Majesty (American Royals, #2)(3)

Beatrice didn’t know anymore. Her feelings for Connor were tangled up in her feelings about everything else, desire and regret and grief all painfully intertwined.

“I’d agreed to get married while my father was still alive, because he wanted to walk me down the aisle,” she managed. “But now that I’m queen, there’s no need to rush.”

Robert shook his head. “Your Majesty, it’s because you are queen that I suggest you get married as soon as possible. You are the living symbol of America, and its future. And given the current situation…”

“The current situation?”

“This is a period of transition and uncertainty. The nation hasn’t recovered from your father’s death as easily as we might have hoped.” There was no inflection, no emotion in Robert’s tone. “The stock market has taken a hit. Congress is at a stalemate. Several of the foreign ambassadors have handed in their resignations. Just a few,” he added, at the expression on her face. “But a wedding would be such a unifying occasion, for everyone in the country.”

Beatrice heard the subtext beneath his words. She was now the Queen of America—and America was afraid.

She was too young, too untried. And most of all, she was a woman. Attempting to govern a country that had only ever been led by men.

If there was instability in America right now, Beatrice was the cause of it.

Before she could respond, the room’s double doors swung open. “Beatrice! There you are.”

Her mom stood in the doorway. She looked elegant even in her travel clothes—slim-cut navy pants and a pale blue sweater—though they fit more loosely than they used to. Grief hung over her shoulders like a weighted cloak.

When Queen Adelaide saw Robert, she hesitated. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The chamberlain rose to his feet. “Your Majesty, please join us. We were just discussing the wedding.”

Adelaide turned to Beatrice, a new warmth in her voice. “Have you and Teddy set a date?”

“Actually…I’m not sure I’m ready to get married.” Beatrice shot her mom a pleading glance. “It feels too fast. Don’t you think we should wait until we’ve had time to grieve?”

“Oh, Beatrice.” Her mom sank onto the couch with a heavy sigh. “We’ll never be done grieving. You know that,” she said softly. “It might sting less with time, but that doesn’t mean we’ll ever stop feeling the loss. We’ll just get a little better at carrying it.”

Across the room, Robert nodded in vigorous agreement. Beatrice tried to ignore him.

“We could all use a source of joy, of celebration, right now. Not just America, but our family.” Adelaide’s eyes gleamed with yearning. She had loved her husband with every fiber of her being, and now that he was gone, she seemed to have pinned all that emotion onto Beatrice—as if Beatrice and Teddy’s love story was the only source of hope she had left.

“We need this wedding now more than ever,” Robert chimed in.

Beatrice glanced helplessly from one of them to the other. “I get that, but—I mean—Teddy and I haven’t known each other very long.”

Queen Adelaide shifted. “Beatrice. Are you having second thoughts about marrying Teddy?”

Beatrice looked down at the engagement ring on her left hand. She’d been wearing it all month, out of inertia more than anything. When Teddy had first given it to her, it had felt wrong, but at some point she must have gotten used to it. It proved that you could get used to anything, really, in time.

The ring was beautiful, a solitaire diamond on a white-gold band. It had originally belonged to Queen Thérèse over a hundred years ago, though it had been polished so expertly that any damage was hidden beneath all the sparkle.

A little like Beatrice herself.

She realized that Robert and her mom were both waiting for her reply. “I just…I miss Dad.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I know.” A tear escaped her mom’s eye, trailing mascara forlornly down her cheek.

Queen Adelaide never wept—at least, not where anyone could see. Even at the funeral she’d locked her emotions behind a pale, resolute stoicism. She’d always told Beatrice that a queen had to shed her tears in private, so that when it came time to face the nation, she could be a source of strength. The sight of that tear was as startling and surreal as if one of the marble statues in the palace gardens had begun to weep.

Beatrice hadn’t been able to cry since her father’s death, either.

She wanted to cry. She knew it was unnatural, yet something in her seemed to have irreparably fractured, and her eyes simply didn’t form tears anymore.

Adelaide wrapped an arm around her daughter to pull her close. Beatrice instinctively tipped her head onto her mom’s shoulder, the way she had as a child. Yet it didn’t soothe her like it used to.

Suddenly, all she noticed was how frail her mom’s bones felt beneath her cashmere sweater. Queen Adelaide was trembling with suppressed grief. She seemed fragile—and, for the first time Beatrice could remember, she seemed old.

It splintered what was left of Beatrice’s resolve.

She tried, one last time, to imagine being with Connor: telling him that she still loved him, that she wanted to run away from her life and be with him, no matter the consequences. But she simply couldn’t picture it. It was as if the future she’d daydreamed about had died with her father.