Majesty Page 5

“This way.” Daphne started toward the archway that led out into the rest of the museum. Ethan gave a resigned sigh but followed.

  Long ago the G&A had been a train station, until the new, longer trains that ran on electricity had rendered its platforms obsolete. It was King Edward II who’d decommissioned the entire thing, turning it into an art museum instead, and naming it after his grandparents. Out here in the main causeway, you could still see traces of the old rail station: the grand curves of the mezzanine where travelers once sat gossiping over their morning espressos, the brick entrances to the train platforms, which now led guests to impressionist paintings. The ceiling soared overhead, its iron supports swooping up in a series of elegant arches.

  Daphne didn’t break stride until they were halfway down the hallway. Finally she paused at a statue of a man on horseback—a Roman emperor, probably, or one of the Washington kings. Whoever he was, his horse had reared up onto its hind legs, as if the man meant to trample anyone who stood in his way.

  Daphne knew the feeling.

  She glanced in all directions, making sure they were alone, before she ventured a smile in Ethan’s direction. “Sorry to drag you away from the party, but I was hoping to ask a favor.”

  His brows shot upward. “Really? You’re coming to me, after—”

  “I don’t like it either,” she interrupted, before he could say it out loud. “I just…I don’t have anyone else.”

  Ethan crossed his arms warily. “What do you want, Daphne?”

  “I need you to keep Nina Gonzalez as far from Jefferson as possible.”

  She saw him tense at her words and hurried to elaborate. “It shouldn’t be difficult; you both live on the same campus. Can’t you help me get her out of the picture?”

  Ethan paled. “You can’t seriously mean—after Himari—”

  “I’m not saying you should hurt her!” Daphne hissed. She hated what she’d done to Himari Mariko: her best friend, who’d been in a coma since last June. “I just want you to spend a little more time with her,” Daphne explained. “Keep tabs on what she’s up to.”

  Ethan’s voice was flat. “I see. You’re asking me to sideline Nina while you try to get Jeff back.”

  Daphne nodded. “She’s Samantha’s best friend; she’s going to keep showing up at royal events. I need you to distract her.”

  She’d forgotten what a relief it was, talking with Ethan. There was no one else with whom she could speak such blunt, unadorned truths. Being with him felt like taking off her shoes after a long and painful night of standing.

  “I’m curious,” Ethan said sarcastically. “When you came up with this plan, how exactly did you think I was going to distract Nina?”

  Daphne bristled at his tone. “Invite her to some parties, join her study group, flirt with her for all I care. The important thing is that she stays far from the palace, okay?”

  Ethan’s eyes flashed. “Shocking, I know, but I doubt Nina would be interested in me.”

  “Then make her interested! Come on, it should be easy. Don’t you remember what Nina was like on vacation? All she ever did was read. I’m sure she’d respond to some big romantic gesture.” Daphne paused, trying to remember everything she knew about Samantha’s best friend. “She’s always dreamed of visiting Venice. She collects M&M’s from foreign countries. She works in a library, for god’s sake.”

  Daphne took a step closer, close enough that she could have kissed Ethan in half a heartbeat. He stiffened as she rose on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.

  “Unless, of course, you think it’s too much of a challenge.”

  He drew back, shaking his head. “Sorry, you can’t bait me into this one.”

  Heat flooded her face, but before she could argue, he’d caught her hands in his.

  “Forget Nina. Forget Jeff,” he said roughly. “Daphne—you and I have been running these circles around each other for years. Aren’t you ready to quit pretending?”

  “I’m not pretending anything.” The words came out in a whisper.

  “Let’s do this, you and me. For real this time.” And with that, he leaned down to kiss her.

  Daphne had known, when she’d dragged Ethan out into the hallway, that something might happen between them. But she hadn’t bargained on this—this eager, treacherous rush of feeling that made her press her body forward, her arms darting up to circle his neck. She felt like she’d been on a torturous low simmer for months, and now she was finally alive again.

  Some dazed part of her mind imagined saying yes. Giving up on Jefferson, giving in to this gravitational pull between her and Ethan. That world seemed to momentarily exist, as insubstantial and iridescent as a soap bubble, before it vanished.

  Daphne tore herself away and stumbled back, adjusting the straps of her dress. There was a long, weighted silence.

  “Daphne,” Ethan said at last. “I can’t wait for you forever.”

  “I never asked you to wait for me,” she snapped.

  Something like hurt flickered over his face, but it quickly disappeared, replaced by his usual indifference.

  “Right. Instead you asked me to spy on Nina, so you could start dating my best friend again.” Ethan turned away. “This time, you’ll have to find someone else to do your dirty work.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while!”

  Daphne had cried out without thinking, out of desperation. She saw Ethan freeze, then glance warily over his shoulder at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I can give you something,” she said recklessly. “Money, or favorable coverage in the press, or…”

  Ethan stared at her for a long moment, so boldly that Daphne felt herself squirm beneath his gaze. The sounds of the party felt impossibly distant.

  “I’ll need a title,” he decided. “Someday, when you’re a princess, you’ll make it happen.”

  “Of course,” she told him, relieved that now they were bargaining. There was nothing Daphne loved more than a good negotiation.

  “I want to be a duke,” he added.

  Daphne almost laughed at the sheer audacity of it. “They haven’t awarded any new dukedoms since the nineteenth century. You know that.”

  “A marquess, then.” Ethan sounded as though he was enjoying himself.

  “A viscount.”

  “An earl.”

  “Done.” She gave a crisp, businesslike nod. “You keep Nina away from me and the prince, and eventually I’ll make you an earl.”

  “Okay, then.” Ethan relaxed into his usual languorous grin. “As always, Daphne, it’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

  Daphne watched him head back to the reception hall, wondering at the odd pang of disappointment she felt now that this moment with Ethan—this confrontation, or verbal sparring, whatever it was—had ended.

  She took a breath, pasting on her usual dazzling smile before starting back toward the party.

  The reception hall of the G&A museum was a crush of people.

  The guests smiled and laughed, posing for the photographers, raising their voices over the sound of the string quartet in the corner. Now that June 20 had been officially confirmed as the wedding date, people seemed incapable of talking about anything else. They eagerly gossiped about what they would wear, or who might not get an invite, or what lucky designer would make Beatrice’s gown.

  Sam hated them for being so gullible and stupid, for buying into the absurd charade of Beatrice and Teddy’s relationship. Couldn’t they tell that it was all for show, each detail choreographed by the palace’s PR team?

  Yet the entire nation seemed to have erupted in wedding fever overnight. Sam had seen it everywhere. Restaurants were naming new dishes and cocktails after the couple; dozens of fitness studios already claimed to offer Beatrice’s pre-wedding workout routine. Even tonight Beatrice and Teddy were the guests of honor, for the mu
seum’s opening of a new exhibit on royal weddings.

  If only Nina had agreed to come with her. But when Sam had asked, Nina had begged off, claiming she was busy. Which Sam had silently translated as I don’t want to see Jeff.

  She ran her hands over her dress, a whimsical all-lace affair with an asymmetrical hem, and scanned the crowds in search of her brother. Instead Sam saw Beatrice across the reception hall.

  As usual, Beatrice was surrounded by a cluster of people. In her hyacinth-blue dress, a smile pasted on her face, she looked like a beautiful porcelain doll. That was Beatrice, perpetually acting. Sam had never been any good at statesmanship, because she wasn’t any good at artifice. She tended to do and say exactly what she meant, the very moment she thought of it.

  Beatrice’s eyes darted up to meet Sam’s. For an instant, her picture-perfect mask slipped, revealing the real Beatrice—a young woman who looked uncertain and achingly alone.

  Sam took a single step forward.

  Then something caught Beatrice’s attention, and she glanced away. Sam followed her sister’s gaze—to Teddy.

  Sam watched, utterly oblivious to the rest of the room, as Teddy made his way to her sister. His tie was the same shade of blue as her dress, making them seem like a matched set. He said something charming—at least, Sam assumed it was charming, from the way everyone laughed—and placed his hand lightly over Beatrice’s.

  Sam drew in a sharp breath and stumbled back. Her eyes burned, yet she wasn’t crying. She needed to get out of here, far from Beatrice and Teddy and all the rest of them.

  She wove blindly through the crowds and pushed open a door marked STAFF ONLY. A server looked up, startled. “Excuse me—I mean, Your Royal Highness—” He was pushing a catering cart, and Sam heard the unmistakable clink of jostling wine bottles.

  “Don’t mind me,” she muttered. The startled waiter had barely registered her words before Sam had lifted a bottle of sauvignon blanc from the cart. Then she was sailing past him, through a heavy unmarked door and into the spring night.

  A narrow balcony wound around the side of the museum. Still clutching the wine bottle in one hand, Sam draped her elbows onto the railing. The iron felt blessedly cool against her feverish skin.

  Below her stretched the capital, a jagged quilt of light and dark. It had rained that morning, and headlights flickered through the haze, making the cars seem to float above the shimmering pavement. The scene blurred disorientingly in her vision.

  She hadn’t realized how much it would sting, seeing them together. I don’t care, she thought furiously. I hate them both. Beatrice and—

  There was a brief struggle in her chest, pride warring with affection, but at her core Sam was a Washington, and pride won out. It didn’t matter that once upon a time she’d thought she was in love with Teddy.

  He wasn’t her Teddy anymore. He was just another face in a room full of strangers.

  In choosing Beatrice, or duty, or whatever he wanted to call it, Teddy had proven that he was just like the rest of them. He was part and parcel of this whole stuffy institution, which had never understood or valued her.

  Sam’s hand closed around the railing so tight that her palm hurt. She glanced down and saw that the iron was carved with a pattern of tiny faces: woodland sprites laughing in a sea of leaves and flowers. It felt like they were mocking her.

  Letting out a ragged cry, she lifted her satin heel and kicked the medallion in the center of the railing. When it didn’t budge, she gave it a few more kicks for good measure.

  “I don’t know what that railing ever did to you,” remarked a voice to her left. “But if you need to attack it, at least set down the wine first.”

  Slowly, Sam turned to look at the tall, broad-shouldered young man who stood a few yards away.

  She had a feeling she’d met him before. He wore an expensive gray suit that set off his deep brown skin, though his tie was askew and his shirt untucked, giving him a decidedly rakish air. When his eyes caught hers, he grinned: a cool, reckless grin that made Sam’s breath catch. He looked a few years older than she was, around Beatrice’s age. Sam felt something in her rise to the challenge of his dark eyes.

  “How long have you been lurking out here?” she demanded.

  “Lurking?” He crossed his arms, lounging carelessly against the railing. “I was out here first. Which makes you the intruder.”

  “You should have said something when I came outside!”

  “And miss that epic royal tantrum? I wouldn’t have dreamed of it,” he drawled.

  Sam’s grip on the railing tightened. “Do I know you?”

  “Lord Marshall Davis, at your service.” He bent forward at the waist, executing a perfect ceremonial bow. The words and the gesture were elegant, the type of thing any nobleman might have done when meeting a princess, yet Sam sensed that he didn’t mean a word of it. There was an irreverence to the gesture, as if Marshall had exaggerated his courtesy in contrast to her own undignified behavior.

  He rose from his bow, his mouth twitching with suppressed laughter, just as his name clicked in Sam’s memory. Marshall Davis, heir to the dukedom of Orange.

  Orange, which spanned most of the western seaboard, hadn’t joined the United States until the nineteenth century. Marshall’s family wasn’t part of the “Old Guard,” the thirteen ducal families knighted by King George I after the Revolutionary War. In fact, Marshall’s many-times-great-grandfather had been born into slavery.

  Daniel Davis was one of the thousands of formerly enslaved people who sought their fortunes out west after abolition had set them free. He fell deeply in love with his new home, and when Orange revolted against Spain, he became a key figure in its war for independence. Daniel was such a popular general that when the fighting was done, the people of Orange clamored for him to lead their new nation. And so—just as a century earlier George Washington had become King George I—Marshall’s ancestor was named King Daniel I of Orange.

  Twenty years later, Orange gave up its status as an independent kingdom to join the United States: meaning that the Davises, once kings, were now titled the Dukes of Orange. They weren’t the first Black aristocrats—Edward I had ennobled several prominent families after abolition—but they were former royalty, which made them the most newsworthy.

  Sam knew that Marshall was a stereotypical West Coast playboy, who surfed and went to parties in Vegas and was always dating some Hollywood actress or vapid aristocrat. Come to think of it, hadn’t he been invited to last year’s Queen’s Ball as a potential husband for Beatrice? Though given his reputation, Sam doubted her sister had danced with him all that long.

  Marshall nodded at the wine bottle, interrupting her thoughts. “Would you mind sharing, Your Royal Highness?” Somehow he made even her title sound like a source of amusement.

  “I hate to disappoint you, but I forgot a corkscrew.”

  Marshall held out his hand. Bemused, Sam passed him the bottle. Moisture beaded along its sides.

  “Watch and learn.” He reached into his pocket for a set of keys before jamming one into the cork. Sam watched as he twisted the key in quick circles, gently teasing the cork from the neck of the bottle, until it emerged with an eager pop.

  She was impressed in spite of herself. “Nice party trick.”

  “Boarding school,” Marshall said drily, and handed her the sauvignon blanc. Sam hadn’t brought any wineglasses, so she went ahead and drank straight from the bottle. The wine had a crisp tartness that settled on the back of her tongue, almost like candy.

  “I’ve always wondered if the stories about you are true.” Marshall caught her eye and grinned. “I’m starting to think they are.”

  “No more or less true than the stories about you, I imagine.”

  “Touché.” He reached for the bottle and lifted it in a salute.

  They passed the wine back
and forth for a while. Silence thickened around them, light leaching from the sky as night settled its folds around the capital. Sam felt her thoughts turning brutally, relentlessly, back to Beatrice and Teddy.

  She would show them. She didn’t know how she’d show them, but she would do it—would prove just how little either of them mattered to her.

  Next to her, Marshall rocked back on his heels. He was always moving, she realized: shifting his weight, leaning against the railing and then away again. Perhaps, like Sam, he felt constantly restless.

  “Why are you hiding out here instead of enjoying the party?” she demanded, curious. “Are you avoiding a clingy ex-girlfriend or something?”

  “Well, yeah. Kelsey’s in there.” When Sam didn’t react to the name, Marshall let out a breath. “Kelsey Brooke.”

  “You’re dating her?”

  Sam wrinkled her nose in disgust. Kelsey was one of those starlets who all looked the same, as if they’d been mass-produced by a factory line specializing in doe eyes and big boobs. Her fame had skyrocketed this year when she’d starred in a new show about witches on a college campus who used their powers to save the world—then made it back in time for sorority parties, where they fell into doomed romances with mortals. The whole concept sounded pretty dumb to Sam.

  “I was dating her. She broke up with me last month,” Marshall replied, with an indifference that didn’t fool Sam.

  He shifted, and the fading light gleamed on a pin affixed to his lapel. It reminded Sam of the American flag pin her dad always used to wear.

  Following her gaze, Marshall explained, “It’s the official Orange state logo.” The pin depicted a bear, its teeth pulled back in a menacing growl.

  “You have grizzly bears in Orange?”

  “Not anymore, but they’re still our mascot.”

  An old, familiar instinct stirred within Sam. Knowing that she was being difficult, and deliberately provocative, and a little flirtatious, she reached out to unfasten the pin from his jacket. “I’m borrowing this. It looks better on me anyway.”

  Marshall watched as she pinned the bear to the bodice of her dress, perilously close to her cleavage. He seemed torn between indignation and amusement. “You should know, only the Dukes of Orange can wear that pin.”