Sam felt a bit guilty that she still hadn’t talked to Beatrice about Connor. But how exactly was she supposed to bring it up? Every time she saw her sister, there was always someone hovering nearby. She’d thought she might get a chance this weekend, but of course Beatrice and Sam hadn’t been able to fly to Orange on the same plane.
As her sister reached the second-highest step, just below the Duke of Orange, she drew to a halt. Sam felt a sudden burst of pride at how commanding she looked.
“Good people of Orange,” Beatrice began. “I come to you on behalf of the United States of America, with admiration for your fortitude, your energy, and your spirit. I come bearing an invitation to join our most beloved union.”
Sam watched as Marshall’s grandfather reached up to unhook the bearskin cloak. With a dramatic flourish, he whipped it off and settled it over Beatrice’s shoulders. Then he pulled her up a step, to stand next to him—where he fell to his knees and kissed her ring.
“On behalf of Orange, I accept your gracious offer,” he proclaimed. “Be it known that we renounce our sovereignty; we are the nation of Orange no longer, but become one nation with you, under God…”
Sam stopped listening. “Talk about glamorizing history,” she muttered under her breath.
“I know. In reality they bickered over terms for weeks. Then, when they finally signed a treaty, they got roaring drunk.” Marshall grinned in a way that made Sam’s stomach do a funny flip-flop. “Which is really what this holiday is about, after all.”
“I know. That’s why I like Orange,” she replied, and he laughed.
* * *
The Accession Day official reception was held at the ducal mansion, an enormous house on Sunset.
Sam had murmured her excuses to Marshall and headed straight to the ladies’ room. She was standing at the sink, washing her hands, when Kelsey Brooke walked in.
Kelsey was beautiful, but in a fresh-faced, all-American way, not the bold, aggressive beauty that most actresses chased. With her honey-blond hair and pale blue eyes, she looked like a cheerleader from an eighties rom-com.
Sam hated her on sight.
“Samantha!” Kelsey cried out. “I’m so glad I ran into you. I mean, it’s amazing to finally meet in person.”
Sam had a strong urge to correct Kelsey for failing to address her as Your Royal Highness. It made her feel oddly like Beatrice.
“Mm-hmm.” She started to turn toward the door, but Kelsey didn’t take the hint.
“You’re here with Marshall, right?” she asked, though of course she already knew. “He’s such a great date at these things. He used to always hold my drink when I posed for photos, put his jacket over my shoulders when I got cold. You’re in fantastic hands,” Kelsey added, with an indulgent smile. She spoke as if she’d lent Samantha a pair of shoes, and wanted confirmation of how great they were—but expected Sam to return them soon enough.
“Yeah, he’s great,” Sam said noncommittally.
Kelsey gave a bright laugh, her eyes meeting Sam’s in the mirror. “So are you guys, like, serious?”
“It’s, like, none of your business,” Sam heard herself say.
She sailed out of the bathroom, wishing she hadn’t let that girl get under her skin—but her anxiety calmed when she saw that Marshall was waiting for her.
“I’ve been looking for you, Skittle. Come on.” He grabbed her hand to drag her up a staircase. “There’s something I want to show you.”
When they stepped out onto the third-floor balcony, Sam’s breath caught.
The city unfurled before them, all the way to the dark blur of the ocean. Orange-clad revelers still streamed through the streets, laughing and calling out to one another, stumbling into bars. The lights of the city glowed like the candles of a birthday cake. It made Sam want to make a wish.
“The party doesn’t look like it’s stopping anytime soon,” she observed.
“Oh yeah, people go totally wild on Accession Day.” Marshall dragged two Adirondack chairs forward and leaned back in one. “Everyone wears at least some item of orange clothing. If you’re caught without one, there’s a penalty.”
“What kind of penalty?” Sam asked, sitting down next to him.
“Well, you get a choice. You can either sweep the steps of your local post office, or buy a round of shots at your local bar,” Marshall explained. “Traditionally, it’s supposed to be a round of orange Jell-O shots, which I find absolutely horrifying.”
“Somehow I doubt Jell-O is all that traditional.”
In the streets, a group of revelers burst out laughing, then broke into drunken song. “Can we go down there?” Sam asked wistfully. “That party looks way more fun than the one in the ballroom. Jell-O shots and all.”
“I know.” Marshall sighed. “Why do you think I escaped up here? The moment they see me, my parents will make a point of reminding me what a disappointment I am.”
Sam blinked. “You’re not a disappointment,” she started to say, but Marshall talked over her.
“Trust me, I am. My parents wish that Rory had been born first,” he said, staring out over the city. The streets were turning a brushed gold in the darkness. “Sometimes I do too. If only Rory would put me out of my misery and agree to take the duchy instead. But she doesn’t want it.”
“I know the feeling,” Sam said quietly. “I’m the disappointment in my family.”
She’d been acting the reckless spare for so long, she sometimes forgot that it had all started like that: as an act. A way to be different from her sister. And where had it gotten her, in the end?
Millions of little girls wanted to grow up to be like Beatrice, America’s first queen. But no one ever said they wanted to grow up to be like Samantha.
“When I was younger, my dad was constantly giving me American history books,” she said into the silence. “About the Constitutional Convention, or the First Treaty of Paris, or the race to the moon. Each time I finished a book, he asked me what I’d learned. Even if what I had learned was that my ancestors were far from perfect.” She sighed. “Back then, my dream was to become a lawyer. I thought it meant that I would be like the people I kept reading about, that I could pass laws that fixed things. That I could help make history.”
“You’d be a fantastic lawyer. You’re certainly argumentative enough,” Marshall replied, only a little teasing.
“Except I can never be one!” Sam burst out. “Eventually my dad pulled me aside and told me it would never happen. ‘You’re the sister of the future queen,’ he said. ‘You can’t also be part of the legal system; it would be unconstitutional.’ ” She blew out a breath, lifting a few stray pieces of hair. “I think that was the moment I finally understood, that was all I could ever be. The sister of the future queen.”
She ran her hands up and down her arms, suddenly chilly. Marshall started to slip off his jacket, to tuck it over her shoulders, but Sam shook her head sharply. He’d done the same thing for Kelsey when she was cold.
She didn’t want to think about Kelsey—and that eager look in her eye when she’d asked whether Sam and Marshall were serious.
Marshall shrugged and left the jacket draped over the side of the chair. “Sam, my parents would have given anything for me to go to law school.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was never good at school, unless you count PE,” Marshall said, and she heard the pain beneath the seeming lightness of the words. “Reading was difficult for me; the letters were always changing places or turning into black squiggles. I tried to talk to my parents about it, but they just told me to buckle down and study harder. It wasn’t until third grade that they finally agreed to test me. That’s when we found out about my dyslexia.”
Sam remembered what he’d said when they were ballroom dancing: I know what it feels like to be someone’s punching bag. Her heart ach
ed for nine-year-old Marshall, struggling with a problem he couldn’t understand.
“I didn’t realize,” she murmured.
He shrugged, not meeting her gaze. “I’ve gotten really good at hiding it. My family was so ashamed, they made me try everything: tutors, therapy, even hypnosis. ‘The Duke of Orange cannot have a learning disability.’ ” The way he said that last sentence, Sam knew he was quoting someone: his parents, maybe, or his grandfather.
What surprised her most was that Marshall—who was always ready to push her buttons with a new, outrageous nickname, who argued with her for the sheer joy of arguing—had internalized his family’s opinion of him.
Someone must have opened a window downstairs—the party pulsed louder and more vibrant beneath them—but neither of them made a move to leave.
Marshall let out a heavy breath. “My parents always wanted me to follow the traditional path of the Dukes of Orange: to go to Stanford Law, graduate with honors, become a constitutional interpretation lawyer—or something equally highbrow—and eventually go into the family business of governing.” To Sam’s surprise, he didn’t sound bitter, just…hurt, and weary.
“I never wanted to be a lawyer like you did, Sam. But I still tried for years to live up to my parents’ expectations,” he said heavily. “Eventually it seemed easier to stop trying.”
Sam understood, then, why Marshall had embraced his tabloid image as a notorious partier. He acted that way out of self-preservation. Because it hurt less if his family rejected him for something he chose to do, instead of something he couldn’t control.
Unthinking, she reached out to cover his hand with one of her own. Then she realized what she’d done: that she’d touched him here, in private, when it was just the two of them and they weren’t performing for anyone.
Marshall didn’t pull his hand from beneath hers.
“Listen,” Sam said urgently. “I don’t care what your family says: you are going to be a great duke. You’re good at solving other people’s problems. You think outside the box. You are empathetic, and thoughtful, and charming—when you want to be,” she added, which coaxed an unwilling smile.
“Thanks, Sam,” Marshall said gruffly.
Sam was hyperaware of where their hands were still touching. It would be so easy to pull him close and kiss him, right there under the broad expanse of sky. A real kiss, not to make anyone jealous or to cause a scene but because she wanted to. Because she wanted him.
Yet somehow Samantha—who’d had her first kiss with the Prince of Brazil at age thirteen, who’d marched up to the world swimming champion after the last Olympics and invited herself to his victory party, who’d always gone after what she wanted in the boldest, most direct way possible—did nothing.
And then her chance was gone, because Marshall was pulling her to her feet with a familiar, mischievous smile. “Come on, love muffin. We don’t want to miss too much of the party.”
Sam rolled her eyes good-naturedly, following him back down the stairs.
She hated to admit it, but she’d gotten used to Marshall’s ridiculous nicknames. She was going to really miss them when this whole charade was over.
* * *
Several hours later, the ballroom of the ducal mansion was a blaze of chaotic orange.
Sam saw actors and producers, a few tech billionaires and philanthropists, and most of the aristocracy of Orange—including the Viscount Ventura, in his electric-orange tuxedo, and the aging Countess of Burlingame, who was walking around the party with a teacup-sized dog clutched to her chest. The room undulated with shades of pumpkin and persimmon and fiery orange-red.
She’d gotten separated from Marshall almost an hour ago, but had ended up finding his sister, Rory, who was just as smart as Marshall said. She was getting a degree in computer science, and had zero interest in following in her family’s footsteps and working in government.
“Orange comes from the flag, Sam,” Rory was saying, in answer to Sam’s question about the duchy. “The original flag we used, when we fought for independence from Spain. It was supposed to be red and white, but the dye kept changing to orange after a few days in the sun. So we leaned into it.”
“From what I can see, you’ve leaned into it hard.” Sam laughed, glancing around the room—and saw two things that made her go utterly still.
She saw Teddy, standing in a corner with Beatrice, leaning over to whisper in her ear. Beatrice said something in reply, and they laughed.
And she saw Marshall on the dance floor with Kelsey.
The actress’s arms were looped around Marshall’s neck, her matchstick-thin body pressed up against his. Sam held her breath, waiting for Marshall to pull away, but he didn’t. He just kept smiling down at Kelsey as they swayed back and forth to the music.
“I…excuse me,” she told Rory, and started blindly across the room. When she found an empty table in a corner, she sank down gratefully.
Only then did Sam realize that she wasn’t upset about Teddy and Beatrice. She had seen them together—in a moment that was real and intimate and genuinely affectionate—and she didn’t especially care. Exhaustion hit as some tether deep within her finally snapped.
She didn’t belong with Teddy at all. She belonged with Marshall.
Sam forced herself to think back to last year’s Queen’s Ball, when Teddy had met her at the bar, smiling and easygoing, the light glinting on his blond hair. They’d kissed in a closet, and the very next day, Sam had learned he was going on a date with Beatrice.
In response, she’d flung the full force of her teenage infatuation at him, and called it love.
If she and Teddy had ever gotten a chance to date normally, she would have realized that they didn’t make sense together. Sam would have bored of Teddy by the second date, the way she had with every other aristocratic guy she’d dated. Until Marshall.
Marshall, who was irreverent and exuberant and headstrong, like she was. Who provoked her, who galvanized her into being a better person. Who understood her. Marshall, who’d seen the messy truth of her life and hadn’t run away.
Sam sat there for a numb moment, letting herself adjust to this new strange truth. To the fact that Marshall was the one she’d wanted all along.
It was too late, she thought darkly. She’d lost him to Kelsey after all.
But then, he’d never really been hers to lose.
Daphne flashed her diamond-bright smile as she sailed through the doors of Tartine, the newest and trendiest restaurant in Washington. She’d gotten her hair blown out and was wearing a painfully chic black dress with cap sleeves. A pair of tourmaline droplets, on loan from Damien, brought out the vicious green of her eyes.
When Jefferson had asked her to dinner, she’d known that she needed to pull out all the stops. If he didn’t invite her to Beatrice’s wedding tonight, she wasn’t sure he would.
“Miss Deighton,” the hostess greeted her. “Please, let me show you to your table.”
As Daphne followed her toward the back of the restaurant, a few of the diners nudged one another, very unsubtly snapping pictures on their phones. Daphne kept her eyes straight ahead, but she walked a bit more slowly than necessary, her lips softening into a gentle smile.
When they reached the table, she scanned it with expert eyes, trying to determine which seat would cast her in a more flattering light. Then she sat down, smoothing her dress over her legs and tucking one ankle behind the other: arranging herself just so, on display.
Daphne still hadn’t heard anything from Himari since that single ominous text. True to her promise, Beatrice had appointed the Marikos as the new ambassadors to Japan; Daphne had seen the press announcement the moment it went live. Still, Himari maintained her silence.
Was she really going to move halfway across the world without saying anything at all?
It made Daphne feel oddly holl
ow, that she was so close to winning Jefferson back at last, and there was no one she could talk about it with. Himari was the only person she had ever really trusted…except for Ethan. And there was no way Daphne could discuss this with him, not when his relationship with Jefferson was the collateral damage she’d left in her wake.
It wasn’t as if Ethan would speak to her right now, anyway.
A momentary hush fell over the restaurant, which could only mean one thing: Jefferson had arrived.
Daphne stood, along with everyone else, as he started toward her. When he reached her table, she ducked into an elegant curtsy. Jefferson waved away the gesture and sat down, and a collective sigh echoed through the room.
“Daphne. Thanks so much for coming,” he said, smiling.
His Revere Guard stationed himself a few yards away, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed. He was wearing plainclothes, not that anyone was fooled into thinking he was one of the waitstaff.
“I’m so glad you suggested it,” Daphne murmured. As if she hadn’t been awaiting this very invitation for months now.
She and Jefferson had seen a lot of each other the past few weeks, but always in a big group setting, or at the palace, on the afternoons Daphne met up with Samantha for media training. She and the prince hadn’t really been alone together until tonight.
Daphne hoped she was right about the reason he’d asked her here. But she knew, too, that he needed to work his way around to it. So once they had placed their orders, she looked up with an eager smile.
“You’ll never guess what happened after the Feed Humanity gala,” she began. “Anthony Larsen got on one of those rental scooters and tried to ride it home, wearing his tux! He hit an uneven corner at Durham Street and went flying onto the sidewalk…”
As Daphne spun out the story, Jefferson leaned forward, interrupting with occasional questions and appreciative laughter. A typical youngest child, he’d always hated silences, so Daphne made sure she had an endless supply of anecdotes with which to fill them.
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