Majesty (American Royals, #2)(12)
“In that case, Your Majesty, please accept my resignation. I’ll be leaving your service. And this time, I won’t be coming back.”
He paused as if waiting for her to protest, to beg him to stay, the way she had once before.
Beatrice said nothing. She couldn’t ask Connor to remain here as her Guard while she married Teddy.
If she asked it of him, he might say yes. And he deserved so much more than that.
“I understand.” To her surprise, she spoke as if nothing was wrong, even though she hurt so much—deep inside her, in the hollow, lonely place she never let anyone see.
Connor’s gaze met hers, as cool as a mountain lake under gray skies. “I’ll go inform the head of security.”
Beatrice felt cold all over, yet she was sweating as if she’d come down with a fever. She watched, curiously immobile, as Connor turned back to cast one last glance over his shoulder.
“Goodbye, Bee.”
When he was gone, Beatrice made her way numbly around her father’s desk. She still wasn’t crying. She felt like a frost had settled over all her emotions and she would never feel anything again.
She paused behind her father’s chair, her hands resting lightly on its back. She’d never sat in it before, not even when she and the twins used to sneak in here as kids, to steal lemon candies from the secret drawer and spin the enormous globe. For some unspoken reason, sitting at the king’s desk had felt as utterly off-limits, as sacrilegious, as climbing onto his throne.
Slowly, Beatrice pulled out the chair and sat.
“Mademoiselle Deighton.” The French ambassador sailed forward to greet her with an easy double kiss, one for each cheek. He was handsome, and a shameless flirt; the French never sent anyone who wasn’t.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur.” She flashed him a brilliant smile, grateful for all her years of high school French.
It felt like half of court had turned out for tonight’s event at the George and Alice Museum, or the G&A, as everyone called it. In celebration of Beatrice and Teddy’s engagement, the museum was opening a new exhibit titled ROYAL WEDDINGS THROUGH THE AGES.
Daphne’s eyes cut across the room to where Jefferson stood with Samantha. He still hadn’t said hello. Aside from their brief exchange at the Royal Potomac Races, Daphne hadn’t really spoken to him since that day at the hospital—when she sat there with Jefferson, waiting for good news that had never come.
The prince was grieving, Daphne reminded herself: he needed his space. Yet she couldn’t help worrying. What if he was no longer interested in her? Or, worse, what if he was getting back together with Nina?
Unlike Daphne, Nina could show up at the palace whenever she wanted, ostensibly to see her best friend. But who could say whether all those visits were to see Samantha…or her brother?
Daphne redoubled her efforts in the direction of the French ambassador: smiling her perfect smile, laughing her brightest laugh, being the most intoxicating, glittering version of herself.
Delighted, the ambassador introduced her to several of his colleagues. Daphne heard the click of a photographer’s camera to her left. She sucked in her stomach but pretended she didn’t notice, because she didn’t want the moment to look staged.
When people all over the capital opened the society pages tomorrow, this was the image they would see—the prince’s ex-girlfriend charming government officials with ease, just as a princess should.
Sometimes Daphne felt that only at moments like this, when she was somewhere public, did she truly exist. That she wasn’t real unless someone else’s eyes were on her, unless she was being seen.
Eventually she murmured her excuses and headed toward the bar. Her dress, a silk chiffon that shifted from burnished bronze at her shoulders to soft gold at the hem, billowed out behind her as she walked.
Daphne ordered a soda water with lime, then deliberately arched her back and leaned her forearms onto the bar’s surface, turning to her most flattering three-quarter angle. She looked as if she didn’t have a care in the world, as if she were completely unaware of the party and its hundreds of influential guests.
It was an old party trick of hers, from when she’d first started attending royal events. She would make sure everyone noticed her, then deftly extricate herself from the group, making it easy for Jefferson to come find her alone. It worked every time.
The prince inevitably wanted what everyone else wanted. That was just human nature, and it was especially true for royalty.
At the sound of footsteps behind her, Daphne allowed herself a small, triumphant smile. He’d come faster than she’d expected.
Slowly, sensually, she turned around—only to realize that Jefferson hadn’t come to find her. It was his best friend, Ethan Beckett.
Daphne quickly blinked away her confusion. She hadn’t been this close to Ethan since the night of Beatrice’s engagement party.
Or really, the morning after.
“Hey, Ethan,” she said, as normally as she could manage.
He leaned against the bar next to her. The cuffs of his blazer were folded back, revealing his strong, tanned wrists. “You seem to be having quite the night.”
There was something sardonic in his tone, as if he knew precisely what lay behind her wild display of charm, and was amused by it.
Daphne flicked a glance back at the dance floor, but she’d lost sight of Jefferson in the crowds. Where had he gone, and who was he with?