Daphne didn’t understand why her throat had gone sandpaper dry. But Jefferson didn’t seem to notice—because he was busy slipping off the gold signet ring he always wore on his pinkie finger.
It was small, much smaller than the massive Great Seal ring worn by his father, and now by Queen Beatrice. This was a family signet, its flat round bezel marked with the Washingtons’ coat of arms: a script W below a row of stars. The only other man entitled to wear one was Jefferson’s uncle Richard.
The walls seemed to shrink in on her. No matter how hard she sucked air into her lungs, Daphne felt like she couldn’t breathe.
Jefferson started to reach for her hand, then paused, as if realizing he should ask her permission. “I love you, Daphne,” he told her, and she knew that in that moment that he meant it—really meant it, so much more than all the times he’d said it back when they’d dated in high school. “I was…I hoped…Would you wear this?”
She felt herself teetering on the edge of some great precipice, as if she had finally scaled the top of a peak she’d been climbing her whole life. And now that she was finally cresting the top, she wasn’t even sure why she was here.
Once she stepped out into the world wearing that ring, everyone would know that she and Jefferson were back together—more than that, even. That they were sworn to each other, that they had reached an understanding. A signet ring wasn’t an engagement ring, yet that script W unquestionably marked her as one of the Washingtons.
The moment the paparazzi snapped a photo of Daphne in that ring, her entire world would change.
People would start taking bets on everything from their engagement to future baby names. Porcelain companies would surreptitiously begin their designs, in hopes of being granted the commission for her commemorative wedding china. Daphne would become the center of a whirlwind of breathless speculation.
And someday when she and Jefferson were married, she would soar to the top of the social hierarchy, and become the third-highest-ranking woman in the realm. Everyone would be obligated to curtsy to her. Except, of course, for Samantha and Beatrice.
It was everything she had struggled for all these years—her greatest moment of triumph. Yet Daphne’s lungs had frozen. She didn’t know how to say yes. To accept the ring, and everything that came with it.
As if she were a marionette being pulled by a string, she lifted her right hand. It trembled only slightly.
Daphne sat absolutely still, powerless to move, as Jefferson slid the signet over her ring finger. It slipped easily over her knuckle to settle at the base of her finger. The ring still felt warm from the heat of his skin.
“Thank you,” she managed, though it came out almost a whisper. “I didn’t…I wasn’t expecting this.”
Jefferson laced their fingers and squeezed her hand. “I love you, Daphne,” he said again. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure out—and for everything I put you through—but I promise that things will be different this time. We have each other, and that’s what matters more than anything.”
We have each other. Jefferson no longer had anyone else, because Daphne had taken them all from him—had torn his best friend from him in a fit of spite.
And to reach this moment of triumph, Daphne had ensured that she was just as alone as the prince now found himself.
Dimly, she realized that she hadn’t actually told Jefferson I love you in return. She needed to. She should open her mouth and say it; it would be easy, just three simple words. Hadn’t she said them countless times before without meaning them?
The afternoon slanted through the windows, to fall in a play of light and shadow over the planes of the prince’s face. His Highness Jefferson George Alexander Augustus, Prince of America, was still waiting for her answer.
Since she was fourteen her life had revolved around him: winning him, keeping him, trying to hurt anyone who got between them, hurting herself instead. Daphne had plotted and schemed and manipulated, had burned bridges and scorched earth in her efforts to draw him back to her side. And now he was here, and it was all over at last, and the only thought running through her head was what an utter fool she had been, to build her life around the wrong boy.
It was too late to change course. Her chance for a future with Ethan was gone. And now that Daphne was here, confronted with the future she’d spent all those years striving for, no one could ever know what it had cost her.
No one could ever know that the smiles she gave Jefferson were smiles she should have showered on Ethan, the boy she’d loved, only to realize it too late. No one could know that she had paid for the highest of titles with the greatest of heartbreaks. And she would never tell them.
She remembered what Nina had said this morning: that Daphne would get everything she had ever wanted, only to find that she was completely alone.
Daphne looked at Jefferson and gave him the answer he expected, the answer her parents wanted her to give—the Deighton answer.
“I love you, too,” she assured him, her face frozen in her beautiful, perfect smile. “And I’m so very happy.”
Beatrice had never seen the palace in such upheaval. Especially not when she was the cause of it.
Security and footmen and party planners swarmed the halls, searching for something to do, for an answer that no one seemed able to give. In all their centuries of history the Washingtons had never experienced anything like this: a royal wedding that wasn’t. It was especially chaotic given that the Lord Chamberlain had just handed in his resignation, leaving his assistant in charge.
If only Beatrice had been confident enough to fire Robert months ago. He’d never really been working for her; he’d been working for an outdated notion of what her role should be. And she could never become the queen she needed to, not with him undermining her efforts.
She remembered, suddenly, what her father had said that final morning at the hospital: It won’t be easy for you, a young woman, stepping into a job that most men will think they can do better. Harness some of that energy of yours, that stubbornness, and stick to your beliefs.
Her father wouldn’t have wanted her to be a puppet queen, her every movement dictated by Robert and the palace establishment. King George had understood that change was an integral part of America’s DNA, that change was crucial to the nation’s success. If the monarchy was as stiff and inflexible as Robert wanted it to be, it would never survive.
“Franklin,” Beatrice called out. The puppy emerged from beneath a marble coffee table, his tail wagging furiously. At her voice he bounded toward her. She settled onto the rug, smoothing her skirt over her legs, pulling his warm puppy weight contentedly into her lap. If only everything in life could be this simple.
The two of them were alone in the second-floor sitting room known as the Green Room. It had originally been named in the theatrical sense, since it was where the royal family gathered before their famous appearances on the Washington Palace balcony. But forty years ago, Beatrice’s grandmother had decided that the name should match the setting, and redecorated. Now the room looked like something out of the Emerald City, all forest green and gold.
Curtains looped over the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that lined one wall. Through the gap between them, Beatrice saw the crowds still gathered outside the palace. They milled about restlessly, clearly wondering whether she and Teddy were still going to come out onto the balcony, even though they hadn’t gotten married today. It didn’t help that the palace still hadn’t confirmed when the wedding would take place, and refused to release any details about the so-called “security scare” that had delayed it.
If Samantha had never pulled that alarm—if the wedding had moved forward as planned—Beatrice and Teddy would be standing out on the balcony right now: waving down at crowds who were bright with excitement, instead of murmuring in confusion. The newlyweds’ balcony appearance dated to the reign of Edward I. He�
��d thought it the easiest way to introduce America to its new queen, only recently arrived from Spain. By now the balcony appearance was arguably the most beloved of all the Washingtons’ wedding traditions.
Beatrice had appeared on that balcony so many times in her life—in smocked dresses and ribbons as a child, in tailored skirts and patent-leather heels as she grew older—smiling, waving, presenting a meticulously curated image of herself to the world.
A memory rose to the surface of her mind, of one of those annual Fourth of July appearances. Beatrice had leaned her elbows over the balcony’s iron railing, craning her neck to see the military planes that soared in formation overhead. Then strong hands had hoisted her upward: her father, propping her onto his shoulders so that she could see.
When he’d gestured, it wasn’t upward, to where the planes were leaving great trails of smoke like messages in the sky, but to the sea of jubilant, shouting people below.
“They’re cheering for you, you know,” he’d told her. “Because they love you, Beatrice. Just like I do.”
Her vision blurred, and she twined her fingers in Franklin’s fur to steady herself. Her father’s words rattled around her empty head like pebbles in a jar. What would he say if he could see her now, hiding from her people instead of facing them?
A knock sounded at the door, and Beatrice wiped furiously at her eyes. “Come in,” she called out, her voice surprisingly steady.
Teddy stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him.
He was still wearing his outfit from this morning, the white button-down shirt and striped blue trousers of his ceremonial dress uniform, though he’d taken off the matching jacket. His shirt was untucked, and unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a small triangle of his tanned chest. Beatrice forced herself to look away as she stood, smoothing her dress against her thighs.
“You took off your gown.” Teddy nodded to her royal blue dress, with its elbow-length sleeves and pintucked waist.
“It’s a lot of gown” was all Beatrice could say. It hadn’t seemed right to keep it on, not after the decision she had reached.
Teddy lingered near the doorway, not making any move toward her. The new distance between them, when just last night they had been twined together in bed, made her chest ache.
“Beatrice,” he said heavily, and it struck her that he’d used her full name. “What happened earlier?”
“That security breach spooked everyone,” she began, automatically launching into the explanation she’d given all day: that after the jarring chaos of the alarm, she’d felt too on edge to move forward with the ceremony. Surprisingly, Queen Adelaide hadn’t objected—probably because she could tell that her daughter’s mind was made up. Even Jane had agreed, especially once Beatrice had clarified that her family would personally cover the cost of today’s events, leaving nothing to the taxpayers.
“We both know it takes more than a security scare to change your mind,” Teddy interrupted. “If you’d still wanted to get married after the alarm, we would have. Please, Beatrice—we promised each other secrets, but no lies. Remember?”
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, shame silencing her.
“You know why the alarm went off, don’t you,” Teddy went on. It wasn’t really a question.
“I do.”
At first Beatrice hadn’t been able to believe what Sam had done. But then, seeing her sister’s quiet composure as she’d confessed, Beatrice had realized that it was the right decision.
And she’d realized, too, how much Sam had changed.
Her irrepressible mischief was still there, but the loss of their father had transmuted it into something else: a bold self-possession that turned heads. Where she had once been willful and rambunctious, Sam now let her inner confidence carry her along. And the world was taking notice. Certainly Beatrice was.
For the first time, she felt truly glad that Samantha was next in line for the throne.
“Samantha set off the alarm,” she confessed, meeting Teddy’s gaze. His bright blue eyes went wide with shock.
“Sam?” he asked, bewildered. “Why?”
“She was…” Beatrice trailed off, but the truth must have been written on her face, because Teddy’s features grew grave and closed-off.
“He was here, wasn’t he.”
Teddy didn’t use Connor’s name because he didn’t know it, but it hardly mattered. Beatrice could tell exactly who he meant.
“How did you know?”
“Because I know you. I’ve seen that look you get when you’re thinking of him,” Teddy said hoarsely. “You know I’ll support you, whatever you decide. But if you want to be with him—”
“I told him goodbye.”
Teddy ran a hand distractedly through his hair, mussing its perfect golden waves. Combined with the untucked shirt and cuffed sleeves, it made him look young, and boyishly disheveled. “Then why did you cancel the wedding?”
“I didn’t cancel it; I’m delaying it,” she clarified. “Teddy, everything between us happened at lightning speed. Our relationship and engagement, the wedding planning—it was all a whirlwind. When that alarm went off today, I realized that I had gotten lost in it all.” Beatrice took a hesitant step forward, willing him to understand. “We deserve to get married when we want to, on a timeline that makes sense. I don’t want our wedding to be some kind of reaction to what we think America needs. I want it to be for us.”
“It would still have been for us, if we’d held the ceremony today.” Teddy reached for her hand.
“Would it?” Beatrice pressed. “Half of America thinks I’m marrying you because I need you to do my job for me. I’m the first female monarch,” she said helplessly. “What kind of example am I setting for the women who come after me—for all the women in America—if I don’t do it alone for a while, before you join in?”
“Let me get this straight,” Teddy clarified. “You wanted to marry me when you didn’t love me, because you thought it would help manage public opinion. And now you don’t want to get married even though you do love me, because you want to manage public opinion?”
“Public opinion is a fickle beast,” she said lightly, and let out a breath. “If I marry you now, I’m validating the claims of all those people who say a woman can’t rule alone. I want to prove them wrong.”
Teddy nodded slowly. “I get it,” he assured her. “Still…I’d be lying if I said I’m not disappointed. I wanted to be married to you. And to go on our honeymoon.”
“We should still go!”
His eyebrows shot up with surprise and unmistakable amusement. “The Queen of America, sharing a honeymoon suite with a man who isn’t her husband? Are you sure?”
“Like I told Samantha, we’re dragging this monarchy into the twenty-first century. People are going to have to get used to it.” Beatrice stepped forward into his arms, nestling her head against his chest for a moment. She’d grown so addicted to his strength and solidity, to the warm familiar scent of him.
“I promise we’ll get married someday. And that when I propose again, it’ll be better than the last time.” She saw Teddy’s mouth curl into a half smile at the memory. It was strange to think of how different things had been back then, how little they’d known each other.
Beatrice paused, fumbling for the right words to explain. “When I marry you, I want to do it as me, not just as the queen. And I’m still figuring out who that is. Who I am.”
Teddy’s blue eyes were very soft as he said, “I know exactly who you are.”
“I know. You believed in me, even when I wasn’t brave enough to believe in myself.” She tilted her face up to his. “But there are so many things I still want to do. I want to see the world and have adventures and learn, so that someday when we get married, I’m ready for it. And most of all…”
She looked out at the bal
cony, and the teeming mass of people still gathered below. Their phones winked at her like a million dancing fireflies.
They were her people. If her father were here, she knew precisely what he would say: that he was proud of her, that he loved her. That she had the power to change history.
“Most of all?” Teddy prompted.
Beatrice tugged her hands from his and stepped toward the balcony. She was suddenly glad that she’d taken off her wedding gown; she didn’t want to look like a bride right now, but like a sovereign.
She was going to make a balcony appearance—to step out into the warm June night, alone.
“Most of all,” she told him, “I am going to be the queen.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For reasons I still don’t understand, sequels always seem to cause more trouble than their predecessors! I am so grateful to everyone who devoted their time and talents to making this book a reality.
To my editor, Caroline Abbey: thank you for your endless patience, for your ability to laugh, and mostly for being so ridiculously good at your job. There is no one I would rather be on this royal journey with.
A huge thank-you is due to the entire publishing team at Random House, especially Michelle Nagler, Mallory Loehr, Kelly McGauley, Jenna Lisanti, Kate Keating, Elizabeth Ward, Adrienne Waintraub, and Emily Petrick. Noreen Herits and Emma Benshoff, thank you for your boundless energy and your willingness to publicize this book in all kinds of unexpected ways. Also, special thanks to Alison Impey and Carolina Melis for these truly magnificent covers.
Joelle Hobeika, this story is so much stronger because of your guidance. Thank you for never giving up on it. I am lucky to work with an incredible team at Alloy Entertainment: Josh Bank, Sara Shandler, Les Morgenstein, Gina Girolamo, Kate Imel, Romy Golan, Matt Bloomgarden, Josephine McKenna, and Laura Barbiea.
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