American Royals

by Katharine McGee

  “You’re lucky to have a friend like her.”

  Sam nodded in agreement. “Still, I have this fear that going to college will only highlight how lonely I already am. And I’ll spend four years being just as miserable as Beatrice was. Except probably worse, because I’m not the academic star that she is.”

  “You could try talking about this with Beatrice, you know.”

  “Beatrice doesn’t have time for me these days.”

  Teddy gave a gentle shake of his head. “I think you’d be surprised.”

  Sam thought back to the night of the musical—when Beatrice had knocked on her door, wide-eyed and lost, and Sam had greeted her with nothing but disdain. She colored at the memory.

  “What about you? Did you make any good friends at Yale?” she decided to ask.

  “Yeah, but I’m more like you. I’ve had the same best friend since childhood,” Teddy admitted. “It’s just easier with people who’ve known you for most of your life, rather than people who judge you after the first glance.”

  She twisted a lime-green hair tie up and down her wrist. “I know what you mean. People never have a good first impression of me.”

  Teddy’s blue eyes deepened. “Or sometimes the first impression is fine, and it’s the second impression that goes all wrong.”

  Sam wondered if he was talking about them—about her first impression of Teddy, and how drastically it had changed after he went out with her sister.

  Her confusion was broken by the buzzing of her phone, where it lay perched on a nearby ledge. Sam lurched out of the hot tub to grab it. Her eyes widened when she saw the text she’d received.

  “Beatrice is on her way back. She should be here in a couple of hours,” she said slowly. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d hoped Beatrice would remain stranded in Montrose.

  “I’m glad she’s okay,” Teddy replied, though some strange emotion darted over his face at the news.

  “Teddy … what’s really going on, with you and my sister?”

  For a moment Teddy tried to shrug off her words. “I’m not good enough for Beatrice,” he said, with a self-deprecating smile. “She’ll end up with someone far more important than I am—the Duke of Cambridge, maybe, or the tsarevitch.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “She can’t be with another heir; that’s a political impossibility.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course! The last time heirs to their respective thrones married each other was Philip of Spain and Queen Mary, and we all know how that turned out.”

  “We do?”

  “Not well,” Sam said curtly.

  “Too bad, then.” Teddy let out a sigh. “The truth is, I’ve enjoyed getting to know your sister. I really admire her.”

  “That’s the least romantic endorsement I’ve ever heard.” Sam hadn’t quite meant to blurt it out like that, but to her relief, Teddy didn’t seem bothered by her words.

  “She’s the future queen. I don’t think I’m supposed to feel romantic about her,” he said abruptly. “She exists on a higher plane than the rest of us, at the level of … I don’t know. Symbols and ideals.”

  The way Teddy said it, he made it sound pretty impossible to feel romantic about Beatrice.

  “I’m grateful, of course, that your parents thought I was worthy of being considered—”

  “My parents set you guys up?”

  “Beatrice didn’t tell you?” At her stunned look, Teddy let out a breath. “Your parents made a list of guys they wanted her to meet at the Queen’s Ball. And I made the cut. Of course,” he added, “my parents didn’t tell me the real reason we were attending the ball that night until after I’d already met you.” His eyes pleaded with her, a silent request for forgiveness. “I would never have gone into that coatroom with you if I’d known I was on Beatrice’s short list.”

  Short list. Oh god.

  Sam remembered what Beatrice had said the morning after that ball: No one is asking you to get married.

  She’d gotten it all wrong. She had assumed Beatrice was pursuing Teddy just because she could, when in fact their parents apparently wanted a royal wedding. Maybe they’d seen all those op-ed articles complaining about Beatrice’s lack of a boyfriend, or maybe they were simply anxious for some grandchildren, to secure the all-important succession for another generation.

  “I didn’t realize,” she said quietly.

  “Look, Beatrice and I get along,” Teddy said. “We understand each other. But if it was up to me …” He didn’t finish that sentence.

  She could only manage a single word. “Why?”

  Teddy looked down, avoiding her gaze. “There are certain expectations of me, because of who I am. Especially since my family lost our fortune.”

  Sam startled. “What?”

  “Like so many old New England families, we made our money generations ago, and have been managing it ever since. Until the last recession hit, and it turned out that my grandfather had placed a lot of it in some volatile investments. He died later that year.

  “My family is about to lose everything. All our houses, our positions, our way of life. We’ve already had to lay off hundreds of people, sell off our businesses—did you know my family was the single biggest employer in the Boston area?” Teddy’s voice was rough with anguish. “When you’re in that kind of position and the heir to the throne asks you out … it’s not a question that you say no to. You just don’t.”

  Sam glanced out the window, her mind spinning with everything he’d said. One of the Old Guard families about to lose everything, the future of an entire community on their shoulders … it was a lot of weight for one person to carry.

  Teddy’s transformation was slight, but Sam noticed it: the way his back went ramrod straight, the new distance in his eyes. It was eerily similar to the transformation she’d seen Beatrice make a thousand times—the way she would snap into her formal, remote self, as if putting on the Washington mask.

  “I shouldn’t have told you any of that,” he said, his voice heavy. “No one knows. Not even your sister. Please, can we keep it between us?”

  “Of course. What happens in the hot tub stays in the hot tub.” Sam was striving for lightheartedness, but she suddenly heard another meaning to her words.

  She saw from the glow of Teddy’s eyes that he did too.

  Sam waded toward him, holding out her hands beneath the bubbling surface of the water. Teddy hesitated, then laced his fingers in hers.

  “This is a lot for you to take on,” she murmured.

  “I’ve always known what’s expected of me, as I’m sure your sister does. It’s why we understand each other.” Teddy gave a lopsided smile. “Though things would have been easier for me and Beatrice if I hadn’t met you first.”

  “Teddy …”

  “I don’t regret it,” he hurried to say. “No matter what happens, I’m glad that I got to kiss you. Even if it was just once, in a coatroom.”

  No matter what happens.

  That sentence was a loud, grating record scratch, like nails on chalkboard, because Sam knew the words that Teddy had left out. No matter where things went with him and Beatrice.

  No matter if they ended up getting married.

  But her sister wasn’t here right now, and Sam refused to cede her this moment. Beatrice might get Teddy for the rest of his life, but she didn’t get him now. This parcel of time existed unto itself, removed from the rest of the world, from consequences or regrets or what-ifs. It didn’t belong to Beatrice at all, but to Teddy and Sam.

  Their hands were still clasped under the surface of the water. Sam felt almost light-headed, from the altitude or the heat or the sudden nearness of Teddy’s face.

  Their lips touched.

  The kiss was gentle and soft, nothing like their fevered kisses in the cloakroom that night. It was the kiss they might have shared if they’d met under other circumstances. If they’d had the chance to go on real dates, if Beatrice had never gotten between them.

 
Sam lifted her hands to splay them over the planes of Teddy’s chest, then draped them over his shoulders. She held tight to him, as if she were still tumbling down the mountain and he was the only solid thing left in the world. Everything seemed to go luscious, and slow, and still.

  Finally, after an impossible stretch of time, Teddy leaned his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry,” he said, breathing hard. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t ever apologize for kissing me.”

  There was that smile, the one that Sam found herself desperate to see again. “Noted” was all he said.

  “It’s getting late.” Reluctantly, Sam reached for her ponytail and wrung it out over one shoulder like a wet rag. She stepped out of the hot tub and shrugged into one of the robes in the heated cedar closet.

  Before she headed back inside, she cast one last glance back out at the mountains, still covered in the glittering carpet of last night’s snowfall. There was something evocative about the sight, something bright and glittering and full of promise.

  DAPHNE

  Daphne shivered; the night air felt slippery and cool on her arms, like a silken court gown. She was wearing a cocktail dress of black tulle with gold detail, a cropped fur jacket thrown over her shoulders. But then, she hadn’t dressed for the weather. She had dressed for battle. To remind Jefferson of everything he’d given up.

  Her stiletto heels clicked pleasantly on the sidewalk as she headed toward Smuggler’s. There was no sign out front, no indication that you were in the right place except for a single word, MEMBERS, in polished brass letters on the door.

  Some said that the owners of the ski-and-be-seen private club were the Washingtons themselves, though no one knew for certain. The identity of the proprietors was as closely guarded as the secrets of what happened behind that famous wooden door.

  Smuggler’s required that all guests check their phones at the entrance, particularly when the royal family was in residence. No unauthorized photos ever emerged of what went on inside. Of course, that only fueled the rumors: that the newlywed Dukes of Roanoke once got into a lovers’ quarrel there, so terrible that one of them threw a fork at the other (no one would ever say which); that the king’s sister Margaret hosted her bachelorette party there, and used the land line to drunkenly prank call all her ex-boyfriends, including the Duc d’Orléans and the maharaja of Jaipur. Most famous of all was tonight’s event, the Washingtons’ annual New Year’s Eve party.

  Despite the royal family’s efforts to keep this party low-profile, the entire town clearly knew about it. A massive crowd surrounded the entrance to Smuggler’s, everyone jostling eagerly for position, as if the security team might miraculously change their minds and suddenly let them inside. Toward the front of the crowd Daphne saw a few of the “it girls” who were busy on the capital’s social scene, wearing too-short dresses and too-large diamonds. They glanced her way, but Daphne pointedly refused to make eye contact. She marched to the front of the line as if she belonged here—because she did.

  “Hey, Kenny.” She nodded at the guard as she sauntered past, hoping that he wouldn’t—

  “Daphne?” Kenny startled to attention, giving her an uncomfortable smile. He had a space between his two front teeth. “I didn’t see you on this year’s list.”

  As a rule, Daphne loved barriers, but only when she was on the correct side of them.

  “Jefferson invited me,” she said innocently, and held out her phone. Sure enough, there was a series of texts from Jefferson. She clenched her hands at her sides, willing Kenny not to click on the contact icon, because then he would realize that the texts actually came from her mom’s phone. Daphne had composed them herself, while she was getting ready.

  “You guys are back together?” Kenny asked, then shook his head, handing her phone back. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not today.”

  Daphne’s stomach plummeted in panic. She could not afford for all these people to witness her humiliation. “You know I’m not a safety hazard,” she insisted, and made a show of opening her gleaming black purse, to show him the hairbrush and lip gloss tucked innocuously inside.

  Before Kenny could refuse her again, the front door of Smuggler’s swung open, and Ethan stepped out. He took in the entire situation with a single glance. Daphne unwillingly lifted her eyes to his.

  “I’m so sorry, Daphne.” She heard Ethan struggling to mask his amusement. “This is my fault. Jeff asked me to add you to the list, but I completely forgot. Can’t she come in?” This last was directed at Kenny.

  Daphne kept on smiling her sweet, ingenuous smile, but inwardly she was seething.

  Kenny seemed to think it over, then visibly relented. “Okay, just this once.”

  Daphne handed in her phone at the mandatory checkpoint, collecting a plastic claim ticket in its place. She started down the staircase, but Ethan pointedly held out an arm. She had no choice but to take it.

  Dim light gleamed from the chandelier overhead, which was made entirely of antlers. The lounge’s dark green walls were lined with Western-style paintings, the knotted pine floors covered in throw rugs and leather furniture. Women in sequined dresses and men in bow ties spilled into the next room, which held a bar and, farther, a dance floor.

  Daphne’s swift glance confirmed that it was the usual crowd: earls and countesses and Supreme Court members, a few scattered businesspeople, various members of the extended royal family. The king stood with his back to the massive stone fireplace, his arm brushing the queen’s as she recounted some story. Usually he was so jovial at these events—laughing, gesturing for the footmen to keep everyone’s wineglasses full—yet tonight Daphne noted a new gravity to his manner.

  “You can go now,” Daphne murmured, unhooking her arm from where it was looped through Ethan’s.

  “Your gratitude, as always, is overwhelming.”

  “You’ve made your point, Ethan. There’s no need to gloat.”

  “But I’m so good at it.” His eyes glittered like dark stars.

  “I’m not in the mood, okay?”

  He gave a lazy, sensuous grin. “Come on, Daphne. I know we’ve had our moments—”

  “That’s an understatement—”

  “—but you should be glad I’m here. Otherwise you’d still be standing on the doorstep, waving around your fake text messages.”

  She pursed her lips against an incisive retort. “Thank you for helping me get in,” she forced herself to say.

  Ethan chuckled at her discomposure. “No worries, you can owe me one.”

  Daphne didn’t deign to reply. She had zero intention of owing Ethan anything.

  He grabbed two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and tried to hand one to her, but she shook her head. She never drank in public: no matter that she was turning eighteen in a few months, and that underage drinking was tacitly permitted, or at least politely ignored, at private events like this. She had worked far too hard to risk her image over a cocktail.

  “It’s New Year’s Eve; no one cares,” Ethan countered, but Daphne ignored him.

  Her eyes had locked on a girl who stood to one side of the room, wearing a strapless black dress and cropped booties—booties, to a formal New Year’s Eve party.

  It was the look in Nina’s deep brown eyes that gave Daphne pause. Because she was staring at the patio, to where Prince Jefferson stood.

  It killed Daphne that they were both watching him. She hated that they had that in common, that they had anything in common.

  Daphne walked briskly toward her. “Nina! It’s been a while … since this summer, at least?” She said it hesitantly, implying that the other girl wasn’t memorable enough for her to be certain.

  Nina shrugged. “I was at the Queen’s Ball a few weeks ago. Maybe you were there?”

  Daphne’s smile froze on her face. Was Nina the reason that Jefferson had run off in the middle of their dance? “You look fantastic, by the way. I love those earrings.”

  It was an old tactic of hers: to use com
pliments to get the measure of her opponents, set them at ease.

  Nina reached a hand up to one ear, as if to verify which earrings she was, in fact, wearing. A tattoo flashed on the inside of her wrist. “Oh—these are Samantha’s.”

  Of course they were. “Well, they look lovely,” Daphne declared, and slightly tilted her head. “You know, I had no idea that you were in town. I guess I haven’t seen you post anything?”

  “I don’t really do social media,” Nina said dismissively. “Come to think of it, I didn’t realize you were in town this weekend either. Are you here with your parents?”

  The nerve of her. “I am. Actually, I ran into Jefferson the other day off the Apex lift. If I’d realized you were here, I would have suggested you come meet us,” she added, in a politely puzzled tone.

  Nina gave a self-deprecating laugh. “That’s okay. I can’t keep up with Jeff on those intense runs.”

  You can’t keep up with us anywhere. “I remember, you were always happier reading a book by the fire than out on the slopes. It’s nice to know that things haven’t changed.”

  “At least, most things,” Nina countered, as if to remind Daphne of what had changed most of all—her relationship with the prince.

  There was nothing more to be accomplished here; Daphne had made her point. “If you’ll excuse me …,” she said vaguely, and headed off in a flutter of spangled tulle skirts.

  Jefferson was out on the back patio, surrounded by a cluster of people, most of them young women. They cast him sidelong glances, fidgeting with their clothing as if their dresses had suddenly become too hot, or too loosely fastened.

  Daphne didn’t let it faze her. Girls were always throwing themselves at Jefferson. Things had been like this even when she and the prince were dating—and wouldn’t stop, she knew, until they were engaged. Maybe not even until they got married.

  When she met Jefferson’s gaze, he relaxed into an easy smile and followed her past an outdoor fire pit. Fairy lights had been strung throughout the space, echoing the sparkle of the stars overhead.