She was correct, he shouldn’t be ashamed of the choice of practical garments these people wore on the field. Fashion was the least of his concern, anyway. However, both him and her were holding positions that was above and beyond these people would ever be. They were supposed to be the reflection of the nation and the aspiration of its collective consciousness. What they wore and how they conduct themselves, therefore, mattered not only to fashionistas and socialites, but also to political allies and the world stage. 

To say that he was disappointed was an understatement. While they disagreed on a number of things, he expected her to at least consider her betrothed’s reputation when choosing which path to follow. But the truth was, it was who she was. The palace’s stylist could dress her up in the most expensive designer clothes, but it would not change the fact that she was indeed born to the wrong family. Ms. Black did not belong to his world as much as he did not belong to hers. This was who she was. 

Like Cinderella after the clock struck twelve, she stripped off the glamour and slipped back into being the peasant she truly was. It was difficult to watch not because she struggled with her broken arm, but because by watching he realized how he had made himself believe that by wearing the brands that he wore, she somehow transformed into a different person, that she was not a farmer but his princess. He stared at the door latch, fighting against the itch to pull it open and be free from the truth. It was only his consideration for her half-dressed fiancee that stopped him. “And what about you?” He asked the latch the question. “You’re painting a bigger target on your back by doing this. The rebels hate you because you are slowing them down. The lords and ladies hate you because they do not see you as their equal. This,” he gestured with his hand at what she was doing, “only makes your standing on both sides worse.” There was also the matter of the queen’s opinion, but ultimately it was Rhiane at the top of his mind as he considered the strategy. He can handle the high society, but by being more likable to the masses, she was getting more and more annoying to the rebellion. The more she slowed down their advances, the more they would want her erased from the picture. 

Just like his dare to leap off the cliff, she may not have considered the possibility that she might not survive the fall. When, after a stolen glance, he confirmed that she was sufficiently dressed, he put his hand on the door. But before he exited, he heard her voice whisper words which were perhaps not for him. “I was going to carry the burden for both of us, but -” He shrugged. Still without looking at her, he pushed the door open. “Do whatever you want. The stage is yours.”

Cameras flashed as soon as he stepped out of the vehicle. Although the soil was still damp from the overnight downpour, the air was crisp and the sky was blue that afternoon. Farmers and their families had gathered around the parked vehicles, curious about its passengers. Joining the sea of faces were the baron and his wife. Work boots looked odd when worn with the formal clothes. Without changing into the ones prepared for him, he moved to the rear passenger door where Tobias was standing. He may be rather upset at Rhiane, but the nation need not know that. They had started the charade, might as well continue with it and see where it led them. 

From the crowd that had suddenly fallen into fragile silence at their future king’s appearance, came a child running and laughing with abandon, chasing after his ball. Because of surprise and the size of what Luke guessed was a two-year-old, the guards failed to stop him. The mother shouted a name from the crowd,  just as the ball landed on the prince’s shoes. The guards prevented the woman from advancing, though her voice had stolen the attention of both Luke and the child. 

“Pick the child up, and take the irresponsible parents of this boy,” ordered Lady Ferullo. The boy had light brown hair and similarly brown round eyes which started to tear up. He wore a dark blue oversized button-up shirt, probably handed down by an older sibling, a pair of shorts, and muddy shoes. It was dirtied by playing outdoors. His mother had the same eyes, though it was round and wide for a different reason. She pleaded silently with a guard to forgive the innocence of a boy, that her husband’s wages are barely enough to feed six mouths. A penalty was imposed by the local lords to lesser violation of the common law. 

Without Rhiane to escort out of the vehicle, Luke picked the child up before Nolan or Tobias or the other guards could. “Little Alessandro,” he whispered, smiling slightly as the boy’s teary eyes met his. He heard the baroness gasp, frantically gesturing for somebody to take the charge off their prince. 

Apparently, a stranger's face was not welcomed. The boy's face grew scared, his mouth quivered, and not a few moments later burst into tears while cradled in the arms of the prince. Luke couldn't help but chuckle, remembering his younger siblings when they were the boy's age. A guard gave the ball back, calming the boy a little as the prince pointed to the boy's mother as if telling him that he was not lost. He turned the sniffling child over to the guard to be returned to the mother. "No harm done here, my lady," Luke addressed the baroness. In an instant, he was back to the snobbish prince.