Daphne was about to drop into the chute when Ethan coasted over. He slid to a stop directly in her path.
“What are you doing here, Daphne?”
“I was trying to ski, except that you seem to be in my way.”
“Are you really this desperate?” Ethan stared at her through the curved lens of his blue-tinted goggles. “You don’t seriously expect any of us to think this was a coincidence?”
“I don’t really care what you think.”
As if she was about to share her plans with Ethan Beckett. Daphne played her own game and kept her own counsel, and the last thing she needed was his interference.
Ethan didn’t budge. “Daphne … I’m pretty sure that Jeff is with someone else now.”
She laughed. “Is this because of what Natasha said at the photo call? Because I’m the one who planted that question.” Anything to get Jefferson thinking about her again, to remind him how much America adored the idea of the two of them together.
“No,” Ethan persisted. “There’s something going on between him and Nina.”
“Nina?” Daphne scoured her memory of St. Ursula’s, of all the various daughters and granddaughters of the aristocracy, but couldn’t think of a single one named Nina.
“Samantha’s friend, Nina Gonzalez.”
“The Minister of the Treasury’s daughter?”
Ethan snorted. “I should have known that’s how you would think of her. In terms of her proximity to power.”
Daphne ignored him. She could have laughed from sheer relief. Of course she knew Nina—that girl with split ends and atrocious fashion sense, who was always trailing along after Samantha, probably hoping to get invited on another five-star vacation.
“You’re wrong,” Daphne said dismissively.
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you see them together?” She hated herself for the way her voice rose with the question.
“They’ve been staring at each other all weekend. And at the press call yesterday—”
“Jealousy isn’t a good look on you,” Daphne cut in. She pushed past Ethan, and this time, he didn’t stop her.
The run was narrower than Daphne remembered, forcing her up onto her edges for each rapid turn. Far below she saw Jefferson’s gray form, carving loosely down the center of the run.
She knew that Ethan’s instincts about these things were usually right. But even if Nina and Jefferson were hooking up—which Daphne tried her best not to think about too closely—there was no way that Jefferson could be serious about a girl like that.
A bank of ominous clouds gathered in the distance. It would snow soon; Daphne could feel the landscape holding its breath in anticipation. Pines rose on either side of the path, their heavy branches dusted with white. A bird burst from the trees in a flurry of falling snow.
Daphne loved skiing—the pulse of blurred colors around her, the powerful, tensed sensation of carving turns into the side of the mountain. She loved the profound, hallowed silence, the only sound the hiss of the crisp powder as she sliced through it. When she was skiing, Daphne felt like she had control over everything in her life, over the entire world, even over gravity itself.
She was gaining on Jefferson. He had more mass than she did, but he was turning lazily, while Daphne flung herself forward like an arrow from a bow. She knew she’d long since left Ethan in her dust. Maybe he hadn’t even dared try this run at all. The thought was inordinately satisfying.
“That was incredible,” she exclaimed, after she had finally caught up with the prince. Her shins were sore from pressing against her boots, and her quads burned pleasantly.
“Seriously.” Jefferson’s smile echoed her own. He pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his damp hair. Even now, sweaty and breathing heavily, he looked tall, dark, and handsome, like a prince from a storybook.
Jefferson waited for Ethan to make his way toward them before nodding at the chairlift. “Should we head back up?”
“Absolutely.”
Grinning, Jefferson reached down to unfasten his back binding, then began to shuffle toward the entrance to the lift. Daphne curled her gloved hands around the grips of her poles and followed, still smiling her bright, perfect smile.
She would show Ethan just how wrong he was. She had already come this far; she would get Jefferson back, no matter the cost.
No matter what she had to do to poor Nina Gonzalez, to push her out of the way.
BEATRICE
The plane’s windows were frosted squares of darkness, but Beatrice kept staring out them anyway, because she couldn’t bear to glance across from her: where Connor sat, reading a hardcover book, ignoring her.
They had traveled like this, just the two of them on a small plane, so many times before. Beatrice secretly looked forward to those flights. It was one of the only opportunities she and Connor had to simply talk, for hours on end: about their families, or politics, or whatever bad movie they’d put on to pass the time, while they munched on bagged popcorn from the plane’s onboard snack drawer. If the pilots were curious about how unusually close the princess seemed with her bodyguard, they were too professional to ever say anything.
But it had been this way between her and Connor for weeks now, their usual camaraderie and easy conversation replaced by a strange, strained silence. Beatrice had no idea what he was thinking. His face revealed nothing as he accompanied her everywhere she went, to ribbon-cuttings and meetings with ministers. And on dates with Teddy.
Things had accelerated after her dad invited him to Telluride the night of the musical. They’d gone out several times since then, to parties and charity functions and once on a school visit.
Beatrice knew that America was infatuated with their relationship. Most of the press had started calling Teddy her boyfriend—and to her utter surprise, Teddy had picked up the term, and started referring to Beatrice as his girlfriend.
It seemed particularly strange given that they hadn’t even kissed.
Perhaps Teddy was waiting for some cue from her. That was fine with Beatrice; she had no desire to rush things. She hadn’t pushed Teddy to explain any further, but she still remembered what he’d said at the theater, that he was under obligations just as pressing as hers.
She wondered whether he was enjoying Telluride. Somehow she couldn’t muster up an ounce of regret that she’d stayed in town for the Maddux Center’s day of service, and would be arriving a day late. Her parents had done their best to talk her out of it, reminding her in a pointed tone that Teddy was going to Telluride as her guest. Well, Beatrice hadn’t been the one to invite him.
As she told her parents, she and her father would need to fly on separate planes anyway—the first in the line of succession could never travel with the reigning monarch, for security reasons—so what difference did it make if she stayed in the capital an extra day?
Secretly, Beatrice was relieved that she would arrive late, and save herself that extra day of forced intimacy with Teddy.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a violent swoop as the plane jolted through sudden turbulence.
“Your Royal Highness.” The pilot’s words emanated from the speakers. “Unfortunately, due to the weather, we won’t be able to land at Telluride Airport as planned. Air traffic control insists that we divert to Montrose Regional. I’m sorry—I told them who the passenger was,” he added apologetically. “But they were very firm.”
“I understand. Thank you.” Beatrice’s mind felt oddly numb. Montrose? It was at least two hours’ drive from Telluride.
The pilots must have been landing by instruments alone, because there was no visibility; their plane descended through a cloud of opaque white. Beatrice said a prayer of gratitude when they touched down smoothly on the runway.
A dark SUV had already pulled up alongside the private jet, its driver rushing out to collect their luggage from the plane’s cargo hold. The snow fell more heavily now, fast and thick as rain, obscuring Beatrice’s vision. It dissolved in ic
y sparks on her skin.
She bundled herself into the backseat of the waiting car. Connor slid in alongside her, bringing a cold rush of air in with him.
“Your Royal Highness,” the driver said hesitantly, as he backed out of the parking lot, “I have more bad news. They just closed both highways due to unsafe road conditions. There’s no way you’ll make it to Telluride tonight.”
Barely an hour later, she and Connor were standing in a tiny cottage on the outskirts of Montrose. It wasn’t exactly what Beatrice was used to, but her options had been fairly limited, given that it was late at night and in blizzard conditions.
The woman who owned the property had been nearly apoplectic with anxiety when she realized her guest’s identity. She had signed the standard NDA, of course, but she’d still insisted on trudging here through the storm to open the front door herself. There was a lot of curtsying and Your Majestying, which Beatrice acknowledged with a smile. She didn’t have the heart to tell the woman that Your Majesty was an honorific reserved exclusively for the king and queen.
When the woman finally retreated, Connor cleared his throat. “Sorry there wasn’t anything more … spacious. I’ll sleep on the floor, of course.”
Oh. Beatrice hadn’t fully registered that there was only one bed.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You should at least take the couch.” To hide her confusion, she knelt before the fireplace and began to build a fire.
“Let me do that,” Connor offered, when he saw what the princess was up to. Beatrice shook her head.
“My grandfather taught me to build a fire. He said it was a critical life skill.” Methodically, she stacked larger logs atop the smaller ones, adding bunched-up newspaper as tinder beneath. “Besides, it’s nice for me to get to do something useful, for once. I don’t often have the chance.”
“Everything you do is useful,” Connor insisted.
A lock of hair fell into her eyes; Beatrice blew out a breath to toss it back. “You know what I mean.”
She flicked the side of the lighter and touched it to the kindling. There was something deeply satisfying about watching the flame curl steadily upward. When she was certain that it wouldn’t gutter out, Beatrice retreated to the couch, pulling her feet up beneath her to sit cross-legged. Connor hadn’t moved from where he stood against one wall, his body tensed in the usual Revere Guard stance. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, as if he was scanning the room for possible threats.
“You can come sit down, instead of growling over there in the corner.”
“Maybe I like growling.” Shadows from the fire flickered over his features.
“Not when there’s no one to growl at.” It was the closest they’d come in weeks to their normal easy banter. “How could anyone possibly get here through that storm? You’re officially off duty for the night,” she insisted.
Cautiously, Connor came to sit on the couch, leaving a generous space between him and Beatrice. He took one of the faded taupe pillows and put it on the seat next to him like some kind of safety barrier.
They sat there for a while, watching the fire dance tranquilly before them. Eventually Connor stood to toss on another piece of wood. The flames blazed and popped contentedly in response. Beatrice imagined she could see various shapes there, stars and pinwheels and trumpets all melting and re-forming in columns of red-gold light.
“Do you remember the time it snowed like this at school?” she asked as he returned to the couch. It might have been her imagination, but he seemed to settle a little closer than before.
“Winter Storm Nemo,” Connor recalled. “We got so much snow that the entire campus shut down for days. We had to live on cereal.”
Beatrice smiled at the memory. The dining hall had been closed all day long, so Harvard ended up sending someone through the snow to hand-deliver food to each of the dorms. It was nothing but a milk crate containing some prepackaged cereal. She and Connor had made a picnic of it, sitting on her floor as they ate dry Cheerios and played Trivial Pursuit.
“And then we built that awful snowman,” she replied. When they woke the next morning, Beatrice and Connor, along with most of the student body, had ventured out into the quad. For once, no one was in a rush to get anywhere. People were laughing and starting snowball fights, while groups of girls in furry boots and pom-pom hats took heavily posed pictures. They were the type of girls who normally pretended to fawn over Beatrice, yet she was so bundled up in her scarf and jacket that no one noticed her. She and Connor were free to make their absurdly lopsided snowman, which kept toppling over despite their best efforts. “Remember how some of the kids in my dorm built an igloo and tried to hotbox it?”
“I think snow days make people reckless,” Connor said, then paused as he seemed to realize what he’d said—because this, too, was a snow day.
Before Beatrice could answer, her stomach gave a loud, angry rumble. She flushed, trying not to feel self-conscious. “Guess I didn’t eat enough popcorn on the plane.”
Connor rose to his feet. His silhouette glowed like warm amber against the fire. “Why don’t we do a little investigating?”
He headed into the kitchen with long, lazy strides and began to scavenge through the cupboards. Moments later he emerged with a bag of macaroni and some Alfredo sauce in a jar. “Looks like your options are pasta and … pasta.”
Beatrice tilted her head, pretending to consider the question. “Pasta sounds delicious,” she declared. “Can I help?”
“You could grab a colander.” Connor filled a pot with water and turned on the stove, then pulled out another saucepan and poured in the Alfredo.
“A colander?” Beatrice stared at him. She had no idea what that was.
Connor’s mouth twitched against a smile. “Never mind.”
She watched as he brought the water to a boil and added the macaroni, then drained the noodles in something that must have been a colander. It struck Beatrice how utterly normal this was. Hanging out in a kitchen, cooking pasta sauce from a jar: this was something that other people could do whenever they wanted.
“Want to try stirring?” Connor offered.
Beatrice ventured toward the stovetop and began whisking the sauce. Connor laughed in protest. “Not so fast—you aren’t trying to make whipped cream!” He nudged Beatrice out of the way and grabbed the wooden spoon, stirring the pot at a slower, more sedate pace.
“Sorry I’m so hopeless in the kitchen.”
“It’s okay; I don’t exactly like you for your culinary skills.”
Something about his words, about the way he said like, lingered in Beatrice’s ears. But before she could think on it too closely, her Guard’s face hardened. “I’m guessing it doesn’t matter to Lord Boston, either.”
Beatrice knew she should let the comment go—but a catch of vulnerability in Connor’s tone, beneath the layers of sarcasm, gave her pause.
“You know his name is Teddy,” she said quietly.
“Honestly, Beatrice, I’m happy for you, that—”
She cut in. “And if you’d been paying the slightest bit of attention this past month instead of glowering in the corner, you would realize that there’s nothing real between us.”
Connor frowned. “You seem happy when you’re together. And … he’s a nice guy.” Those last words were delivered with obvious reluctance.
“Sure, he’s nice.” And warm, and friendly, and scrupulously good. She could envision her future with Teddy, straightforward and simple, stretching on and on into the distance. He would do a wonderful job as America’s first king consort.
Beatrice braced her palms on the counter, fighting back a sudden feeling of dizziness. She had the sensation that her entire world was poised on a knife edge, and her next words would determine which way it fell.
“Trust me, I wish I could fall for Teddy,” she said helplessly. “It would make everything so much easier if I could. But he isn’t …”
“Isn’t what?”
Silence stretched taut bet
ween them.
Beatrice was so very tired of running from this, of hiding it all beneath a smooth layer of denial. She needed to say it—to risk rejection, even if she had to carry that rejection with her for the rest of her life.
“He isn’t you.”
Slowly, her meaning unmistakable, she reached for Connor’s hand and laced her fingers in his. He gave a sharp intake of breath, but didn’t move.
It was strange, Beatrice thought, over the deafening pounding of her pulse. She had felt Connor’s touch so many times: his touch on her elbow as he helped her navigate a crowd, or the accidental knocking of knees that might happen when they sat next to each other in a car. This felt monumentally, unbelievably different. As if some magic glowed and gathered there, where their hands were intertwined.
Then Connor forcibly broke away.
“Beatrice, no.” The kitchen seemed to vibrate with what he’d said.
She took a step back, crossing her arms to hide their sudden shaking. “I’m sorry. Just—forget I ever said anything.”
She began to sweep past him, but his next words stopped her cold.
“You think I don’t want this too?” Connor’s voice was ragged. “God, Bee, it’s all I’ve thought about for the better part of a year! So many times I’ve marched up to my commanding officer, to tell him that I need to be reassigned, because I care about my charge too much. Because it’s a torment, being around you when I can’t be with you. But then, every single time, I turned away at the last minute.”
He was still so close, his mouth dangerously near hers. “Apparently I would rather be around you like this, would rather chaperone your dates with Lord Theodore Eaton, than say goodbye to you forever.” He gave his head a bitter shake. “Clearly I have a bit of a weak spot when it comes to you.”
Beatrice’s heart seized and skittered in her chest. “You think this has been any easier on me?”
“Easy enough, given that you’ve been going out with Teddy Eaton!”
American Royals Page 16
