Majesty (American Royals, #2)(100)
Nina was so deeply tired of court, with its layers of pointless and archaic protocol, its titles and precedence, its utter lack of loyalty.
“You know what, Daphne? You win. You can have all of it—Jeff, Ethan, the titles and tiaras. I don’t care. Enjoy living inside this gilded cage, being scrutinized and picked apart by every person on the planet. None of it will make you happy, since none of it will be real.”
Her eyes glinted with defiance as she moved to the door, then turned to deliver one last parting shot.
“No matter what you do, no matter how high you climb, you’ll never have anyone to share it with,” Nina said coldly. “You’ll be completely alone.”
Samantha had never been any good at waiting. But for once she was sitting as patiently as a princess should, one ankle tucked demurely behind the other the way Daphne had taught her. When security came, she wanted to greet them with some degree of dignity.
It had been a split-second decision. She’d seen the expression on Beatrice’s face at Connor’s arrival—a look of anguish, of agony—and felt a sickening wave of guilt.
She had done this, by mailing Connor’s wedding invitation.
Sam didn’t know what Beatrice would choose, but she felt certain of one thing—Beatrice needed time. Time to process the fact that Connor was here. Time to sort through the tangled knot of her feelings.
Before she could second-guess herself, Sam had sprinted up the stairs to Robert’s office and set off the emergency alarm.
She couldn’t have done this a year ago; only now that she was heir to the throne did she have the authority. The system still didn’t make it easy on her: she had to scan her fingerprints and her eyes, and provide one of the emergency security codes that Robert had so irritatingly made her memorize.
At once, steel-reinforced doors had slammed down throughout the palace—doors that couldn’t be lifted until security completed a thorough sweep of the property. Sam had done the impossible for Beatrice, and had made time stop.
Of course, the system had recorded her login; the security team would figure out soon enough that she was to blame. Until then, she would sit here in Robert’s office, waiting for them.
Sam wondered what Marshall thought about all this. Had he made it to the throne room, or had the sirens gone off while he was still wandering the halls? Were things between them ruined forever, now that he’d seen that stupid moment with Teddy?
At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, Sam stood.
Robert Standish flung open the door. “You,” he snarled. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I’m sorry for all the confusion I caused,” Sam said carefully. The chamberlain slammed his hand against the doorway, and she gave a startled jump.
“Why the hell did you set off that alarm, today of all days?”
Sam tilted her chin upward, stubborn until the end. “I had my reasons. What are you going to do, carry me out Traitor’s Gate and send me off in exile?”
“I’m taking you to Her Majesty.”
He reached out to grab Samantha’s arm, but she recoiled. “I know how to walk,” she said coolly.
Neither of them spoke as they marched down the staircase and along the main front hallway.
All around them the great machinery of the palace was groaning back to life. Footmen and security guards brushed past, their eyes burning with curiosity when they saw the chamberlain with the princess. Even the historical figures in the oil portraits seemed to be staring. In the ballroom a string quartet were arguing in low tones; the violinist was gesturing rapidly with his bow, underscoring each word with a flourish. Sam wondered what the musicians had thought when the doors closed, locking them in the ballroom alone.
As they turned the corner, Robert broke into an almost-jog. Sam hurried to keep up, though the narrow cut of her dress constricted her steps.
And there was Beatrice, standing at the entrance to the Brides’ Room. She looked like the paper doll versions of herself that they sold at the palace gift shop: pale and crisp, as if her edges had been drawn with a very sharp pencil.
“What’s going on?” she asked, gesturing them inside.
“It was a false alarm,” Robert said tersely. Beatrice let out a relieved breath, but the chamberlain’s eyes fixed meaningfully on Samantha. “Your sister set it off.”
A beat of silence followed his proclamation: a sticky, strained silence that condensed between them like the sweat dampening Sam’s back. Sam longed to close her eyes, but forced herself to hold her sister’s gaze.
“I see,” the queen said at last.
Robert blinked, evidently startled by the calm of her reply. “Your Majesty, the princess put the safety of thousands of people at risk—”
“Was anyone hurt?”
Sam had never before seen Beatrice like this, in such full, crackling command of her authority.
“Our reputation was hurt! All those guests were sent into an unnecessary panic—not to mention what the media will say when they learn that we halted your wedding without reason. Samantha knowingly engineered a false sense of alarm,” he spluttered. “She needs to be punished!”
Beatrice looked from Samantha to Robert and back again. “You’re right. Sam should be punished,” the queen concluded, and Sam’s chest seized. “But the punishment is mine to give.”