Majesty (American Royals, #2)(14)
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 museum’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.