Majesty Read online

  Ethan’s eyes were still half-closed. “Sorry, I used up all my gentlemanliness walking you home.”

  “Give it back!” Nina tugged at the pillow, just as Ethan yanked it from behind his head and threw it at her.

  “Oops,” he said cheerfully.

  Then they were whacking each other with the pillow, just like when they were little and would all chase each other around the palace, shrieking with delight, with Sam always in the middle of the melee, leading the great girls-versus-boys joust of pillows.

  Eventually they leaned back, both of them breathing heavily. Nina felt almost sore from laughing so hard. The laughter was still fizzing through her, dissolving into a bright, heady afterglow.

  Suddenly, she realized how very close her face was to Ethan’s. Close enough that she could see each freckle that dusted his cheeks, could see the individual lashes curling over his deep brown eyes.

  He reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  Nina’s entire being centered on that point of contact, where his skin touched hers. She knew she should move, should remind Ethan that this wasn’t fair to Jeff and they needed to call it a night. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to say Jeff’s name, and break the magic that seemed to have spun itself around her and Ethan.

  Ethan’s touch grew firmer, his hand moving to trace the line of her jaw, her lower lip. The air between them crackled with electricity. Very slowly, as if he wanted to give her time to change her mind—which she didn’t—he brushed his lips against hers.

  Nina leaned deeper into the kiss, her grip tightening over his shoulders. She felt heat everywhere they touched; his hands seemed to singe her very skin.

  Ethan abruptly pulled away, his breathing ragged. “I should get going,” he muttered, sliding off her bed.

  As the door shut behind him, Nina fell back onto her bed and closed her eyes, wondering what the hell had just happened.

  When Sam saw that the ballroom was still dark, she heaved a dramatic sigh. She had meant to show up late to this stupid wedding rehearsal, but it would seem that Robert had outsmarted her, and sent her a schedule with a false start time.

  She wondered if he’d done the same to Marshall. Last week, when she’d informed Robert that Marshall was her wedding date, the chamberlain had sniffed in disapproval. “He’ll need to attend rehearsals. Please make sure he shows up,” Robert had said ominously.

  “Fine,” Sam had snapped, though she wasn’t sure she could make Marshall do anything. He was like her in that regard.

  She sank onto a velvet-upholstered bench and stared at the painting on the opposite wall: a full-length oil portrait of their entire family, the type of formal, choreographed picture that was intended for the pages of future textbooks.

  In the portrait, Queen Adelaide was seated with four-year-old Jeff in her lap. Light danced over the latticed diamonds of her tiara. The king stood behind them, one hand on the back of the chair, the other resting on Beatrice’s shoulder. Sam’s breath caught a little at the sight of her dad. It felt like she was looking through a spyglass that sent her back in time, to before she’d lost him.

  She glanced to the opposite side of the painting, where she stood, detached from the rest of her family. It almost seemed like the rest of them had posed without her, and then the artist had painted her in at the last minute.

  “Do you remember sitting for that?”

  Sam glanced up sharply. Beatrice hesitated, then sat next to Sam: warily, as if unsure whether she might bite. She was wearing a long-sleeved dress that buttoned at the wrists, which looked especially elegant next to Sam’s frayed jeans.

  “Sort of.” Sam remembered the hypnotic sound of the artist’s pencil, remembered being so impatient to see herself—to witness this transformation of blank canvas into an image of her—that she kept trying to wriggle from her mom’s lap. When Adelaide had snapped at her, the artist had suggested that Sam and Jeff trade places. Don’t worry if she won’t stand still; I’ll fix it in the painting, he’d assured the queen. That’s the benefit of oil portraits: they’re more forgiving than photography.

  She remembered seeing reprints of that portrait in the palace gift shop, and realizing that complete strangers were paying money for images of her family. That was the first time that Sam truly understood the surreal nature of their position.

  “I miss him,” Beatrice murmured. “So much.”

  Sam looked over at her sister. Right now she didn’t seem particularly majestic. She was just…Beatrice.

  “I miss him, too.”

  Beatrice’s eyes were still locked on the painted figure of their dad. “This doesn’t even look like him.”

  “I know. He’s way too kingly.”

  The George who stared back at them from the portrait was grave and resolute and stern, the Imperial State Crown poised on his brow. No one could doubt that he was a monarch.

  But Sam didn’t miss her monarch; she missed her dad.

  “He always made that face when he put the crown on. Like the weight of it forced him to be more serious,” Beatrice mused.

  “So do you. You have a constipated crown face,” Sam deadpanned. At her sister’s expression, she huffed out something that was almost a laugh. “I’m kidding!”

  “Ha-ha, very funny,” Beatrice replied, though she ventured a smile.

  Sam realized that this was the most they’d spoken in weeks. Ever since the Royal Potomac Races, she’d gone back to avoiding her sister, the way she had for so many years. Beatrice had made a few attempts at reconciliation—had knocked at the door to Sam’s room, texted asking if she could get lunch—but Sam had answered them all with silence.

  She glanced over at Beatrice, suddenly hesitant. “Nice pitch at the Generals game, by the way.”

  “You saw that?”

  The surprise in her sister’s voice melted Sam’s animosity a little further. “Of course I saw. Didn’t you know it’s a meme now? It’s pretty badass.”

  “Thank you,” Beatrice said. “I…I had some help.”

  Sam started to answer, only to fall silent as Teddy turned the corner.

  And just like that, the fragile moment of truce between the Washington sisters was shattered. Everything Sam wanted to say would have to remain unspoken. The way it always did in their family.

  There was a moment of chagrin, or maybe regret, on Teddy’s face, but it quickly vanished. “Hey, Samantha,” he greeted her, as easily as if she had never been anything to him but his fiancée’s little sister.

  Sam braced herself for a wave of longing and resentment, but all she felt was a dull sort of weariness.

  They were saved from further conversation by the arrival of everyone else: Queen Adelaide and Jeff, followed by Robert. The chamberlain gestured for Beatrice to lead them all into the ballroom—as if it were crucial that they follow the order of precedence, even in a casual setting. This was precisely why Sam had always hated protocol.

  “Thank you all for being here,” Robert began. “I know it might seem early to be rehearsing, but we can’t afford any mistakes. We’ll have two billion people watching the live coverage of the ceremony.”

  The wedding of Sam’s parents had been the first royal wedding broadcast on international television, a decision that had been controversial among the Washington family. People watched it in bars, Sam’s grandmother always said, her voice hushed with disapproval.

  “And I thought it best that we all meet before your weekend in Boston,” Robert added, with an ingratiating nod toward Beatrice. “That way you can review the schedule with His Lordship’s family and let me know if they have any preferred changes.”

  Sam hardly heard her sister’s reply, hardly registered her mom chiming in, saying that she would be down in Canaveral this weekend and would they give the duchess her love. Sam had focused with relentless cruelty on those four
words: your weekend in Boston.

  Teddy was bringing Beatrice home to Walthorpe.

  He’d moved on from Sam to her older sister. Which was fine by Sam, since he meant nothing to her, either. All it had been was a stupid flirtation, and now it was over.

  Robert was still droning on about something—most likely etiquette—while Sam edged closer to her brother.

  “It’s just us this weekend,” she whispered, with a nod toward Beatrice and Teddy. “Should we have people over?”

  Back in high school, they had often thrown parties when their dad left town. It was as if, once the monarch had gone and the Royal Standard was lowered from the flagpole, the palace stopped feeling like an institution and started feeling like their house.

  Jeff blinked. “You want to throw a party, after what happened last time?”

  Sam winced at the memory. “Himari’s fall was an accident. And besides—she’s out of her coma!” Sam had seen the news; it was all over social media. “Come on, Jeff, we could all use some cheering up right now.”

  Not to mention, it would show Teddy how little she cared that he and Beatrice were being all couple-y up in Boston.

  “Okay. Let’s do it,” Jeff whispered.

  “What are you two conspiring about?” their mother demanded.

  “Nothing,” the twins chorused. It felt so much like old times again that Sam had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

  Robert cleared his throat, a pompous, grating sound. “As I was saying, today we will be practicing the opening moments of the reception. After their entrance, the newlyweds will begin the traditional first dance to ‘America, My Homeland.’ ”

  At his words, Beatrice and Teddy made their way onto the ballroom’s polished wooden floor.

  “Following the first chorus, the family members will join in, as dictated by tradition.” Robert nodded at Queen Adelaide. “Your Majesty, His Grace the Duke of Boston will lead you onto the dance floor. As for His Highness Prince Jefferson…” Robert turned pointedly to Jeff. “You still haven’t told me the name of your date.”

  Jeff flashed a blithe, careless smile. “I’m waiting until the last minute. It’s more fun to keep everyone guessing.”

  Sam wondered if her brother had anyone in mind. There was always the possibility he would do what the world expected of him, and get back together with Daphne.

  She hoped not. It certainly wouldn’t be easy on Nina, seeing Jeff and Daphne together again.

  “Samantha,” Robert said now, omitting her title, though he’d used it for everyone else. “You said that you’ve invited Lord Marshall Davis. Where is he?”

  Sam was inordinately pleased by how startled Teddy looked at the news. Even Beatrice, who never revealed her emotions, widened her eyes in surprise.

  “I’m sure he’s on his way,” she began, though she wasn’t at all sure. But somehow, right on cue, the doors to the ballroom were flung open.

  Marshall crossed the room with bold, easy strides and came to stand next to Sam. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t hold things up too much.”

  It was the most unapologetic sorry that Sam had ever heard. Which meant a lot, coming from her.

  Robert pursed his lips in disapproval. “Now that we’re all here, let’s begin.” He swiped at his tablet, and the opening notes of “America, My Homeland” played on the speaker system.

  It really was a dour song, Sam thought, feeling almost sorry for Beatrice. At least when she got married, she would get to choose the music for her first dance.

  Marshall draped an arm over her shoulders in a casual gesture. “Hey, babe.”

  Sam nestled in closer, letting her head tip onto his shoulder. “I told you not to call me that,” she murmured—and gave his side a pinch.

  Marshall didn’t even wince. He just caught her hand with his, lacing their fingers. “Oh, snookums, I have a younger sister. You’re going to have to do better than that to send me running.”

  “Snookums? Seriously?” Sam tried to tug her hand from his grip, but Marshall held it fast.

  He began brushing his thumb in lazy circles over her knuckles. It was distracting enough that Sam fell still. She let her gaze drift to where Beatrice and Teddy were floating through the steps of the dance.

  She hated to admit it, but they looked good together. When Teddy spun her on her toes, Beatrice’s dress even fluttered out a little, hinting at how much better the real dress would look. The exertion seemed to warm her, so that by the time they’d reached the first chorus, her cheeks were flushed with a delicate pinkness that made her look…happy.

  Robert turned around with a clucking noise. As Jeff headed to the other side of the ballroom—dancing with their mother, who was standing in for his date, whoever that would be—Marshall tugged Sam onto the dance floor. He clasped her right hand firmly in his left, settling his other hand on her hip. She fit into his arms with surprising ease.

  The music slid into a bleak, lonely-sounding bridge, and Marshall groaned. “How do they expect us to dance to such a depressing song?”

  “Just shut up and do as you’re told,” Sam snapped, a little disconcerted that his thoughts so closely mirrored hers. “I’m starting to worry that you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

  He smiled at that. “No one will believe we’re dating if you keep saying what you actually think. Especially about me.”

  “But you make it so easy to insult you,” Sam tossed back, even as she realized that Marshall was right. She’d never been this brutally honest with a boy before—because she’d never entered a relationship knowing it would go nowhere. Honestly, it was kind of liberating.

  “Look, I know we said we’d go on our first public date next week,” she went on, “but Jeff and I just decided that we’re having a party on Saturday. You should come.”

  Marshall’s grip on her waist tightened. “Ah, so your mystery guy is going to be there. And you need me to strike fear and jealousy into his heart.”

  No, but I’ll post such fantastic pictures that he’ll have no choice but to see them, and realize I’ve moved on. “I can invite Kelsey, if that’s what you’re asking,” she offered.

  “Kelsey rarely leaves LA. She only came to that museum party because she was filming a commercial the next day.”

  “I thought you said you hadn’t talked to her,” Sam replied, and he gave a wry shrug at being caught.

  “We didn’t talk. I just…saw her post about the commercial online.”

  “Marshall!” Sam hissed. “You haven’t unfollowed her? That’s the first thing you’re supposed to do after a breakup!”

  “Sorry if I don’t rush to take your advice. I know that when it comes to relationships, you’re infinitely wise and mature,” he said drily, and Sam rolled her eyes.

  “Just promise you’ll come to the party, okay?”

  “Sure,” he agreed, surprising her. “When in my life have I turned down a party?”

  “I—okay. Thanks.” Sam was suddenly distracted by the way Marshall’s hand drifted lower, to settle over the curve of her spine.

  Really, dancing was a strange social phenomenon. Here she was, so close to Marshall that they could talk without being heard, close enough that she could smell the clean, laundered scent of him. Yet everyone seemed determined to pretend that it was just like any other court ritual—that it wasn’t intimate or physical at all.

  Her next step landed her foot squarely on his. She stumbled back, but Marshall tightened his grip on her elbow to steady her.

  “I know this won’t come naturally to you, but you could try following my lead,” he offered.

  “This is what I hate about ballroom dancing. Why should you be the one to lead, anyway?”

  “Because I’m taller. Obviously.” Marshall’s lips twitched. “Also, I have more durable shoes. They’re built to be stepped on by e
ven the sharpest of high heels.”

  “It was your fault,” she insisted, though she was biting back a smile. “You were in my way.”

  They danced for a few more minutes in silence. But when Marshall started to angle them on a diagonal, Sam shook her head. “What are you doing? This is the three-step turn!”

  “That comes later. First it’s the chassé.”

  She dug her heels in, her shoes squealing in protest on the hardwood floor.

  “Samantha! The chassé comes first!” Robert shouted. Sam could hear his frustration from across the ballroom.

  She started to shrug off the criticism the way she always did, but to her shock, Marshall drew to a halt, right there in the middle of the dance floor.

  “Sorry, Lord Standish; it was my mistake. I led Samantha astray.”

  Robert grumbled to himself, but waved aside the apology.

  Marshall turned back to Samantha, a hand held out expectantly. Slowly, a bit startled, she placed her palm in his.

  “Did you just take the fall for me?”

  “That’s what fake boyfriends are for, isn’t it?”

  “I…you didn’t have to do that.”

  Marshall shrugged as if it was no big deal. Maybe to him, it wasn’t. “I did, actually. I know what it’s like to be someone’s punching bag.”

  There was a note in his voice that made Sam want to ask what he meant. A real girlfriend would have—or, rather, a real girlfriend would have already known.

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  They went through the rest of the dance without speaking. Sam tried to concentrate on the steps—the promenade; the standing turn; the full spin, when she twisted into Marshall’s arms and then uncurled slowly. She focused on that, to keep herself from wondering about him.

  Suddenly the music was slowing down, the song reaching its final dramatic crescendo. Before Sam had quite registered what was happening, Marshall pulled her into a low, dramatic dip. Her entire weight was cradled on his right arm. Sam imagined she could hear his heartbeat echoing through her own body.

  “That was a good start,” Robert called out, tapping away at his tablet. “But we have a bit of work to do. Let’s do the whole thing again, from the top.”