Majesty (American Royals, #2)(20)
Sunlight slanted through a stained-glass window on the opposite wall, turning the wooden floor into a dancing carpet of color. They were in the throne room, which had temporarily transformed into the official headquarters for Beatrice’s Wedding Dress Search. Footmen had carried in massive trifold mirrors and a seamstress’s platform, as well as an enormous screen so she could change in privacy. The palace had even closed for tours, which only fanned the nation’s speculation about what might be going on today, and whether it was about the wedding.
Beatrice would have preferred to do all this at the designers’ ateliers. But apparently it was too risky: someone might see her, and leak the secret of which fashion houses were in contention to make what people were already calling the wedding dress of the century. As it was, the designers had still been forced to sign lengthy nondisclosure agreements, and drove in long, circuitous routes to the palace in unmarked cars.
Honestly, Robert was treating her gown like a state secret that needed to be protected as vigilantly as the nuclear codes—codes that Beatrice still didn’t know.
There were so many things she should be doing right now: studying the latest congressional report, composing speeches, arranging her first diplomatic visit. Anything, instead of standing here like a human mannequin while designers whipped various gowns on and off her body.
Over the past week, whenever Beatrice had tried to do her actual job, some obstacle had always arisen. Her schedule was too crowded and she needed to wait; the timing wasn’t right and she needed to wait. Robert kept telling her that—wait, wait, wait—but what was she waiting for?
She glanced over at him. “Robert, can you set an audience with the new Senate majority leader? I should meet with him, now that he’s been nominated. And we’ll need to begin planning my speech for the closing session of Congress.” It was one of the government’s oldest traditions that the monarch opened Congress in the fall, and closed it before the summer recess.
Beatrice’s heart quelled a little, at the realization that she would dismiss a Congress her father had opened just ten months earlier.
Robert shook his head. “Your Majesty, I’m afraid that isn’t possible. You cannot meet with Congress until after you are crowned. It would be unconstitutional.”
Beatrice knew the Constitution backward and forward, so she knew that, technically speaking, he was right. The article in question had been written out of a very real eighteenth-century fear: that if the succession were ever in doubt, contenders to the throne might bully their way into Congress and attempt to take over the government.
“I can preside over the closing session as long as Congress invites me,” Beatrice reminded him. That invitation, another archaic tradition, was one of the many checks and balances that the Constitution had established between the three branches of government.
The chamberlain glanced at Queen Adelaide for support, but she was chatting with the gown’s designer. He turned back to Beatrice with an oily smile. “Your Majesty, you will deal with countless congressional leaders over the course of your reign. They are fleeting and temporary, coming and going every four years. What difference does it make if you miss a single session?”
“It makes a difference because it’s the first congressional ceremony of my reign.” Didn’t he see that?
“Your Majesty,” Robert cut in, and now there was a distinct note of warning in his tone, “it would be best if you waited to meet with Congress until after your wedding to His Lordship.”
She felt like she’d been slapped across the face. The coronation of a new monarch always took place a year after the previous monarch’s death, which meant that Beatrice wouldn’t be crowned until after her wedding. She’d thought it was just another tradition, but she realized now that Robert didn’t want her addressing Congress—or really, doing anything involved in the governance of America—as a young woman on her own.
He wouldn’t really approve of her until she had Teddy at her side.
The chamberlain glanced back down at his tablet, as if he expected Beatrice to drop the issue. Something in that gesture, in the sheer dismissal of it, made the air burn in her lungs.
“I need a minute,” she announced.
Ignoring everyone’s disapproving frowns, Beatrice hurried out into the hallway. Her new Guard, thankfully, didn’t follow. Unlike Connor, who would have caught up with her in a few steps, put his hands on her shoulders, and asked how he could help.
Connor. Beatrice clutched great handfuls of her dress to keep from tripping as she hurtled around a corner. She felt like she was trapped in one of her nightmares, running away from something without ever being able to run fast enough—
She froze, her white satin heels sinking into the rug, as she caught sight of Teddy.
He immediately threw a hand over his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to see you in your wedding dress. That’s bad luck, right?”
“Don’t worry. This is not going to be my dress,” she heard herself say.
Slowly Teddy opened his eyes and took in the volume of her ivory skirts. “Oh, good. I didn’t know it was possible to cover a dress in so many ruffles.”
To her surprise, Beatrice smiled. She glanced uncertainly down the hallway. “Were you here to see someone?”
“You.” Teddy cleared his throat. “I mean—I wanted to give you this,” he said, and she realized he was holding out a brown paper shopping bag.