Majesty

by Katharine McGee

Eventually the king and queen had given up, and let Sam run wild. She was simply too much effort to teach.

  “With Her Majesty’s upcoming wedding, your family will be under more scrutiny than ever before.” Robert tilted his head, considering her. “You’ll need an escort, of course, as the maid of honor. I’ll find someone suitable.”

  “What?” Robert wanted to pick out her wedding date?

  His eyebrows rose. “I’m sorry, did you have someone in mind? I wasn’t aware that you were seeing anyone.”

  Sam thought of Teddy, and her jaw hardened. She tilted her head up defiantly. “I don’t need a date. I’m perfectly happy to go to Beatrice’s wedding alone.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s out of the question. You’ll need to help lead the opening dance.” Robert made an expression that was probably meant to be a smile, though it resembled a grimace. He began organizing papers on his desk, arranging their stacks into careful right angles. “I’m afraid we have to conclude today’s meeting. I really wish we’d had more time, but since you were nineteen minutes late, we’ll have to pick back up on Thursday.”

  “You want to meet again?”

  “It’s crucial that we begin meeting several times a week. We have a great deal of material to cover.”

  Sam felt her own anger rising to meet his. “You should know that you’re wasting your time.”

  “Because you refuse to cooperate?”

  Of course Robert assumed she was the problem. He didn’t know what it was like growing up in a sister’s shadow—fighting for years to be taken seriously, only to realize that fighting would never get her anywhere.

  The nation had never wanted to like Sam. Wasn’t there an old saying, that nothing drew people together like a common enemy? Well, if Americans could agree on one thing, it was their disapproval of Princess Samantha.

  “It doesn’t matter how hard we try,” she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. “I’m the least popular member of my family. America has never cared what I do. They aren’t about to start now.”

  She marched out of Robert’s office before he could answer, letting the door click shut behind her.

  As Sam turned down the hallway, she fumbled in her pocket for her phone. She started to call Nina, to see if they could meet up later—but a familiar voice emanated from the palace’s two-story entryway, halting her in her tracks.

  Standing at the foot of the curved staircase was Lord Marshall Davis. He was gesticulating wildly as he argued with a footman. And he was wearing full ceremonial dress.

  “Marshall? What are you doing here?” Sam hadn’t known when she would see him again, after they said goodbye at the end of the museum party.

  He looked up in evident relief. “Samantha! I came to see you, actually. I need my lapel pin back.”

  Sam flushed as she remembered the proprietary way she’d grabbed that pin, fastening it to her dress before dragging Marshall into the party. It had all been impulsive, fueled by obstinate pride and that bottle of wine. Think before you act, Sam, her father always used to say. But Sam had a tendency to act first, leaving the thoughts—or, often, regrets—for later.

  She braced her palms on the stair railing and leaned forward, trying to sound nonchalant. “You didn’t think to text?”

  “You never gave me your number.” Marshall started up the stairs, taking them two at a time, the same way Sam did.

  He was wearing the peers’ ceremonial robes: crimson wool trimmed in gold lace, complete with a cloak that tied at the throat with a white satin ribbon. They looked absurd on him. The robes had been designed centuries ago, back when the leaders of most duchies had been old white men. Marshall was so tall and imposing that he made the outfit look ludicrously like a Halloween costume.

  “I can’t believe you came here on your way to…where are you going?”

  “Swearing-in of the new Chief Justice.” He glanced down ruefully at his robes. “Believe it or not, I only just realized the pin was missing.”

  “Don’t you have an extra?”

  “Did you lose it?” Marshall sighed. “I’ve lost it too. I wore it on a dare, once, and it fell out on the streets of Vegas. It actually wasn’t at the casino, but at the In-N-Out we stopped at when—”

  Sam cut him off with a groan. “Chill out, okay? I have your jewelry.”

  Marshall didn’t rise to the bait. He just smiled and said, “Where is it?”

  “In my room.”

  To her surprise, he followed her down the hall, his red velvet cloak streaming out behind him. Historical portraits glared at them from the walls: statesmen with powdered wigs and pointed beards, women in pearl necklaces layered six strands deep. Marshall’s outfit wouldn’t have looked out of place inside one of the paintings.

  Sam wondered what he was wearing underneath the robes. She glanced over at the broad expanse of his chest with an idle spark of curiosity.

  Marshall’s eyes met hers. Aware that he’d caught her staring, she hurried to ask a question. “Why are you the one here representing Orange? Isn’t your grandfather the active duke?”

  Most peers looked forward to ceremonial occasions like this. It was one of the few chances they had to put on these dusty old robes—and stare down their noses at all the commoners who didn’t have the right to wear them.

  “He’s been sending me as his proxy a lot lately. He says he hates the cross-country flight. Not that I actually do anything,” Marshall added under his breath.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Even when the dukes are all assembled, I’m only there to help fill out the room. I can’t actually speak or vote. Being a proxy literally means that I’m a body filling a seat—a very good-looking body, obviously.” He flashed his usual cocky smile, but Sam sensed that his heart wasn’t in it. She surprised herself by answering with a truth of her own.

  “I know the feeling. No one ever wants me to be anything but a body—a smiling, waving, tiara-wearing body.”

  “Would it help if I said you look great in a tiara?” Marshall offered, and Sam rolled her eyes.

  “The tiara isn’t the problem. It’s the rest of it that I can’t stand.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I’m not the smiling-and-waving type either.”

  “But at least you have a purpose! You’ll get to rule someday!”

  He seemed surprised by her reply. “In forty years, maybe. For now, there’s nothing for me to do except sit around and wait.”

  “Welcome to life as the spare. It’s a job full of nothing,” Sam said drily.

  “You, doing nothing? I find that hard to believe.” Marshall’s mouth twitched. “Just think of all the buildings you haven’t yet kicked.”

  “Look, can you please forget about that?”

  Sam hated that Marshall had caught her in that moment. She felt more exposed, somehow, than if he’d seen her naked.

  “Absolutely not,” he said mercilessly. “The American princess taking out her frustrations on a national monument? It’s one of my most treasured memories.”

  “Then you’ll be next,” Sam warned, and he laughed.

  As she pushed open the door, she saw Marshall cast a few curious glances around her sitting room. Unlike the rest of the palace, Sam’s suite was an eclectic clash of styles and colors. Brightly colored rugs were strewn over the floor at odd angles. Against one wall, an ornate grandfather clock—which Sam’s ancestor Queen Tatiana had brought from Russia, its hours marked with gorgeous Cyrillic numerals—stood next to a table that was hand-painted in bright green turtles.

  Sam headed to her desk and pulled out the top drawer. An assortment of objects clattered inside: old lipsticks, earring backs, a pearl button that had fallen off her leather gloves. At the center of all the disorder was the enamel bear pin.

  “See? I told you I hadn’t lost it!”

 
She reached for the fabric of his robes. Surprise flickered in Marshall’s eyes, and she realized belatedly that he hadn’t expected her to pin it on him.

  Sam’s hand fell abruptly from his chest.

  “Here, let me.” Marshall reached to hook the pin in place. It was made to be worn like this, Sam realized: not pinned against the drab backdrop of a suit, but atop the scarlet robes, where it gleamed like liquid gold.

  She took a step back, struck by the immediate physicality of Marshall’s presence. He no longer looked ridiculous in the robes at all. If anything, the other peers would look ridiculous next to him.

  “So, did it work?” she asked, recalling why she’d taken the pin in the first place. “Did we make Kelsey jealous?”

  “I don’t know. Haven’t heard from her.” Marshall shrugged. “What about you and your mystery guy?”

  “He saw us,” she said evasively.

  When she’d walked into the reception hall arm in arm with Marshall, Sam hadn’t dared look over at Teddy. But she felt certain he’d seen them together. Everyone at that party had seen them, because she and Marshall were, if nothing else, gossip-worthy. And they’d been making a bit of a scene.

  Thinking of it gave her a rush of hot, vindictive pleasure that quickly evaporated.

  Teddy was going to marry her sister. And no matter what Sam did, there was no way she could hurt him worse than he’d hurt her.

  “Thanks, Samantha. I’ll see you around,” Marshall said cheerfully, and started toward the door.

  Sam swallowed, remembering what Robert had said: that protocol demanded she bring someone to the wedding.

  “Marshall. What if we kept going?”

  He glanced back at her, caught between curiosity and confusion. Sam hurried to explain. “I have to bring an escort to Beatrice’s wedding. It could be you.”

  His brow furrowed. “You want me to be your date to your sister’s wedding?”

  “Why not? You already have the outfit, after all.”

  Again Sam had that disconcerting sense that Marshall could see right through her.

  “This is still about that guy, isn’t it? You think bringing me to your sister’s wedding will make him jealous?”

  “Well…yes,” she admitted. “But it works both ways! Think of how upset Kelsey will be. She’ll definitely want you back.”

  “Because she’ll be upset that I’m dating someone more famous than she is?”

  “Because girls always want what they can’t have,” Sam retorted, and bit her lip.

  That wasn’t the reason she liked Teddy, was it? She wanted him because she cared about him, not because he was off-limits.

  Yet a small, terrible part of her wondered if that had been part of his appeal. After all, Teddy was the only thing of Beatrice’s that Sam had ever managed to take for herself. Even if it hadn’t lasted.

  “I’m dreading this wedding,” she went on, glancing back up at Marshall. “It’s everything I hate: protocol and ceremony and stuffy old traditions, all rolled up into one massive event. Like always, I’ll be scrutinized and criticized no matter what I do. And like always, nothing I do will really matter at all.”

  She heaved a breath. “I understand if you don’t want to get involved. It’s just—it would be nice, to go through all this with someone I can actually stand.”

  “Someone you can actually stand,” he repeated, an eyebrow lifted. “When you give me such glowing compliments, how could I refuse?”

  “Sorry, did I bruise your precious masculine ego?” Sam scoffed. “Look, Marshall, you and I want the same thing—for our exes to realize they made a mistake. That won’t happen unless they pay attention to us. And if there’s one thing we’re both good at, it’s attracting attention.”

  Marshall had a reputation, and she had a reputation, and in her experience, gossip always added up to something greater than the sum of its parts. The two of them together were far more buzzworthy than anything they could do on their own.

  “You’re not just asking me to be your wedding date, are you,” Marshall said slowly. “You want to really sell this. Make everyone think I’m your boyfriend.”

  “Hollywood celebrities manipulate the press like this all the time,” Sam insisted, though she wasn’t actually sure it was true.

  “What’s your plan, exactly? We hold a press conference, tell everyone we’re dating? Become Samarshall?”

  “Or Marshantha. I can be the second half,” Sam replied, without missing a beat. She was relieved when Marshall laughed at that. “And there’s no need for a press conference. We can just attend a few events together, let the paparazzi catch us holding hands, get people talking about us. By the time we go to the wedding, Kelsey will be begging you to get back together!” And Teddy will regret ever letting me go, she thought acridly.

  “You may be right…but I’m not sure it’s worth the beating I’d get from the press,” Marshall said, his eyes fixed on hers. “Whenever someone in the royal family dates a person of color, things get ugly. Remember how people reacted when your aunt Margaret dated the Nigerian prince? And he was a future king. Not to mention what they did to Nina when she dated your brother,” he reminded her. “If people think we’re dating, I’m the one who’s going to take the heat for it, not you. That’s just the way things are.”

  Sam’s stomach twisted. When she’d suggested this plan to Marshall, she hadn’t been thinking about his race at all. She’d just thought that Marshall was famous—or rather, infamous. And it hadn’t hurt that he was tall and objectively good-looking. Perfect revenge-dating material.

  She’d been with lots of guys before, and plenty of them hadn’t been white, but she’d been able to keep most of her romantic entanglements from the media—probably because they never lasted beyond a single weekend. This was the first time she’d be dating someone so publicly. Now, as she recalled the anguish Nina had gone through when she was with Jeff—the paparazzi hounding her family, the hateful online comments—Sam realized what she was asking of Marshall.

  She nodded, feeling slightly ashamed. “I’m sorry. Of course, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I’m sure you can find someone else who’d be interested in your…offer,” Marshall replied.

  “Please, just forget I ever—”

  “Then again, I’m not sure I want you to find someone else.”

  Sam looked up. There was a fleeting glimpse of emotion on Marshall’s features, but it quickly vanished beneath his usual careless smile.

  “Are you saying that you’re okay with this?” she pressed. “Even if it puts you under the microscope?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? I’ve never dated a princess before. For real or for revenge. Or for…well, whatever this is.”

  Sam held out a hand. “So…we have a deal?”

  Marshall eyed the gesture with amusement. “Oh, no need to shake on it. I trust you, Sam. I can call you Sam, right?” he added cheekily. “Or would you prefer something else? Babe, or sweetheart, or what about Sammie?”

  Sam made a choking noise. “Under no circumstances can you use any of those names.”

  Marshall grinned, flipping his cape out behind him like a character in an old-fashioned play. “Okay, then. See you later, honeycakes.”

  Sam grabbed a pillow from her couch and hurled it at his head, but he’d already shut the door behind him.

  Beatrice hurried down the front steps of the palace, her Guard at her heels. “Sorry,” she exclaimed when she saw Teddy at the front drive, standing next to a red SUV. “I didn’t mean to be late for our meeting.”

  His mouth quirked at the corner. “Beatrice, this isn’t a meeting. I asked Robert to block some time on your calendar because I wanted to hang out.”

  “Oh—okay,” Beatrice breathed. She hadn’t just hung out with someone—no agenda, no stated purpose—since college, unless you
counted all the hours she’d spent with Connor.

  “No worries.” Teddy walked up to the passenger side and held open the door. He clearly planned on driving her himself.

  To Beatrice’s surprise, her protection officer frowned but merely said, “I’ll tail you guys.”

  Beatrice slid into the passenger seat and buckled her seat belt over her floral silk dress. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten to sit in the front of a car.

  “Are you hungry?” Teddy asked, as he pulled out of the palace’s main drive. “I was thinking we could go to Spruce. You love their kale salad, right?”

  Actually, Beatrice had never liked Spruce. It was too loud, full of media people and models all vying to be noticed. The last time she’d been there was for an interview she’d done last summer.

  “Wait a second,” she said, as comprehension dawned. “Did you read my profile piece in Metropolitan magazine? Were you studying up on me?”

  Teddy flushed, his eyes fixed on the road. “I don’t usually plan a date without doing a little recon.”

  There was a funny silence as they both realized he’d used the word date.

  “For the record, I only ordered the kale salad that day because I couldn’t get a burger,” Beatrice went on.

  “Why not?”

  “A burger isn’t interview food. Too messy,” she said regretfully.

  Teddy glanced over, his eyes bright. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s burgers. But we’re not getting you the one at Spruce. I mean, they put brie on it.”

  “What an abomination,” Beatrice agreed, smiling.

  Teddy chuckled and turned up the music, some indie rock band that Beatrice didn’t recognize. “I’m so glad you see sense.”

  It wasn’t until she saw the bright lights of the drive-through that she realized Teddy was taking her to Burger Haus.

  “I grew up on these,” he admitted, before pulling up to the intercom and ordering two cheeseburgers. Beatrice was amazed by the efficiency of the system. Seeing her expression, Teddy chuckled.

  “Beatrice. Have you ever eaten fast food?”