Sovereign. pt 1 (Patreon)

Summary: Harry, crown prince and a spirited commoner are drawn together, defying society, duty, and the rules of the ton. 

The season had begun.

For most, the arrival of spring meant renewal—the promise of fresh blossoms, soft breezes, and warm afternoons spent in Hyde Park. But for the ton, it meant something far more treacherous. The drawing rooms of Mayfair and the grand ballrooms of Grosvenor Square had become battlegrounds, where reputation was both sword and shield, and marriage was the ultimate prize.

None bore the weight of the season more than Prince Harry, heir to the throne of England.

For months now, the Queen had made her wishes painfully clear: it was time for him to find a bride. The court whispered, the nobility schemed, and yet, Harry remained indifferent. It wasn’t that he disrespected his duty—on the contrary, he had been raised on duty. Every step he took, every word he spoke was scrutinized, measured, and deemed either appropriate or unworthy of a future king.

And a future queen? Well, she would have to be perfect.

Harry loathed the entire process. The ton was filled with young ladies who knew what was expected of them—how to smile prettily, how to flatter, how to appear desirable but not too eager. Each time he attended a ball, it was the same—delicate curtsies, soft laughter, the flutter of lace-trimmed fans. He would bow, dance, make polite conversation, but none of them stirred anything in him.

“She is quite beautiful, is she not?” his mother had pressed just last week, gesturing toward Lady Eleanor Ashford, the daughter of a powerful duke.

Harry had glanced at her—she was beautiful, yes. But he felt nothing.

The Queen had sighed, folding her hands in her lap. “You cannot wait forever, my dear.”

Harry knew that. And yet, he remained unmoved.

Across London, in a grand but modest townhouse on Berkeley Square, Lady Y/N sat in front of her vanity as her mother’s voice droned on behind her.

“The season has only just begun, and already, you have received invitations from Lord Pembroke, Viscount Sterling, and even that dreadful Marquess of Dorset.” Her mother sighed as she adjusted a pearl bracelet around her wrist. “Darling, you could secure an engagement before summer if you played your cards right.”

Y/N met her own gaze in the mirror, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She knew her mother meant well—after all, Y/N was not the daughter of a duke or an earl. Her family was highly respected but untitled, which meant she would need to marry well to maintain her position among the ton.

But none of that mattered to her.

She wanted something… more.

Not just a good match, not just a wealthy husband who could offer security. She wanted a marriage built on something far rarer—true companionship. Love.

“I will not marry a man simply because he offers,” Y/N said smoothly, applying a hint of rose balm to her lips.

Her mother huffed. “Then at least try to look interested, my dear.”

Y/N sighed, turning away from the mirror. “And what if I do not find anyone who interests me?”

Her mother paused, something wistful passing over her expression before she pressed a kiss to Y/N’s temple. “Then I suppose we shall pray that someone does.”

By the time the Queen’s Garden Party arrived, the entire ton was abuzz with excitement.

The event was one of the most exclusive gatherings of the year—only the most distinguished families received invitations, and for the unmarried ladies, it was another opportunity to secure the attention of a suitor.

Y/N had attended in previous years, and each time, she had found herself bored beyond reason. This time was no different. She had barely arrived before Lord Pembroke—a well-mannered but utterly uninspiring gentleman—sought her company.

“My lady,” he said smoothly, bowing before her. “Might I say, the sunlight does you a great favor today.”

Y/N smiled politely. “How kind of you to say, my lord.”

She allowed him to make conversation for a few minutes, nodding where appropriate, but her mind drifted. The gardens were in full bloom, a sea of soft pinks and lavenders stretching beneath the grand terraces. She longed for a moment of peace—a reprieve from the exhausting expectations of courtship.

At last, she excused herself, stepping away from the crowd and toward the sprawling rose garden.

The scent of fresh blooms filled the air, and for the first time that day, she breathed freely.

She was so lost in thought, admiring the deep red petals of a climbing rose, that she did not notice the figure approaching beside her.

“Do you often steal moments away from the crowd, or am I simply fortunate today?”

A voice. Smooth, rich, amused.

She turned—and found herself staring into the striking green eyes of none other than Prince Harry himself.

For a moment, Y/N simply stared.

It was one thing to hear about the prince—to see him from across a crowded ballroom or to catch a fleeting glimpse of him in the royal box at the opera. But standing before him now, his gaze fixed directly upon her, was an entirely different matter.

Prince Harry was striking, yes, but not in the way one would expect of royalty. His golden curls were slightly tousled, as if he had run a hand through them moments ago. His sharp jawline bore the hint of stubble—unusual for a man so closely observed by society. And his eyes, impossibly green, held something unreadable beneath their surface.

She should have curtsied immediately. She should have lowered her gaze and uttered the expected greeting, Your Highness, with the soft, lilting voice of a proper lady.

Instead—

“Goodness, are you always this quiet, or have I finally stunned someone into silence?” he teased, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Y/N blinked, suddenly realizing she had, in fact, been staring at the prince for far too long.

Oh. Oh no.

A rush of mortification burned up her neck, but she refused to crumble. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I was merely attempting to determine if you are real,” she replied smoothly. “After all, Your Highness is spoken of so often, I half expected you to be a myth.”

Harry’s brows lifted slightly. It was not the response he had anticipated.

Most ladies stammered before him. They blushed. They simpered. They certainly did not suggest that he was a figment of the imagination.

“I can assure you, I am quite real,” he said, amusement flickering in his gaze.

She hummed, tilting her head slightly. “A shame.”

His smirk deepened. “A shame?”

“Yes,” she mused, turning her attention back to the roses. “If you were a myth, people might have been more creative. A prince with emerald eyes who sweeps unsuspecting ladies off their feet in a rose garden—now that would be a far more interesting tale.”

Harry found himself completely thrown.

Who was this woman?

He knew of Lady Y/N, of course. She had made a name for herself this season—not for being the most beautiful or the most accomplished, but for being different. She lacked the careful precision of other ladies. Where they moved with effortless grace, she was known to take a misstep or two in the middle of a dance. Where they fluttered their lashes and demurred, she spoke with unfiltered honesty, often leaving even the most polished gentlemen scrambling for a reply.

She was not the sort of woman the Queen would approve of.

And yet…

“Perhaps I should take offense,” Harry said after a beat. “Do you mean to say you are disappointed by my existence?”

Y/N turned to face him once more, a teasing glint in her eye. “Not at all. I am only saying that if you are to exist, Your Highness, you might at least try to live up to your legend.”

Harry let out a soft chuckle. He had met countless women this season, all of whom had been eager to prove their worth as his potential bride. But none had challenged him.

Not like this.

Before he could respond, a sharp voice cut through the air.

“Lady Y/N!”

Her mother.

Y/N winced internally before stepping back, quickly gathering herself. “It seems my mother has caught me wandering again.” She glanced at him, her lips curving in something dangerously close to a smirk. “Try not to disappear back into myth before the next ball, Your Highness.”

And with that, she turned on her heel, walking briskly toward the crowd.

Harry watched her go, hands clasped behind his back.

He had been thoroughly unimpressed with this season’s offerings. But Lady Y/N…

She had just become very interesting.

If there was one thing Lady Y/N knew how to do, it was cause her mother distress.

“You were speaking to the prince? Alone?” Lady Hathaway’s voice was nothing short of scandalized as they walked through the grand halls of the palace. “Do you have any idea what people would say if they had seen you?”

Y/N sighed, lifting her skirts just slightly to avoid stepping on them—she had already tripped once today, much to the amusement of the Duke of Kent. “It was hardly alone, Mama. There were at least a dozen people within earshot.”

“That is beside the point! The prince!” Lady Hathaway pressed a gloved hand to her forehead, as if physically pained by the thought. “And what did you say to him? You were not… yourself, were you?”

Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I can assure you, I did not burst into song or challenge him to a duel, if that is what you mean.”

Lady Hathaway made a strangled noise, clearly unconvinced. “You must take this season seriously, Y/N. You have already dismissed three perfectly suitable gentlemen. We do not have the luxury of being selective.”

Her mother had said this often in the past weeks. And, to an extent, Y/N understood. She was not from a titled family. She had no grand inheritance to her name. If she wished to secure a respectable future, she needed to marry well.

But good heavens, must she marry boring?

Lord Carrington had been dull as a butter knife. Lord Pembroke had spoken only of his hunting dogs. And Lord Danforth, while handsome, had once taken twenty full minutes to recount his journey to the countryside in excruciating detail.

Not one of them had made her feel.

Not like—

She shook the thought away before it could fully form.

Prince Harry was not an option.

She knew that.

Two nights later, at the grand ball hosted by the Duchess of Ashford, Y/N was beginning to suspect she was being watched.

She had felt it all evening—the weight of a gaze, lingering on her longer than it should. But each time she turned, the ballroom was filled with so many people, so much movement, that she could not be certain.

It was only when she paused near a marble pillar, fanning herself lightly, that she found her answer.

Prince Harry.

He stood across the ballroom, half-concealed behind a gathering of lords and ladies, his expression unreadable. But he was watching her. Still.

Her stomach gave an odd little flip.

No.

Absolutely not.

She had already spent far too much time thinking about him since the garden party—about the way his voice had curled around his words, the smirk he had barely concealed.

This would not do.

Determined to put some distance between herself and the thoughts she should not be having, she turned abruptly—only to walk directly into a passing footman.

A gasp tore from her lips as the tray he carried tipped, a full glass of champagne tipping straight onto the front of her gown.

“Oh!”

“Oh dear—my lady, I—” The footman paled.

Y/N had a second to mourn the beautiful silk before she burst into laughter.

The poor man looked so terrified.

“Do not look so stricken,” she assured him with a grin. “It is only a dress, not a war crime.”

Several heads turned in their direction at the commotion—including, unfortunately, her mother’s. Lady Hathaway looked horrified, a hand pressed to her chest as if she might faint right there.

And across the ballroom—

Prince Harry was smiling.

Not the polite, practiced smile of a prince. But a real, unguarded one.

The kind that sent something dangerous through her veins.

Oh no.

This was bad.

The carriage ride home was excruciating.

Lady Hathaway had not spoken a word since they left the ball—her lips pressed so tightly together it seemed as though she was physically restraining herself from unleashing her thoughts. Y/N had almost begun to think she might be spared.

She was wrong.

The moment they stepped into the grand foyer of their home, the doors barely shut behind them, her mother exploded.

"Do you take pleasure in humiliating me, Y/N?"

Y/N sighed, carefully unfastening her gloves. "Mother, it was an accident."

"An accident?" Lady Hathaway's voice rose to an octave only reserved for absolute catastrophes. "Spilling champagne down the front of your gown? Laughing—laughing!—as if you were in a tavern instead of a ballroom filled with the most distinguished families in England? And in full view of the prince!"

At that, Y/N straightened. "Ah, so that is the real concern."

Lady Hathaway looked positively livid. "You do not wish to be the subject of his scrutiny. It is one thing to catch a gentleman’s eye, but his? You are a novelty to him, Y/N, a source of amusement—"

"That is quite an assumption," Y/N interrupted, crossing her arms. "And perhaps he simply enjoys a lady who does not take herself so seriously."

Her mother inhaled sharply, as if she had been personally insulted. "You are impossible."

Y/N only shrugged. "I prefer unpredictable."

Lady Hathaway pinched the bridge of her nose, her patience clearly unraveling. "Do you think this is a game? We do not have the luxury of scandal, nor the connections to recover from it."

That made Y/N’s stomach twist.

She knew her mother only wanted the best for her—security, respectability, a match that would guarantee her a good life.

But was that enough?

Before she could formulate a response, there was a sudden, sharp knock at the front door.

Both women turned.

One of the servants hurried forward, hesitated only a moment, then opened it—revealing a tall, uniformed man standing rigidly at the entrance.

A royal guard.

Lady Hathaway let out a gasp.

Y/N merely blinked.

"Lady Y/N," the guard spoke with crisp precision, bowing slightly. "His Royal Highness, Prince Harry, requests your company for a promenade tomorrow morning in Hyde Park."

A stunned silence followed.

Y/N’s heart stuttered in her chest.

Her mother looked as though she might faint. "The prince—"

"Yes, my lady." The guard dipped his head. "I am to escort Lady Y/N at precisely ten o’clock."

Another silence.

Y/N swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "I—"

Her mother grabbed her wrist, fingers tightening like a vice.

"She would be delighted," Lady Hathaway declared, a desperate sort of enthusiasm in her voice. "It is an honor."

The guard nodded. "Very well. I shall return at the designated time."

With that, he turned sharply on his heel and strode back toward the carriage waiting at the curb, disappearing into the night.

The moment the door shut, Lady Hathaway spun on her daughter.

"You will not ruin this."

Y/N barely heard her.

Prince Harry had invited her to a promenade.

In the daylight.

In public.

This was not just amusement. Not a passing curiosity.

This was something else.

Something dangerous.

And for the first time in her life, she was not entirely sure if she wanted to run from it… or straight toward it.

The fire crackled softly in Prince Harry’s study, casting flickering golden light over the grand room. He stood near the towering window, one hand clasped behind his back, the other tracing idly along the rim of his glass. He had barely taken a sip.

His mind was elsewhere.

On her.

Y/N Hathaway.

A woman unlike any he had ever encountered within the rigid circles of court. She was not the wealthiest, nor the most highly ranked, yet she carried herself with a quiet confidence that drew him in.

She was unpredictable.

She did not fawn over him, nor did she shrink in his presence. She had looked him in the eye, unbothered by his status, and had laughed—an act that should have been insignificant, but to him, it was utterly disarming.

And now, he had extended an invitation.

Would she accept?

Harry exhaled, tilting his head slightly as he gazed out at the palace grounds, watching as the royal carriage departed toward the Hathaway residence.

He was not nervous.

Princes did not get nervous.

And yet, the thought of her refusing—of her treating his interest as nothing more than a fleeting amusement—made something tighten in his chest.

A sharp knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He straightened.

"Enter."

The door swung open, and his royal guard stepped inside, bowing deeply. "Your Highness."

Harry turned fully, his expression neutral, though his fingers clenched briefly at his side. "What news?"

The guard lifted his head. "Lady Y/N has accepted your invitation, Your Highness. I am to escort her to Hyde Park at precisely ten o’clock tomorrow morning."

For a brief moment, a flicker of something rare passed through Harry’s expression—relief.

"Very good," he murmured, inclining his head in gratitude. "You may go."

The guard bowed once more before excusing himself, slipping out of the study with precise, measured steps.

But before the door could fully close—

Another voice entered the room.

"You are smiling."

Harry did not turn. "Am I?"

"Indeed," the Queen mused as she stepped into the study, her gown sweeping elegantly across the polished floor. "Which I find most curious, considering I have just overheard that your planned engagement tomorrow is not with a foreign princess or a titled lady of the court, but rather the Hathaway girl."

At that, Harry finally turned, his features composed. "You disapprove?"

His mother regarded him carefully, her hands clasped in front of her. "She has no title, no grand fortune. Surely, you know that is not a match the court will accept."

Harry said nothing.

He merely smiled.

A small, knowing, maddening smile.

The Queen exhaled, shaking her head. "You are impossible."

Still, her gaze softened—just slightly.

For all her concerns, there was a warmth in her eyes, an unspoken fondness as she studied her son.

He was his father’s son, through and through.

And if there was one thing she had learned long ago… it was that Harry had inherited his father’s heart.

And once it was set on something—on someone—no force in the world could sway him.

Not even the crown.