American Royals

by Katharine McGee

  Jeff reached for her hand, and Nina let him take it. He rubbed a thumb lightly over the back of her wrist.

  “You’re already part of our family,” he told her. “You’ve been Sam’s best friend for so long that you’ve seen behind the curtain. You know the real us, the bickering and the pressure. You know that my cousin Percy is a little menace and that half the time when Aunt Margaret does royal engagements, she’s drunk. You of all people shouldn’t worry about fitting in. You already belong with us. You belong with me.”

  Nina let out a heavy breath. “If only things could stay like this, when it’s just the two of us. Simple, no complications.”

  Jeff’s dark eyes seemed to possess impossible depths. “I hate that all this baggage comes with dating me. It’s a lot to take on, especially for someone as independent as you. I wish I could say that things will get easier. But they never will—not for me.”

  He gave Nina’s hand a final squeeze, then let go. “I don’t have a choice, but you do. If you want to walk away from this, from all the attention and the madness and the NDAs, I won’t blame you. But I will miss you.”

  Nina opened her mouth to say yes—that she wanted to walk away, that she wished him nothing but the best and would always be his friend. That this life and everything that came with it were just too much.

  What came out instead was “No.”

  The prince looked up sharply. Nina swallowed. “No,” she said again, and realized that it was true. “I’m not done with you, not yet.”

  Then she was flinging herself into his arms, kissing Jeff with such enthusiasm that he stumbled backward and had to lift her off her feet—literally, her boots were dangling in the air. Nina didn’t even notice that the buttons on Jeff’s jacket were digging into her. The impact of their kiss crashed through her like cymbals, tingling all the way to her lips and toes and the very edges of her hair.

  Finally Jeff set her down. Nina reached for the table to steady herself, and her hand almost knocked over the milkshake.

  She shook back her hair and took a celebratory sip, smiling around the straw. “Thanks for bringing me this,” she told Jeff, and handed it over so that he could try.

  He grinned. “You’re right, it really does taste better with double M&M’s.”

  DAPHNE

  Daphne sighed with a hollow sense of discontent.

  It was Saturday morning, and she was seated next to her mother in one of the luxurious pedicure chairs at Ceron’s, the top salon in Washington. They were ensconced in the place of honor at the center of the room, with prime views over the rest of the salon. Daphne saw Henrietta of Hanover, one of the royal family’s numerous distant cousins, with her hair wrapped in a Medusa helmet of silver foils. And wasn’t that the senator from Rainier walking out of a treatment room, her face red and angry from a facial?

  Daphne’s mother knew Ceron from years ago, back when he did hair for magazine photo shoots and runway shows, though he moved in more rarified circles these days. His life had forever changed once he was named the official palace hairstylist. It had caused business here at the salon to triple, even if half those clients were just royalty fanatics who plopped in their chairs and declared that however Her Majesty was wearing her hair, they wanted the exact same thing.

  Tiffany, the salon assistant, finished the topcoat on Rebecca’s toes. “Can I get you anything else, milady?”

  Rebecca couldn’t help preening a little at the title. She never was happier than when she was being milady’d somewhere. “Not unless you have any news for me,” she said meaningfully.

  Ceron went to the palace several times a month, to touch up the queen’s highlights or style the princesses’ hair before an event. Sometimes he brought the junior salon technicians along with him. And while Ceron was far too loyal to the Washingtons to be susceptible to bribery, not all members of his staff were. It had only taken a few carefully dropped hints and overly generous tips for Tiffany to reach an understanding with Daphne’s mother. She had provided the Deightons with details about the royal family on more than one occasion. Small details, like what color gown the queen might be wearing to an upcoming event, and some that were more significant.

  Tiffany leaned forward, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “He was at the palace yesterday to do a trial updo on Princess Beatrice. They’re holding a black-tie ball soon, in honor of her engagement to Teddy. The invitations are about to go out.”

  Rebecca flashed her perfect white teeth in a smile. “Thank you, Tiffany.”

  Tiffany retreated, her platinum ponytail bouncing. She’d looped a thin red scarf through the belt holes of her waxed black jeans. It was the trademark of Ceron’s salon: each of the stylists had to wear black and white with a small pop of red. The salon itself was decorated in the same color scheme, from the vases of vibrant red daylilies to the black-and-white photographs on the walls.

  Rebecca shot her daughter a curious glance. “You need to go to that engagement party as Jefferson’s date.”

  “I know, Mother.” Though privately, Daphne was more concerned with the wedding itself. She could not let this play out the way the last royal wedding had—when Jefferson’s aunt Margaret got married, and Daphne wasn’t even invited.

  Rebecca gave a vague hmm of concern. She looked as stunning as ever in a crisp white shirt and jeans, her light blond hair styled in seemingly effortless layers. But no matter how well she dressed the part, you could still tell that Rebecca Deighton hadn’t been born to the aristocratic life. It was something hard and hungry, glinting in her catlike face.

  Daphne glanced down at her nails, which gleamed with a coat of pearly sheer polish. GOOD AND PROPER, the bottle was labeled, which was so spot-on that it almost seemed ironic. The last time she’d visited the hospital, Daphne had brought a bottle of deep red Va-Va-Voom, and painted Himari’s nails with it.

  She didn’t tell her mother about that, because she knew precisely what Rebecca would say: that visiting Himari was a waste of Daphne’s time. But Daphne wasn’t sure she was going for Himari’s sake.

  “At least you got rid of that obstacle.” Rebecca gestured to the magazines on her lap—People, Us Weekly, the Daily News. They were all filled with pictures of Nina Gonzalez looking tacky and second-rate next to images of Daphne. Although in the days since Beatrice announced her engagement the coverage of Nina had decreased sharply.

  “This is good work, Daphne,” her mother added, a bit clumsily. She clearly wasn’t used to giving praise.

  The moment she’d returned from the New Year’s party at Smuggler’s, Daphne had sent Natasha the tip about Jefferson and Nina. She’d even figured out which dorm Nina was living in, so Natasha could stake it out; all it had taken was a bit of online sleuthing and a phone call to the school. She knew the Daily News couldn’t run a story like that without photographic evidence.

  “It wasn’t that difficult,” Daphne replied. “The commenters did most of the hard work for me.”

  Daphne knew there was no easier target than a so-called social climber, which was why she’d urged Natasha to take that angle in the article. Predictably, the internet roared in outrage that anyone would set out to ensnare their beloved prince. Some of them went so far as to claim Nina’s parents had planned their daughter’s entire life for this purpose: that Isabella had taken the chamberlain job specifically to throw her daughter in the prince’s path. That girl is like a weed, one commenter wrote. She’s ugly to look at and has a ferocious ability to climb.

  Daphne didn’t feel especially sorry about what she’d done. Nina had brought this down on herself by going after the prince, when everyone knew he belonged to Daphne.

  There were plenty of other, more anonymous boys in America—millions of them, in fact. Didn’t Nina understand that to date someone as high-profile as Jefferson, she would necessarily become a public figure herself?

  If she couldn’t take the pressure, she should have stayed out of the big leagues.

  “When are you seeing Jeffers
on next?” Rebecca cut into her thoughts. “You should find a way to bring up this party.”

  Daphne pretended to blow on her nails, her mind racing, but she couldn’t think of an easy way to lie. “I actually haven’t heard from him,” she admitted.

  There it was: the reason Daphne felt this vague and caustic discontent. She had done everything in her power, had schemed and blackmailed and knocked out her competition, and still Jefferson hadn’t reached out. What was he waiting for?

  Rebecca’s eyes drifted to her phone, where she was scrolling through several gossip blogs. Her eyes widened at something she saw.

  “Perhaps this is why.” Her mother’s voice was dangerously quiet as she held out her phone. Daphne reached for it with trepidation.

  It was a blurry cell-phone pic of Nina and Jefferson, taken last night at a college party.

  “He went to a frat party with her?” Daphne forced herself to breathe, trying not to scream. “Well—after all these articles, no way will the palace let him date her.”

  “He isn’t the heir to the throne. He has more leeway than Beatrice.” Her mother frowned. “Daphne, you’ve completely lost control of this situation.”

  “I—y-you were just saying I did a good job—” Daphne stammered, but Rebecca’s fierce look quelled her protests.

  “That was before I knew what an utter disaster it is.”

  Panic flooded Daphne’s synapses. “I don’t know what else to do! I can’t just throw myself at him; I tried that at New Year’s and it didn’t work.”

  Rebecca turned toward her daughter with an impassive glare. “There are two people in that relationship. If you aren’t getting anywhere with the prince, then it’s time to try another approach.”

  When Daphne understood, she felt almost sick. She couldn’t imagine seeing Nina Gonzalez again. She despised her.

  “Daphne, you can’t just sit around waiting for something to happen. Nothing ever gets accomplished that way,” her mother hissed. As if Daphne didn’t already know that.

  Rebecca leaned back in her chair, running her hands along the edges of the magazines in her lap to arrange them in a perfect stack. “Haven’t you learned anything from me? Never attack a rival unless you can finish them off completely. Either finish the job, or don’t start it in the first place,” she said quietly.

  Daphne nodded, but her thoughts had drifted to Himari, lying in a coma for almost eight months now. Either finish the job, or don’t start it in the first place.

  What would happen if Himari ever woke up and told the world—told Jefferson—what Daphne had done?

  BEATRICE

  Beatrice couldn’t sleep.

  In the week since she and Teddy announced their engagement, their schedule had moved at a breakneck pace, crammed with dinners and speeches and charitable visits. Just this morning their entire family had gone to a homeless shelter across town. Beatrice barely had time to get her hair and makeup done afterward, for her engagement photo shoot with Teddy: to take the pictures that would be reproduced on all their wedding merchandise. Pillows and paper dolls, coffee mugs and playing cards, and of course the limited-edition royal engagement stamps: all of it would be plastered with their faces. It felt a bit ridiculous, but Beatrice knew better than to refuse any of the licensing requests, not when the latest estimates projected that her wedding would boost the economy by over three hundred million dollars.

  Honestly, she was grateful for the busy schedule. She felt like one of those sharks that needed to keep swimming in order to stay alive. As long as she was in a meeting with members of Congress, or discussing the wedding, or even just smiling at someone, she could momentarily forget that her dad was sick—that her time as queen was coming so much sooner than anyone would have imagined.

  She could forget that the Guard trailing her movements wasn’t Connor, but Jake.

  But the forgetting never lasted long enough. Because everything in the palace now reminded Beatrice of Connor: of the wicked edge to his humor, the quick, sure grace of his movements. The way his blue-gray eyes lit up every time he saw her.

  Even though there were more people than ever at the palace these days, even though she now had a fiancé, Beatrice had never felt so alone.

  She got out of bed and went to open her windows, to gaze at the net of lights that glittered over the capital. The streetlamps blazed in straight, clean lines around the rectangle of darkness that marked John Jay Park.

  Her stomach growled resentfully. Teddy’s family had come over for dinner tonight, to discuss next week’s engagement party, and Beatrice hadn’t had much of an appetite. She’d forced herself to swallow a few bites of her swordfish, but it felt like shards of glass in her stomach. Luckily no one had noticed—just as no one seemed to look past her false smiles, to notice the shadow that lingered in her eyes.

  With a heavy sigh, Beatrice pulled on a robe and headed downstairs to the kitchens. The stainless-steel appliances and sleek black cooktops gleamed invitingly. No one was here at this hour: the first sous-chefs and busboys wouldn’t arrive until six a.m.

  She opened the refrigerator, about to grab one of the containers of leftovers that the cooks always kept here for just this situation, only to pause. She didn’t want the cold remnants of tonight’s dinner. For once in her life, Beatrice would cook something for herself.

  After a few minutes of clattering around, she unearthed a massive saucepan. She poured water into it and set it on the stove to boil, fumbling with the knobs. What was that mesh thing Connor had used to drain the cooked pasta? And where in this vast kitchen was she supposed to find pasta, anyway?

  That night in the cabin felt like it belonged to another lifetime, another Beatrice. How simple everything had been back then, before she knew about her father’s condition. Before she’d had to give up Connor.

  She braced her palms on the counter, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. And finally—now that she didn’t have to keep that fragile smile on her face, now that there was no one around to see—she let herself cry.

  “Beatrice? Are you okay?”

  Samantha stood in the doorway, wearing a robe identical to Beatrice’s; their mom had given them as Christmas gifts this year. Her hair was pulled into a messy side ponytail that made her whole head look lopsided. Typical Samantha.

  Beatrice hastily wiped away her tears. “I was trying to make pasta,” she admitted. “What are you doing here?”

  “Same thing as you, I guess. I didn’t eat much at dinner.”

  “Oh.” Beatrice felt suddenly tentative and uncertain around her sister. In all her own discomfort at the meal with Teddy’s family, she hadn’t really thought that it might be awkward for Samantha, too. But wasn’t she over Teddy by now?

  Sam kicked one fuzzy slipper idly against the other. “Remember the time we came in here before a state dinner and accidentally knocked over that enormous cake?”

  “They had to send someone out at the last minute to buy fifty tubs of lemon sorbet,” Beatrice recollected. That was back before her grandfather died, when she could get away with behavior like that. “We got in so much trouble that night.”

  “We were always in trouble,” Sam countered, and shrugged. “At least, Jeff and I were.”

  The water in the pot began to boil. Beatrice made a helpless noise and turned back toward it. She still hadn’t found any pasta.

  “I think there’s some mac and cheese in the pantry,” Sam pointed out.

  “Which pantry?” Beatrice knew about the crystal pantry, the silver pantry, the china pantry—

  “The one with food in it.” Sam sounded almost amused. “Here, I’ll look for it.”

  Beatrice tried to hide her surprise at Samantha’s offer. “That would be great, actually.”

  Her sister ducked into the pantry, emerging moments later with a blue-and-white box labeled MACARONI AND CHEESE: ROYAL ADVENTURE! The flat noodles were shaped like tiny tiaras and stars, as well as a girl in a ball gown that Beatrice suspected was meant to be
her.

  “Whoever’s in charge of restocking has a sense of humor,” she heard herself say. Sam lifted an eyebrow but didn’t reply.

  Neither of them spoke as Sam ripped open the box, poured the noodles into the hot water, then drained them several minutes later. She measured out butter and milk from the fridge before stirring it with the powdered cheese sauce.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “It’s just mac and cheese; anyone can do it,” Sam pointed out, then winced. “Sorry, I didn’t …”

  “It’s okay. We both know I’m not anyone normal.” Beatrice laughed, but there was no humor in it. She hated how helpless she was at such simple domestic tasks. She hated that this life had ruined her for a normal one.

  “Most of cooking is just following the directions. It really isn’t hard.”

  Then I should be great at it, Beatrice thought plaintively. All she ever did was follow instructions.

  Sam scooped the pasta into two cereal bowls and grabbed a pair of spoons, then hiked herself up onto the counter to sit with her feet dangling over the edge. After a moment Beatrice followed suit. Well, it wasn’t as if they were about to carry late-night mac and cheese into the formal dining room.

  The macaroni was delicious, its warm cheesiness curiously comforting. Beatrice wondered what Connor would say if he saw the princesses like this—sitting atop the kitchen counter, eating royal-shaped mac and cheese.

  “What is that on your finger?” Sam’s voice echoed around the cavernous kitchen. “Are you not wearing your ring?”

  Beatrice glanced down at her left hand, so blatantly bare where the enormous diamond should have been. If you looked closely, you could see the faded Sharpie line that Connor had drawn there.

  “I take the ring off at night when I wash my face, to keep the soap from getting it dirty,” she lied. “I must have accidentally left it on the ring stand by my sink.”