Majesty

by Katharine McGee

  He smiled appreciatively. From somewhere in the vicinity, a bird called out a few notes of song, then fell silent. Sam kicked listlessly at the water.

  “Jeff and I used to come out here all the time when we were kids,” she went on, almost to herself. “We were always racing, or playing pirates, or whacking each other mercilessly with pool noodles.”

  She wasn’t sure when the competitive streak between her and Jeff had begun. Maybe it came from being a twin, feeling that she and her brother were always jostling for attention, for space. Or maybe because the entire world kept reminding her that she mattered so much less than Beatrice. Whatever the reason, Sam was constantly challenging Jeff to something—bungee jumping or a ski race, beer chugging or even their childhood games of Candyland.

  Marshall smiled. “My sister Rory used to make up these elaborate pool games that involved floating basketballs and relay races and more rules than anyone could keep track of. Sometimes I think she changed the rules mid-game just to ensure that she’d win.” His eyes lit on Sam. “You two would get along.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Sam agreed. “If I was playing pool games against a varsity swimmer, I would definitely cheat.”

  “I play water polo, actually. That’s where my broken nose came from.”

  She looked over at Marshall’s profile. His nose did have a slight bend, but in a serious, Roman way. “Your nose is distinguished,” she decided. “It has character.”

  “Try telling my family that. My mom must have tried a thousand times to get me to quit. She said water polo is the sport of hooligans.”

  “Has she seen ice hockey?” Sam quipped, and he barked out a laugh.

  The heavy spring darkness closed around them, the only illumination coming from the lights embedded in the sides of the pool. Sam’s toes, painted a bright watermelon pink, glowed beneath the surface of the water.

  “I don’t know why I thought you were a swimmer.” She cast him another sidelong glance, her voice ringing with amusement. “Didn’t you challenge the Duke of Sussex to a swim race in Vegas?”

  “It was the Duke of Cambridge, actually, and he challenged me.” Marshall’s eyes gleamed at the memory. “When the paparazzi got wind of it, his younger brother was the one who took the fall.”

  “That’s what the spare is for, isn’t it?” Somehow the question came out with less bitterness than usual.

  Marshall didn’t contradict her. “I guess the British didn’t want to hear about their future king betting on a late-night swim race, especially not against a notorious hedonist like me.”

  The words were cavalier, yet something in them made Sam wonder if Marshall was growing as tired of his party-boy image as she was of hers.

  “So, who won? I assume you upheld our national honor before the Brits?”

  His mouth tugged up at the corner. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

  “Oh my god,” Sam cried out. “He beat you, didn’t he?”

  Marshall seemed to be struggling against an outraged protest. “I’d had a lot of beers that night, okay? And I didn’t have my swim cap—”

  “Of course, your swim cap,” Sam said knowingly. “I suppose the duke was more aerodynamic, since he’s balding?”

  “I tried to challenge him to a rematch, but he wouldn’t accept!”

  She burst out laughing, and then Marshall was laughing too: that low, rumbling laugh of his. It seemed to weave a hushed spell around them.

  “You want to head back?” Marshall said at last, rising to his feet.

  “Sure.” Sam nodded—but before she could stand, Marshall put his hands on her back and shoved her into the pool, dress and all.

  She gave a startled yelp as she tumbled forward. Then the water closed over her head, and everything was suddenly hushed, and languid, and warm.

  Sam shot back up into the moonlight, spluttering as she whirled on Marshall. “I can’t believe you!”

  “Oops,” he said brightly, and held out a hand to help her out.

  “Thanks.” Sam leaned forward, reaching for his hand.

  Then she braced her legs on the side of the pool and yanked Marshall into the water alongside her.

  He broke the surface with a powerful kick and shook his head, spraying water droplets from his close-cropped dark curls. Sam sensed that it was a habitual movement, something he’d done a thousand times during water polo games. He was still wearing his button-down and jeans, and the fabric of his wet shirt clung to the muscles of his arms, settled distractingly in the curve of his throat.

  A slow, eager grin curled over his face. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that.”

  Sam squealed in delight as he lunged toward her. She kicked frantically back out of his reach, the two of them chasing each other in an exhilarating zigzag. The pool echoed with their splashing laughter.

  Marshall caught her ankle and began dragging her back toward him. Sam sucked in a breath as they slipped, wrestling, under the water. He kicked them forward, holding Sam tight against him, though she was no longer trying to escape.

  Suddenly their faces were close, their bodies intertwined. Sam could see each individual water droplet in the fan of his eyelashes, glittering like liquid stars.

  Marshall must have felt the shift in her, because he went still, too.

  It was shallow enough for Sam to stand, yet she stayed where she was, floating in a strange, enchanted sort of stillness. Her dark hair fell riotously over one shoulder, like a mermaid’s. One of Marshall’s hands had looped beneath her legs, the other braced behind her back, yet his hands seemed to drift over her with only a whisper of a touch.

  Marshall reached up, tucking back one of her damp curls. Then he brushed his lips lightly over hers.

  All too quickly he’d moved on, tracing teasing kisses along her jawline, nipping at the flushed skin below her ear. Sam circled her fingers around Marshall’s neck, trying to catch his mouth with her own. His grip on her waist tightened.

  Finally his lips found hers again. Sam kissed him back urgently, feverishly. She had shifted, her legs wrapped around his torso, her bare thighs circling the wet scratchy denim of his jeans. His palms slid farther, to settle on her lower back. They seemed to scorch her everywhere they touched—

  At the sound of raucous shouts, her head shot up.

  She twisted out of Marshall’s arms and looked behind her, to where the gate to the gravel path stood wide open. A flock of partygoers had spilled onto the terrace and were staring at Sam and Marshall’s tangled forms with hungry curiosity. Sam caught the unmistakable flash of photos being taken.

  Before the party, she had instructed the front drive not to bother with collecting everyone’s phones the way they usually did. The head of security had argued, of course, but the only person who outranked Sam, and could countermand a direct order from her, was in Boston right now. Sam had wanted her guests to take a lot of pictures tonight—preferably pictures of her and Marshall that would make Teddy burn with jealousy.

  It looked like her wish had come true.

  Sam lifted her eyes to meet Marshall’s, but she didn’t see shock or outrage or even regret on his face. All she saw was a guarded sort of amusement. And the realization hit her like a blow—he’d been facing the right direction, had seen all those people. That kiss hadn’t been for Sam’s benefit, but for theirs.

  Sam forced her lips to bend into a smile. She let go of Marshall, stepping back and adjusting the straps of her dress as if she hardly noticed she was wearing it.

  “Nice work,” she said softly. “We put on a good show, didn’t we?”

  She managed to inject the words with her usual cavalier nonchalance. It wasn’t hard. Sam was very good at pretending that things didn’t matter to her.

  She’d been doing it for most of her lifetime.

  “Where are you taking me?” Beatrice followed Te
ddy across Walthorpe’s back lawn, toward a wooden, barnlike structure that she’d assumed was a garage.

  “You’ll see,” he replied, with that eager dimpled smile that seemed to light up the room.

  It struck Beatrice that something fundamental in their relationship had shifted. This walk out to the barn was not at all the same as when they’d walked into Walthorpe together just a few hours ago—before they’d shared such secrets with each other.

  Before Teddy had said, It’s you and me now.

  He led her up a narrow staircase, then paused on the landing. “That bedroom in the main house is where I sleep, but this has always felt like my actual room,” he explained, and pushed open the door.

  The top floor of the barn had been converted into what could only be described as a rustic media room. Somehow the space felt vast and cozy at once, with the barn’s high vaulted ceilings and exposed wooden beams. Before a massive TV sat an enormous L-shaped couch of brown suede, and on that couch, playing a video game, were Teddy’s two brothers.

  “Hey, man.” The younger one, Livingston, glanced up at Teddy’s arrival, his eyes widening when he saw Beatrice. He quickly elbowed his brother and jumped to his feet. “Oh—sorry, we didn’t realize you were coming up. I mean—”

  “It’s okay. Please don’t feel like you have to leave.” Beatrice hated that she had this effect on people, that she couldn’t walk into a room without everyone immediately registering, and reacting to, her presence. She wondered how it would feel to be anonymous. To meet someone and actually get to introduce herself for once.

  Lewis and Livingston exchanged a glance, then shrugged and resumed their game.

  Beatrice wandered over to a black-and-white poster of Half Dome that hung on one wall. “Have you been there?” she asked, turning to Teddy. She’d always wanted to hike all the way up to the peak, but the one time she’d been to Yosemite, her schedule hadn’t allowed it.

  “A few summers ago, but that wasn’t why I bought the poster. I wonder…” Teddy lifted the frame, revealing a jagged, fist-sized hole in the wooden planks. Beatrice could see the building’s insulation coiled beneath.

  “Yep. It’s still here.” Teddy sounded buoyant, and a little proud. “A dry-ice rocket exploded too soon,” he added, for her benefit.

  Lewis chimed in from the couch. “I told you we’d get away with it! That was six years ago and Mom still has no idea!”

  “Sounds like you guys had fun up here,” Beatrice teased.

  “What about you?” Teddy asked. “Surely you went through a rebellious phase at some point—got caught smoking in the cherry orchard, broke a national artifact or two.”

  “I once knocked over a vase that my great-grandmother brought from Hesse,” she offered. It wasn’t especially scandalous, but she couldn’t tell Teddy about her real “rebellious phase”—when she’d been in a secret relationship with her Revere Guard. “I tried to glue the pieces back together, but the housekeeper caught me.”

  “How did you break it?”

  “Long story.” It had been Sam and Jeff’s fault, actually, as so many things were. “My dad grounded me for two weeks. Not for breaking the vase, he told me, but for trying to hide what I’d done. He said that monarchs need to always own up to their actions. Especially their mistakes.”

  Teddy looked over sharply, clearly worried she might cry. But to Beatrice’s surprise, and relief, she was actually smiling at the memory. It was nice to know that she could think of her dad and feel happiness, mixed in with all the sorrow.

  “Can I get you something?” Teddy wandered to the corner, where a few wooden cabinets were built into the wall. He paused. “I don’t even know what your drink of choice is.”

  “Um…” Champagne at formal receptions, wine at state dinners. “I’m fine with whatever’s around,” she hedged, but Teddy must have heard the truth in her tone.

  “It’s okay if you’re not a big drinker.”

  He was right. Beatrice always limited herself to one, maybe two drinks per night at events like that. “Not really. I can’t afford to get drunk and publicly make a fool of myself.” Hearing her own words, she realized how ridiculous they sounded. “Although…I don’t see why I can’t have a drink right now.”

  “Sure,” Teddy said, smiling. “If you want to privately make a fool of yourself, your secret is safe with me.”

  He said it in a lighthearted tone, but Beatrice heard the truth in his words. She did feel safe with Teddy. She knew, with an instinctive certainty, that she could trust him.

  “All we’ve got is beer.” Teddy knelt to explore the contents of the liquor cabinet. “And some kind of grapefruit vodka, which has Charlotte written all over it.”

  It might be deeply un-American of her, but Beatrice had never really liked beer. “I’ll try the grapefruit thing,” she decided. “It can’t be worse than the cherry brandy they always serve after state dinners.”

  Teddy lifted an eyebrow but didn’t argue, just turned back toward his brothers. “Does anyone remember if we have plastic cups in here?”

  She came over to help him look, opening and closing various cabinets in rapid succession. “Here we go,” she exclaimed, finding a shelf with a few stray coffee mugs. She reached for one and held it out toward Teddy, realizing as she did that it was a custom-made mug, the kind you could order from an internet photo site. It was emblazoned with a picture of Teddy and a long-limbed blond girl.

  “Who’s this?” she asked, angling the mug so that her fiancé could see.

  He reddened all the way to the tips of his ears. “That’s my high school girlfriend, Penelope van der Walle,” he mumbled. “She made that for me—it’s so embarrassing. I didn’t even realize it was still here. Sorry,” he added, shooting a murderous glance toward his brothers. Neither of them spoke, but their shoulders shook with silent laughter.

  “I see,” Beatrice said evenly. For some reason, the thought of Teddy with that doe-eyed girl made her feel hot all over. In a surprisingly territorial way.

  Teddy hurried to put the cup back on the shelf. He grabbed a navy mug that said NANTUCKET and reached for the vodka, but Beatrice, her actions fueled by some emotion she couldn’t understand, had already grabbed it. She filled the coffee mug nearly to the brim.

  “Drink that slowly, okay?” Teddy eyed her heavy pour with a flicker of trepidation. “It’s meant to be mixed with soda water and lime.”

  Beatrice took a sip—and kept drinking. “You’re wrong,” she insisted, when she’d drained at least a quarter of the cup. “This is delicious.”

  They wandered over to the couch. Lewis and Livingston were still engrossed in the game, their animated football players racing around a cartoon field. “We used to play this all the time in high school,” Teddy reminisced.

  “But weren’t you on a real football team back then?” Beatrice asked. “Didn’t you want to play something else?”

  “It’s different when it’s a video game. Totally unrelated skill set,” Livingston explained, and held out the controller. He looked like a younger, stockier version of Teddy, with the Eatons’ trademark blond hair and blue eyes. “Want to play? We could do two on two, me and you versus Lewis and Teddy.”

  Beatrice hesitated. “I’ve never played.”

  “That’s why you’re on my team. I’m the best player here; I can cover your mistakes,” Livingston declared. His brothers each made a low “ohhhh” sound at the challenge. But when Beatrice still hesitated, he backtracked. “Or you can play with Teddy, of course.”

  She took another sip, then set her mug on the coffee table. A new lightness had stolen into her head, casting everything in a delightful golden glow.

  “No, you’re right. I want to play with you, against Teddy,” she decided. “I want to see the look on his face when we completely destroy him.”

  There was some hollering and heckl
ing at her declaration, a few good-natured jokes at her fiancé’s expense. Teddy shot her a taunting grin. “What do you say, Bee, should we bet on it?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, feeling reckless. “What are the terms?”

  Teddy’s eyes met hers, and heat coursed through her; not the tickling warmth of the vodka but something wilder and more dangerous. Beatrice wondered if he was going to bet her a kiss.

  She wondered what she would say, if he did.

  “We could do a round of truth-or-dare,” Teddy suggested. Another high school game that Beatrice had never played.

  “You’re on,” she said, more bravely than she felt.

  It took a few minutes for Beatrice to get the hang of the game. But her competitive nature quickly took over; and soon she was perched on the edge of the couch, shouting just as loud as the boys as she stabbed frantically at her controller. Time seemed to stretch out indeterminately, all her energies focused on that massive screen.

  With only a few minutes to go, she and Livingston were about to win—until Teddy’s receiver caught Lewis’s pass and sprinted into a touchdown, just as the clock ticked down to zero.

  It took a moment for Beatrice to realize that the room had erupted in shouts of excitement and outrage, and that hers were loudest of all. She put down her controller, feeling self-conscious.

  “Hey, you played great.” Livingston knocked his fist against hers in congratulations.

  “Thanks.” No one had ever fist-bumped her before. No one had ever given her a night like this before, either—a night of pretending she was any ordinary person.

  Teddy clearly knew her better than she’d realized.

  “So,” he said, turning to her with a half smile. “Truth or dare?”

  “Truth?” After the truths they’d already shared tonight, it sounded easy to go ahead and share one more. Certainly easier than whatever wild dare Teddy and his brothers might come up with.

  “What would you be, if you weren’t the queen?”

  If she weren’t queen. Beatrice’s brain could hardly wrap itself around the notion. The only time she’d allowed herself the luxury of imagining it, she had wanted a future with Connor. That felt like very long ago, now. And besides, Beatrice realized, that dream was built around someone else.