Majesty

by Katharine McGee

  At some point Sam had taken a step forward, closing the distance between them, so they were now standing mere inches apart, their breathing ragged.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Teddy said gently, and the red-hot anger pounding through her veins quieted a little.

  “You’re really doing it,” she whispered. “You’re choosing Beatrice.” The way everyone always did.

  “I’m choosing to do the right thing.” Teddy met her gaze, silently pleading with her for understanding, for forgiveness.

  He wasn’t about to get either. Not from her.

  “Well then. I hope the right thing makes you happy,” she said caustically.

  “Sam—”

  “You and Beatrice are making a huge mistake. But you know what? I don’t care. It’s not my problem anymore,” she added, in such a cruel tone that she almost believed her own words. “If you two want to ruin your lives, I can’t do anything to stop you.”

  Pain flickered over Teddy’s face. “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry.”

  “It’s worth nothing.” She didn’t want Teddy’s apologies; she wanted him. And like everything else she’d ever wanted, she couldn’t have him, because Beatrice had laid claim to him first.

  She whirled around and stalked back toward the party, grabbing a mint julep from a passing tray. At least now that she was eighteen, she could legally drink at these events instead of sneaking away from the photographers to chug a beer.

  Sam squinted, scanning the crowds in search of Nina or Jeff. The sun felt suddenly overbright, or maybe it just seemed that way through the haze of her tears. For once, she wished she’d done as her mom asked and worn a hat, if only to hide her face. Everything had begun spinning wildly around her.

  Hardly knowing where she was going, she wandered down to the riverbank, where she sank onto the ground and kicked off her shoes.

  She didn’t care that she was getting grass stains all over her couture dress, that people would see her there, alone and barefoot, and gossip. The party princess is back, they would mutter, already drunk, at her first public outing since her father’s death. Fine, she thought bitterly. Let them talk.

  The water lapped softly among the reeds. Sam kept her eyes fixed furiously on its surface so she wouldn’t have to see Teddy and Beatrice together. But it didn’t stop her from feeling like a stray puzzle piece that had gotten lost in the wrong box—like she didn’t fit anywhere, or with anyone.

  “Here you are,” Nina said, coming to sit next to Sam.

  For a while the two of them just watched the boats in silence. Their oars were a blur of water and fractured light.

  “Sorry,” Sam mumbled. “I just…I needed to get away.”

  Nina pulled her legs up, playing with the fabric of her long jersey dress. “I know the feeling. I actually just talked to Jeff.”

  Sam sucked in a breath, glad to be distracted from her own problems. “How did it go?” she asked, and Nina shrugged.

  “It was awkward.”

  Sam glanced over, but Nina plucked a blade of grass and began to tie it into a bow, avoiding her gaze. Maybe she’d noticed that Daphne Deighton was here, too.

  “He probably wants to try and be friends,” Sam ventured.

  “I don’t know how to be friends!” Nina reached up to fiddle with her ponytail, then seemed to remember her hair was shorter now. Her hand fell uselessly to her side. “I’ll obviously keep running into him, since he’s your brother, but I can’t pretend that nothing ever happened between us. It’s not normal to have to keep seeing someone after you’ve broken up with them! Is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Sam had never really been through a normal breakup, because she’d never had anything resembling a normal relationship. She let out a breath. “But I guess I’m about to find out. I just saw Teddy.”

  Her voice raw, Sam explained what he’d told her: that he and Beatrice were going through with the wedding.

  “Oh, Sam,” Nina said softly when Sam had finished. “I’m so sorry.”

  Sam nodded and tipped her head onto Nina’s shoulder. No matter what happened, she thought, she would always be able to do this—to close her eyes and lean on her best friend.

  When Beatrice stepped into her father’s office, she saw that nothing had been touched since he died.

  All his things were in their usual places on his desk: his monogrammed stationery; a ceremonial gold fountain pen; the Great Seal and its wax melter, which resembled a hot glue gun but emitted liquid red wax instead. It looked for all the world like her dad had just stepped out and might return again at any moment.

  If only that were true.

  Beatrice had thought she was used to being the focal point of everyone’s attention. But she hadn’t realized how much worse it would get once she became queen. It wasn’t fair that she’d been granted just six weeks to process the loss of her dad, only to be shoved back into the national spotlight. But what choice did she have? The mourning period was officially over, the endless carousel of court functions swinging back into motion. Already Beatrice’s schedule was packed with events: benefits, charity appearances, even an upcoming gala at the museum.

  And she wasn’t ready. Yesterday at the races, when the national anthem had played, she’d automatically opened her mouth to join in, only to remember belatedly that she couldn’t sing it anymore. Not when the song was directed at her.

  Her position always left her feeling this way—that she was most alone when she was most surrounded by people.

  At the creaking sound of footsteps, her head shot up.

  “Sorry.” Connor winced as the floor once again groaned beneath his feet. That was the thing about living in a palace; two-hundred-year-old floorboards did not keep secrets.

  He closed the door and leaned against it. “I just…I wanted to check on you.”

  Guilt twisted in Beatrice’s stomach. She’d been avoiding Connor—or at least, avoided being alone with him, since he was always nearby: hovering in the wings of her life while she occupied center stage.

  He still didn’t know that she and Teddy were really getting married. She needed to tell him, and soon; the palace was planning to announce the wedding date later this week. But every time she started to bring it up, she found herself dodging the subject like an utter coward.

  “I’m just tired,” she murmured, which was true: she still wasn’t getting much sleep.

  “Don’t do that. You don’t need to be strong with me, remember?” Connor crossed the distance between them and gathered her into his arms, pulling her close.

  For a moment Beatrice let herself relax into the embrace. Somehow she always forgot how much taller he was until they stood like this, her face nestled into the hollow at the center of his chest.

  “I’m here for whatever you need,” Connor said into her hair. “You don’t have to be the queen around me, you know. You can just be you.”

  “I know.” It was easy for Beatrice to be herself around him, and maybe that was the problem. Maybe with Connor she was too much of herself, and not enough of a queen.

  She twisted out of his embrace, her eyes lifting to meet his. “Connor—there’s something I need to tell you.”

  He nodded, clearly alerted by her change in tone. “All right.”

  The entire world seemed to fall still. Beatrice was suddenly aware of every detail—the feel of her silk blouse over her collarbones, the dust motes slanting in the hard afternoon light, the devotion in Connor’s eyes.

  He wouldn’t look at her like that again, not once he found out what she’d agreed to. Beatrice took a deep breath, and let the truth fall painfully into the silence.

  “Teddy and I are getting married in June.”

  “You—what?”

  “The engagement isn’t just for show. It’s…we’re really going through with it.”


  Connor recoiled. “I don’t understand. The night of the engagement party, you two agreed that you would call off the wedding as soon as it was appropriate. What happened?”

  My father died, and it’s all my fault.

  “I’m queen now, Connor.” The words seemed to strangle Beatrice as they floated up out of her lungs. “It changes things.”

  “Exactly! Now you can change things, for the better!”

  Hearing that excitement, his belief in her, nearly undid her. “It’s not that simple. Just because I’m queen doesn’t mean that I can rewrite the rules.” If anything, she was more bound by the rules than ever before.

  Connor caught her hands in his. “I love you, and I know that we can figure this out. Unless…unless your feelings have changed.”

  Tears stung Beatrice’s eyes. “You want me to say it? Fine, I’ll say it! I love you!” she burst out, so viciously that she might have just as easily been saying I hate you. “But that isn’t enough, Connor!”

  “Of course it’s enough!”

  He spoke with such conviction, as if the truth of his words was self-evident. As if loving her was as simple and uncomplicated as the fact that the sun rose in the east and set in the west.

  But their relationship had never been simple. From the very beginning they’d been sneaking around, living on scattered moments together: the secret brush of Connor’s hand over her back as she slid into a car, their eyes meeting in a crowded room and lingering a beat too long. The late nights when he slipped into her bedroom, only to leave before dawn.

  Even now, no one knew about them except Samantha, and Sam had no idea who Connor was, only that Beatrice loved someone who wasn’t Teddy.

  For months, Beatrice had told herself that those stolen moments added up to something worth protecting. But she knew now that they weren’t enough.

  She thought with a dull pang of what her father had said the night she told him that she loved her Guard. That if she pulled Connor into this royal life, he would eventually come to hate her for it—and, worse, he would come to hate himself.

  There was a cold wind coming off the river; Beatrice had to stop herself from going to shut the window. “This obviously wasn’t an easy decision. But it’s what’s best. For both of us.”

  “Why are you the one deciding what’s best for both of us?” Connor said roughly. “When you’re making choices about our future, I want a damn vote!”

  Before she could answer, he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her.

  There was nothing gentle or tender in the kiss. Connor’s body was crushed up against hers, his hands grasped hard over her back, as if he was terrified she might pull away. Beatrice rose on tiptoe, digging her fingers into his uniform.

  When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathing heavily. Beatrice’s hair fell in damp wisps around her face. She looked up and saw the quiet anguish in Connor’s eyes. He knew her well enough to know that she didn’t normally kiss like that—with such wild, desperate abandon.

  He understood that she’d been kissing him goodbye.

  “You really mean this, don’t you,” he breathed.

  “I do,” Beatrice told him. It struck her that those were the words of the wedding service, words that normally swore eternal love. And here she was, using them to tell Connor that he should leave her forever.

  His jaw was tight, but he managed a nod. Beatrice almost wished that he would shout, call her cruel names. Anger would have been so much easier to bear. Anything would have been easier than this: the knowledge that Connor was in pain, and she had caused it.

  “In that case, Your Majesty, please accept my resignation. I’ll be leaving your service. And this time, I won’t be coming back.”

  He paused as if waiting for her to protest, to beg him to stay, the way she had once before.

  Beatrice said nothing. She couldn’t ask Connor to remain here as her Guard while she married Teddy.

  If she asked it of him, he might say yes. And he deserved so much more than that.

  “I understand.” To her surprise, she spoke as if nothing was wrong, even though she hurt so much—deep inside her, in the hollow, lonely place she never let anyone see.

  Connor’s gaze met hers, as cool as a mountain lake under gray skies. “I’ll go inform the head of security.”

  Beatrice felt cold all over, yet she was sweating as if she’d come down with a fever. She watched, curiously immobile, as Connor turned back to cast one last glance over his shoulder.

  “Goodbye, Bee.”

  When he was gone, Beatrice made her way numbly around her father’s desk. She still wasn’t crying. She felt like a frost had settled over all her emotions and she would never feel anything again.

  She paused behind her father’s chair, her hands resting lightly on its back. She’d never sat in it before, not even when she and the twins used to sneak in here as kids, to steal lemon candies from the secret drawer and spin the enormous globe. For some unspoken reason, sitting at the king’s desk had felt as utterly off-limits, as sacrilegious, as climbing onto his throne.

  Slowly, Beatrice pulled out the chair and sat.

  “Mademoiselle Deighton.” The French ambassador sailed forward to greet her with an easy double kiss, one for each cheek. He was handsome, and a shameless flirt; the French never sent anyone who wasn’t.

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur.” She flashed him a brilliant smile, grateful for all her years of high school French.

  It felt like half of court had turned out for tonight’s event at the George and Alice Museum, or the G&A, as everyone called it. In celebration of Beatrice and Teddy’s engagement, the museum was opening a new exhibit titled ROYAL WEDDINGS THROUGH THE AGES.

  Daphne’s eyes cut across the room to where Jefferson stood with Samantha. He still hadn’t said hello. Aside from their brief exchange at the Royal Potomac Races, Daphne hadn’t really spoken to him since that day at the hospital—when she sat there with Jefferson, waiting for good news that had never come.

  The prince was grieving, Daphne reminded herself: he needed his space. Yet she couldn’t help worrying. What if he was no longer interested in her? Or, worse, what if he was getting back together with Nina?

  Unlike Daphne, Nina could show up at the palace whenever she wanted, ostensibly to see her best friend. But who could say whether all those visits were to see Samantha…or her brother?

  Daphne redoubled her efforts in the direction of the French ambassador: smiling her perfect smile, laughing her brightest laugh, being the most intoxicating, glittering version of herself.

  Delighted, the ambassador introduced her to several of his colleagues. Daphne heard the click of a photographer’s camera to her left. She sucked in her stomach but pretended she didn’t notice, because she didn’t want the moment to look staged.

  When people all over the capital opened the society pages tomorrow, this was the image they would see—the prince’s ex-girlfriend charming government officials with ease, just as a princess should.

  Sometimes Daphne felt that only at moments like this, when she was somewhere public, did she truly exist. That she wasn’t real unless someone else’s eyes were on her, unless she was being seen.

  Eventually she murmured her excuses and headed toward the bar. Her dress, a silk chiffon that shifted from burnished bronze at her shoulders to soft gold at the hem, billowed out behind her as she walked.

  Daphne ordered a soda water with lime, then deliberately arched her back and leaned her forearms onto the bar’s surface, turning to her most flattering three-quarter angle. She looked as if she didn’t have a care in the world, as if she were completely unaware of the party and its hundreds of influential guests.

  It was an old party trick of hers, from when she’d first started attending royal events. She would make sure everyone noticed her, then deftly extricate
herself from the group, making it easy for Jefferson to come find her alone. It worked every time.

  The prince inevitably wanted what everyone else wanted. That was just human nature, and it was especially true for royalty.

  At the sound of footsteps behind her, Daphne allowed herself a small, triumphant smile. He’d come faster than she’d expected.

  Slowly, sensually, she turned around—only to realize that Jefferson hadn’t come to find her. It was his best friend, Ethan Beckett.

  Daphne quickly blinked away her confusion. She hadn’t been this close to Ethan since the night of Beatrice’s engagement party.

  Or really, the morning after.

  “Hey, Ethan,” she said, as normally as she could manage.

  He leaned against the bar next to her. The cuffs of his blazer were folded back, revealing his strong, tanned wrists. “You seem to be having quite the night.”

  There was something sardonic in his tone, as if he knew precisely what lay behind her wild display of charm, and was amused by it.

  Daphne flicked a glance back at the dance floor, but she’d lost sight of Jefferson in the crowds. Where had he gone, and who was he with?

  She felt Ethan’s gaze on her and glanced back up. An idea began to take hold in Daphne’s mind, stubborn and burrlike: an idea so simple that it was either brilliant, or deeply foolish.

  “Ethan,” she asked sweetly, “can we talk?”

  “Am I mistaken, or isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

  “I meant alone.”

  Ethan stared at her for a moment, then held out an arm in a careless display of chivalry. “Sure.”

  “Thank you.” She had no choice but to place her hand over his sleeve. And there it was again, the way her whole body sparked to alertness at his touch.

  Daphne realized that even though she’d slept with Ethan—twice—they had never actually held hands. Her fingers itched to lace themselves in his, just to see what it felt like.

  She let go of Ethan’s arm as if it were burning.