your official portrait on the airport LED screen welcoming tourists to London. But that might be part of the problem you mentioned, with public perception. Try this.”

I gave myself a brief shake, a blend of mild seizure and invisible hula hoop.

“Why?” asked Prince Edgar, clearly regretting having asked such a possibly dangerous stranger to stick around.

“It’s a technique for relaxation and relatability. It’s about allowing yourself to get a tiny bit messy. Trust me, it will only enhance your appeal. It’s like, if you were a cologne, which would sell trillions of units, it could be called Slightly Rumpled Royalty. It’s like a movie star with just the right amount of bedhead. Do it.”

I gave myself an even more decisive shake, with my arms extended, like the Tin Man after his oil change. Prince Edgar stayed doubtful, but launched a halfway vigorous shake.

“More! Like you’re alone in your bedroom and you’re listening to some amazing dance mix, and then it gets even hotter. No one’s watching. Go!”

I shook myself even more exuberantly, and Edgar gave in and let loose. In some loony way we were dancing with each other, like two of those inflatable air puppets outside a used car lot, flailing with joy at the one-day-only bargains. Then, out of breath, we stopped, and the prince laughed.

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” he announced. “But I do feel better. Less . . .”

“Prissy? Uptight? Royal?”

He looked at me, almost glaring, and then he smiled. His face was flushed, his hair was less well-behaved, but if anything, he looked even more handsome, only approachable, which was what I’d been after.

I’m almost ready to describe his smile. Edgar had a bit of that abashed schoolboy look, but the years were lending him a man’s seriousness. When he smiled, all this fell away, and he became pure joy, maybe because he didn’t do it that often, and he surprised himself. His smile had a recklessness to it, which was why he held it in check. I’d made him smile, which was maybe the sexiest thing ever.

“Your Highness?” I asked, and as I was saying it, I felt like a cartoon mouse dressed as a footman in a Disney animated classic.

“Yes?” he said, as I climbed the stairs and approached him.

“May I?” I asked, reaching toward his head. “You look great, and even more adorable than in those pictures where you’re feeding a tiger cub at the London Zoo, which made the entire world go ‘Awww’ and then donate to Save the Tigers. But you’ve got a flyaway—you know, a few strands of hair that might catch the light and mess up the video. So if I could just . . .”