Majesty

by Katharine McGee

  How could Nina possibly say no to a request like that?

  “Of course I’ll be there,” she promised.

  And just like that, she thought with weary resignation, she was headed back into her best friend’s world—the world of the American royals—all over again.

  Daphne Deighton had never really liked the Royal Potomac Races. They were just so loud, so unapologetically common. Really, what else could you expect from a free public event?

  Thousands of people had gathered along the Potomac, transforming its riverbanks into a brightly colored fairground. Families picnicked on beach towels; girls in sunglasses posed for pictures that they hurried to post online. Long queues had formed behind the scattered bars that sold mint juleps. The bars inevitably ran out of ice after the first few hours, yet people kept on lining up to purchase warm bourbon with a few sodden pieces of mint.

  Thankfully, Daphne never ventured to those sections of the river. There was another side to the Royal Potomac Races, one that still enforced a sense of hierarchy, of exclusivity. After all, the truly important people weren’t about to watch the races from a dirty picnic blanket.

  Near the colorful pennants of the finish line, behind ropes and stiff-lipped security, lay the massive white tents of the private enclosures—capped at the very end by the Royal Enclosure itself, open only to the Washington family and their invited guests.

  Unlike the other tents, where low-ranking aristocrats and businesspeople strode around in plastic name tags, no one in the Royal Enclosure wore a badge. It was tacitly assumed that if you were here, you must be someone worth knowing.

  And Daphne knew them all. She could trace the tortuous maze of the Washington family’s relationships, which tangled over the entire globe. She doubted anyone else could tell Crown Princess Elizabeth of the Netherlands (the king’s cousin) from Lady Elizabeth of Hesse (an aunt on his mother’s side) from Elizabeth the Grand Duchess of Romania (surprisingly, no relation).

  That was the difference between Daphne and all the other beautiful girls who’d set their sights on Prince Jefferson over the years. In Daphne’s experience, most beautiful girls tried to skate through life relying on nothing but their looks. They lacked brains, or hustle—while Daphne had more than enough of both.

  A volley of trumpets sounded, and everyone in the crowd glanced expectantly downriver, to where the pennants of the royal barge snapped against the sky.

  Sunlight sparkled on the Potomac, setting its pewter waters afire. Daphne’s eyes automatically zeroed in on Jefferson, who stood next to his twin sister, one hand lifted halfheartedly, though he wasn’t quite waving. The wind stirred his sleeves, ruffled his dark hair. At the front of the boat, a fragile smile on her face, was Beatrice.

  The riverbanks erupted in applause and whistles. People shouted at Beatrice, or, just as often, at Jefferson. Parents hoisted children onto their shoulders so they could catch a glimpse of the new queen.

  A song began to play over the loudspeakers, and the cheers quickly died out. For a moment all Daphne heard were the opening notes of the music, above the hiss of wind and the steady rumbling of the barge’s motor. Then thousands of voices wove together as everyone began to sing.

  From shore to shore, from sea to sea

  Let our beloved nation ring

  With cries of love and loyalty

  Our hearts we pledge to you, our queen

  Until now, the lyrics had always ended in our king; the rhyme of ring and queen didn’t work quite as well.

  The barge pulled up to the dock, and the Lord Chamberlain stepped forward to help the royal family disembark. All the courtiers on the lawn quickly fell into bows or curtsies. In their pastel dresses and seersucker suits, they looked like an indolent flock of butterflies.

  Daphne didn’t rush. She sank down as gracefully as a flower drooping, and held the pose for a long, slow moment. She’d taken ballet as a child, and at times like this she was every inch a dancer.

  When she finally stood, Daphne skimmed her hands over the front of her dress, which followed the enclosure’s strict rules and hit at precisely knee-length. It fell around her legs like peach sorbet. Atop her glorious red-gold hair she’d pinned a custom-made fascinator, the same delicate shade as her gown. It was so nice to wear color again, after all the weeks she’d spent dressing somberly, observing the official mourning period for the late king.

  Though, to be fair, Daphne also looked striking in black. She looked striking in everything.

  She made her way to where Jefferson stood, atop the grassy embankment that sloped liltingly to the river. When he saw her, the prince nodded in greeting. “Hey, Daphne. Thanks for coming.”

  She wanted to say I’ve missed you, but it felt too flirtatious, too self-centered, after everything Jefferson had been through. “It’s good to see you,” she decided.

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It feels a little weird to be here, you know?”

  Daphne didn’t feel weird at all. If anything, she felt that she and Jefferson were back where they were meant to be: with each other. After all, their lives had been intertwined since Daphne was fourteen.

  That was when she’d decided that she would marry him, and become a princess.

  For over two years everything had gone according to Daphne’s plan. She’d thrown herself in Jefferson’s path, and soon enough they were dating. He adored her, and, just as crucially, America adored her—because Daphne had won them over, with her gracious smiles and her soft words and her beauty.

  Until Jefferson had abruptly ended things, the morning after his graduation party.

  Another girl might have accepted the breakup and moved on. But Daphne wouldn’t admit defeat. She couldn’t, not after the lengths she’d gone to for that relationship.

  Now, thankfully, the prince was single again. Though he wouldn’t be for long, if Daphne had anything to say about it.

  Didn’t Jefferson see how easy things would be if he followed her plan and asked her out again? They could attend King’s College together this fall—he’d taken a gap year, which meant he would enter with Daphne’s class—and then after they graduated he would propose, and they would get married in the palace.

  And finally, at long last, Daphne would be the princess she’d been born to be.

  “I’m so sorry about your father. I can only imagine what you’re going through.” She reached for his arm in a silent gesture of support. “I’m here if you want to talk.”

  Jefferson nodded absently, and Daphne lowered her hand.

  “Sorry, I just…there are some people I need to say hi to,” he mumbled.

  “Of course.” She forced herself to remain still, her expression placid and unconcerned, as the Prince of America walked away from her.

  Bracing herself for endless small talk, Daphne bit back a sigh and began to circulate through the crowds. She caught sight of her mother across the lawn, chatting with the owner of a department store chain. How typical. Rebecca Deighton was nothing if not an instinctive judge of people she could use.

  Daphne knew she should go over there, flash her perfect smile, and charm yet another person into being on Team Daphne. She glanced back at Jefferson—and froze.

  He was talking to Nina.

  It was impossible to hear them over the low roar of the party, but that didn’t matter; she could see the pained, pleading look in the prince’s eyes. Was he asking Nina to forgive him for the way he’d treated her…or for a second chance?

  What if Nina decided to give him one?

  Daphne tore her gaze away before anyone caught her staring. She strode blindly into the cool shade of the tent, past delicate tables topped with pyramids of flowers, all the way to the ladies’ room at the back.

  She braced her hands on either side of the sink, forcing herself to take slow, shaky breaths. She was curiously unsurprised when,
moments later, a pair of footsteps sounded behind her.

  “Hello, Mother,” she said heavily.

  Daphne watched as Rebecca prowled through the restroom, making sure the row of stalls was completely empty before she turned back to her daughter. “Well?” Rebecca snapped. “He’s talking to that girl again. How could you let that happen?”

  “I was with him, but—”

  “Do you realize how much it cost to be here this afternoon?” her mother cut in. At times like this, when she got upset, the old Nebraska twang slipped back into her voice. As if she’d forgotten that she was Rebecca Deighton, Lady Margrave, and had slipped back into her old persona—Becky Sharpe, lingerie model.

  Daphne knew her parents had gained access to the Royal Enclosure the tacky way, by underwriting the regatta itself. And while the higher-ranking, wealthier aristocrats probably hadn’t flinched at the amount, the Deightons felt every penny they spent. Acutely.

  “I’m aware how much it cost,” Daphne said quietly, and she wasn’t just talking about the check her family had written. Not even her parents knew everything Daphne had done in her attempts to win Jefferson—and to keep him.

  For a moment the two women just stared at each other in the mirror. There was a guarded wariness to their expressions that made them look more like enemies than mother and daughter.

  Daphne could almost hear the gears of her mother’s mind turning. Rebecca was never hampered by obstacles for long; she didn’t think about what was, but what could be. Everyone else lived in reality, but Rebecca Deighton occupied a shifting shadow-world of infinite possibility.

  “You’ll have to get rid of her,” her mother concluded, and Daphne nodded reluctantly.

  Nina had loved Jefferson, really loved him, and that made her a more dangerous opponent than any of the aristocratic girls at court, with their sterile, cookie-cutter beauty. Daphne could outwit and outshine those girls any day. But someone who genuinely didn’t care about Jefferson’s position—who, in fact, loved him in spite of it—that was a real threat.

  “I know you’ll think of something.” Her mother turned on one heel so fast that her skirts fluttered around her.

  As the bathroom door clattered, Daphne began fumbling through her leather clutch. Her hands shaking only a little, she quickly dabbed concealer beneath her eyes and touched up her waterproof mascara. She felt like an Amazonian warrior, arming herself before battle.

  When she was done, she stared into the mirror—at her high arched brows, her full lips, the vivid green of her thick-lashed eyes—and let out a breath. The sight of her reflection always calmed her.

  She was Daphne Deighton, and she had to keep moving relentlessly, ruthlessly, constantly forward—no matter what, or who, stood in her way.

  It was hard for Princess Samantha to enjoy the Royal Potomac Races this year.

  Usually she loved them. Not for the reason some people did, because they were a chance to see and be seen: the first event of the spring social calendar, marking the return of galas and parties after a winter of hibernation. No, Sam had always enjoyed the races for their energy. They were so brash, so utterly American, with an infectious, carnivalesque sense of excitement.

  But this year the colors felt dull, as if her senses were muted under a thick blanket. Even the band sounded strangely out of tune. Or maybe she was the one out of tune.

  Everywhere she looked, all she saw was the achingly conspicuous space where her father should have been.

  Sam remembered how once, when she was little, she’d told her dad that she wanted to grow up and be as strong as the rowers. “But you are strong,” he’d replied.

  “As strong as what?” Sam had never understood why people used adjectives without defined parameters. “Strong as a lion? Stronger than Jeff?”

  King George had laughed, leaning down to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “You are as strong as you need to be. And I am prouder of you than you’ll ever know.”

  Sam blinked rapidly at the memory, wrapping her arms around herself despite the afternoon sun. Then she saw a familiar blond head across the crowds, and her breath caught.

  He was as gorgeous as ever in a linen jacket the same shocking blue as his eyes. A matching pocket square, monogrammed with his initials, completed the look. Sam would have teased him for the absurd preppiness of it, if every cell of her body weren’t aching at his nearness.

  She’d never meant to fall for her sister’s fiancé. When she’d met Teddy Eaton, the chemistry between them had been instant and electric. Neither of them had known that he was intended for Beatrice. Sam had tried, after that, to stay away from him…but by that point it was too late.

  When Teddy saw her heading toward him, an instant of surprise, or maybe even pain, flickered over his features, but he quickly smoothed it over with a smile—the same way Beatrice always did. Sam shivered a little at the thought.

  She hadn’t heard much from Teddy this past month, but she’d assumed he was keeping his distance out of respect for her grief—that when they saw each other again, everything would fall back into place. Now she couldn’t help fearing that his silence meant something else.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she breathed, once she’d finally reached his side. Her voice was hoarse with longing. This was the closest they’d been since her father’s funeral.

  “Samantha.”

  At his distant, formal tone, her smile faltered. “What is it?”

  “I thought—I mean, I wasn’t sure…” Teddy studied her face for a long moment; then his shoulders sagged. “Beatrice hasn’t told you?”

  Dread pooled in her stomach. “Told me what?”

  He ran a hand helplessly through his hair; it fell back in the same perfect waves as ever. “Can we go somewhere alone, just the two of us? We need to talk.”

  At the mention of going somewhere alone, Sam’s heart had lifted, only to seize in fear when she heard we need to talk. The four most ominous words in the English language.

  “I…all right.” Sam shot Teddy an anxious glance as she led him around the corner, into a narrow passageway between the Royal Enclosure and Briony, the next tent over. There was no one in sight, just a few humming generators that fed air-conditioning into the tent through fat cords.

  “What’s going on?” Sam dug her heel anxiously into the mud.

  Teddy’s expression was shadowed with remorse. “I’m kind of glad the queen didn’t tell you. I guess…it’s best you hear this from me.”

  Sam felt her muscles quietly tensing, her body caving inward as if readying for a blow.

  “We’re getting married in June.”

  “No,” she said automatically. It couldn’t be. The night of her engagement party, Beatrice had pulled Sam out onto the terrace and confessed that she was calling off the whole thing. She was going to talk about it with their dad, come up with a plan for telling the press.

  Except they’d lost him before Beatrice had time to do any of that. And now that she was queen, Beatrice clearly felt obligated to go through with this ill-advised engagement.

  “So it meant nothing, when you said that we were in this together? Teddy, you promised!” And so had Beatrice.

  Sam should have known better than to hold her sister to her word.

  Teddy’s fists clenched helplessly at his sides, but when he spoke, his voice was oddly formal. “I’m sorry, Samantha. But the queen and I have agreed.”

  “Stop calling her the queen! She has a name!”

  He winced. “I owe you an apology. The way I’ve handled all of this…it hasn’t been fair to Beatrice, and especially not to you.”

  There was something so stubbornly honorable about his confession that Sam couldn’t help thinking how right she’d been when she’d told Beatrice—in a fit of pique—that she and Teddy deserved each other.

  “It’s not fair to you,
either!” Sam cried out. “Why are you doing this?”

  He looked down, fiddling with a button on his blazer. “A lot of people are counting on me.”

  Sam remembered what he’d said in Telluride, which felt like a lifetime ago: that the Eatons’ fortune had evaporated overnight. Marrying Beatrice, gaining the support of the Crown, would save his duchy from financial ruin. Because it wasn’t just about Teddy’s family: the Eatons had supported the Boston area—had been its source of financial stability, its largest employer—for over two hundred years.

  Teddy, who’d been raised as the future duke, felt obligated to take that responsibility onto his shoulders.

  “You shouldn’t get married because you think you owe it to the people of Boston,” Sam said heatedly.

  Teddy looked up to meet her gaze. His eyes were more piercingly blue than normal, as if confusion, or perhaps regret, had deepened their color. “I promise you that I’m not doing this lightly. I have my reasons, and I’m sure your sister does, too.”

  “If she really has to rush down the aisle, tell her to pick someone else! There are millions of guys in America. Can’t she marry one of them?”

  Teddy shook his head. “You know it doesn’t work like that. Beatrice can’t go and propose to someone else. It would make her seem fickle and capricious.”

  The truth of it hit Sam like a sickening blow. Teddy was right. If Beatrice broke off her very public engagement and began dating another guy, it would just fuel the attacks of all those people who were already cheering for her to fail. America would start to wonder: If Beatrice couldn’t even make up her mind about her personal life, how on earth would she make decisions about the country?

  “You can’t seriously be going through with this,” she insisted.

  “I know you don’t understand—”

  “Why, because I’m just the spare?”