“Georgiana! The point of this exercise is to lift your skirts so that you don’t trip, not treat the entire world to the sight of your twat. Try for a little decorum, will you?” Sure, wart face. At eighteen, Georgiana was forced to admit that she was a bloody failure in most of the formal “Princess” classes. Truth was, she hated every fucking one of ‘em. She’d pulled a D+ in Curtseying, barely passing by the skin of her teeth and with knees that were bruised continually during finals week. Waving and Smiling (from moving carriages and stationary balconies - practical demonstration required) hadn’t gone much better, but she’d managed a B minus because the instructor had liked her hair and she’d shared her shampoo tips. But this course, Swanning and Swooping Around in Formal Couture, might well be beyond her. For the sad truth was that Princess Georgiana, the thirteenth daughter of the King, was a tomboy at heart and would rather be out in the fields practicing with a sword or her archery set.
