Majesty (American Royals, #2)(27)
She braced her palms on the stair railing and leaned forward, trying to sound nonchalant. “You didn’t think to text?”
“You never gave me your number.” Marshall started up the stairs, taking them two at a time, the same way Sam did.
He was wearing the peers’ ceremonial robes: crimson wool trimmed in gold lace, complete with a cloak that tied at the throat with a white satin ribbon. They looked absurd on him. The robes had been designed centuries ago, back when the leaders of most duchies had been old white men. Marshall was so tall and imposing that he made the outfit look ludicrously like a Halloween costume.
“I can’t believe you came here on your way to…where are you going?”
“Swearing-in of the new Chief Justice.” He glanced down ruefully at his robes. “Believe it or not, I only just realized the pin was missing.”
“Don’t you have an extra?”
“Did you lose it?” Marshall sighed. “I’ve lost it too. I wore it on a dare, once, and it fell out on the streets of Vegas. It actually wasn’t at the casino, but at the In-N-Out we stopped at when—”
Sam cut him off with a groan. “Chill out, okay? I have your jewelry.”
Marshall didn’t rise to the bait. He just smiled and said, “Where is it?”
“In my room.”
To her surprise, he followed her down the hall, his red velvet cloak streaming out behind him. Historical portraits glared at them from the walls: statesmen with powdered wigs and pointed beards, women in pearl necklaces layered six strands deep. Marshall’s outfit wouldn’t have looked out of place inside one of the paintings.
Sam wondered what he was wearing underneath the robes. She glanced over at the broad expanse of his chest with an idle spark of curiosity.
Marshall’s eyes met hers. Aware that he’d caught her staring, she hurried to ask a question. “Why are you the one here representing Orange? Isn’t your grandfather the active duke?”
Most peers looked forward to ceremonial occasions like this. It was one of the few chances they had to put on these dusty old robes—and stare down their noses at all the commoners who didn’t have the right to wear them.
“He’s been sending me as his proxy a lot lately. He says he hates the cross-country flight. Not that I actually do anything,” Marshall added under his breath.
“What do you mean?”
“Even when the dukes are all assembled, I’m only there to help fill out the room. I can’t actually speak or vote. Being a proxy literally means that I’m a body filling a seat—a very good-looking body, obviously.” He flashed his usual cocky smile, but Sam sensed that his heart wasn’t in it. She surprised herself by answering with a truth of her own.
“I know the feeling. No one ever wants me to be anything but a body—a smiling, waving, tiara-wearing body.”
“Would it help if I said you look great in a tiara?” Marshall offered, and Sam rolled her eyes.
“The tiara isn’t the problem. It’s the rest of it that I can’t stand.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’m not the smiling-and-waving type either.”
“But at least you have a purpose! You’ll get to rule someday!”
He seemed surprised by her reply. “In forty years, maybe. For now, there’s nothing for me to do except sit around and wait.”
“Welcome to life as the spare. It’s a job full of nothing,” Sam said drily.
“You, doing nothing? I find that hard to believe.” Marshall’s mouth twitched. “Just think of all the buildings you haven’t yet kicked.”
“Look, can you please forget about that?”
Sam hated that Marshall had caught her in that moment. She felt more exposed, somehow, than if he’d seen her naked.
“Absolutely not,” he said mercilessly. “The American princess taking out her frustrations on a national monument? It’s one of my most treasured memories.”
“Then you’ll be next,” Sam warned, and he laughed.
As she pushed open the door, she saw Marshall cast a few curious glances around her sitting room. Unlike the rest of the palace, Sam’s suite was an eclectic clash of styles and colors. Brightly colored rugs were strewn over the floor at odd angles. Against one wall, an ornate grandfather clock—which Sam’s ancestor Queen Tatiana had brought from Russia, its hours marked with gorgeous Cyrillic numerals—stood next to a table that was hand-painted in bright green turtles.
Sam headed to her desk and pulled out the top drawer. An assortment of objects clattered inside: old lipsticks, earring backs, a pearl button that had fallen off her leather gloves. At the center of all the disorder was the enamel bear pin.
“See? I told you I hadn’t lost it!”
She reached for the fabric of his robes. Surprise flickered in Marshall’s eyes, and she realized belatedly that he hadn’t expected her to pin it on him.
Sam’s hand fell abruptly from his chest.
“Here, let me.” Marshall reached to hook the pin in place. It was made to be worn like this, Sam realized: not pinned against the drab backdrop of a suit, but atop the scarlet robes, where it gleamed like liquid gold.
She took a step back, struck by the immediate physicality of Marshall’s presence. He no longer looked ridiculous in the robes at all. If anything, the other peers would look ridiculous next to him.