If flirting didn't work (it didn't), and seduction resulted in nebulous pity (it did), then there was only one course of action left:
I needed to become the ideal fiancée.
Elegant. Refined. Marginally terrifying in that high-society, "I could destroy your family with a whisper" kind of way.
Step one: mannerisms.
Step two: don't die from said mannerisms.
Naturally, I enlisted Beatrice for a crash course.
"Hold the fan like this," she instructed, demonstrating something that looked suspiciously like either secret sign language or a weaponized butterfly.
I copied her. Dropped the fan. Twice.
"Okay," I said brightly, "we'll circle back to fans. What about curtsying?"
"Just bend at the knees a little—"
Thunk.
I hit the floor like a noble sack of potatoes.
"I meant to do that," I told her from the carpet. "It's a revolutionary new move. Curtsy-jitsu."
Beatrice sighed like someone already planning her own alibi. "You have to host a tea. That's what ladies of status do."
"Tea. Yes. I can do tea. I once drank twelve cups of oolong and saw a vision of my past life. Let's do it."
Two days later, I was in the drawing room, lace in every known direction, seated opposite three of Myltheria's most judgmental noblewomen—and holding a spoon apparently with criminal intent.
Lady Merenise, whose eyebrows could be registered as bladed weapons, gave me a look suggesting I'd personally offended her ancestors.
"Lady Amelia," she said with glacial clarity, "one does not clink the spoon."
"I didn't clink."
"You stirred it like a cauldron."
"Maybe I did," I said sweetly. "Adds mystery."
Lady Elsinore sniffed. "Your posture is… expressive."
"Thank you!"
"That wasn't a compliment."
"Still counts."
Beatrice made a choking noise behind the tea tray.
Then came the sandwiches. Triangles of impending doom.
Lady Riselda bit into one and asked, "What do you plan to do once you're wed to Lord Ronan?"
"Survive," I said.
The ladies went still.
I smiled. "Metaphorically. Spiritually. In a bold 'seize the day, avoid the dungeon' kind of way."
Lady Merenise blinked. "And your thoughts on the duties of a duchess?"
I sat up straighter. "Oh yes, I've been practicing. I'm very good at waving. And not screaming when I see tax forms."
Lady Elsinore took a sip. "You're… unorthodox."
"Thank you."
"Not a compliment."
I leaned toward Beatrice. "Quick, offer more scones before I confess I don't think in forks."
Eventually, after the ladies departed with faces like they'd survived a low-grade etiquette earthquake, I collapsed face-first onto the nearest divan.
"I think I nailed it," I muttered into the pillows.
Beatrice sat beside me, grim. "You used the cake knife as a hairpin."
"It worked. That's a win."
She patted my shoulder with the resignation of a loyal friend tethered to a hurricane.
"Perfect." I sat up, reinvigorated. "Next strategy: achieve massive popularity via oddball charm and a very charismatic pigeon I hereby name Sir Fluffsworth."
Beatrice stared. "You're serious."
I was.