Majesty (American Royals, #2)(37)
When they walked in, Daphne immediately caught sight of Ethan across the tent, and looked away. She hated that she could so easily pick him out of a crowd—that she knew the contours of his body, even from a distance.
“Oh my god,” Himari whispered. “Is that Marshall Davis with Sam?”
Daphne followed her friend’s gaze. Sure enough, the future Duke of Orange was standing there next to Samantha, his arm slung carelessly around her waist. “That’s a new development,” she mused. Though it honestly shouldn’t have surprised her, given what reckless partiers they both were.
As she and Himari headed farther inside, there was a distinct lull in conversation. People began elbowing their neighbors, pointing out in hushed whispers that Himari had arrived.
Daphne reflexively reached up to loop an arm through her friend’s. “Are you okay? Want me to take you home?”
“No.” Himari bit her lip in indecision. She didn’t look vengeful or dangerous at all; she looked…vulnerable. “I just—I didn’t expect everyone to stare so much.”
Of course, their classmates all knew that Himari had woken up: after emerging from a ten-month coma, she was something of a celebrity. She’d told Daphne that a few reporters had even called her house, asking for an exclusive interview, but Himari’s mother had turned them down. “We don’t talk to the media in this house,” the Countess of Hana had replied, with cool disdain. She still subscribed to the old aristocratic belief that if your name appeared in the paper, it meant something had gone horribly wrong.
“Don’t worry. Five minutes from now everyone will be focused on whatever stupid thing Samantha and Marshall do next,” Daphne said firmly. “Besides, if people are staring, it’s because you look fantastic.”
Himari choked out a laugh. “My mom said the same thing. I guess months on a liquid diet will do that.”
“I meant your clothes,” Daphne replied, amused.
“Oh, I texted Damien an SOS this afternoon, and he brought this by. I couldn’t go out in any of my old things. They were all hopelessly out of fashion,” Himari said dramatically.
Unlike Daphne—who recycled outfits as often as she could get away with it, who accepted free gifts from up-and-coming designers because she couldn’t afford new jewelry—Himari had never worried about money. Even now she was wearing a lavender jumpsuit and matching sequined clutch that Daphne had seen on the mannequin at Halo just yesterday.
There was a swirl of excitement nearby. Daphne turned to see Prince Jefferson standing a few yards away. He was wearing a white golf shirt that made him look especially tan, and smiling that eager, boyish smile of his, the one that most of America had fallen desperately in love with.
“Jefferson,” she breathed, as she and Himari both curtsied at the same time, to exactly the same depth.
The prince waved away the gesture. “Please don’t. I always hate it when people do that.”
“It’s nothing,” Daphne started to say, but Himari interrupted.
“Jeff, when girls curtsy, we aren’t doing it for you. We’re doing it for us.”
Daphne stiffened, wondering if her friend was being flirtatious, but Himari only added, “I like making people scurry out of my way. And the bigger my dress, the farther they have to scurry.”
Laughing, the prince pulled Himari into a hug. “This is exactly why I’ve missed you,” he joked, then stepped away, his tone becoming more serious. “Himari, I really am sorry. I don’t know what happened that night, but it happened at our party. Sam and I feel terrible.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Himari assured him, and Jefferson smiled, relieved.
Of course it wasn’t Jefferson’s fault, Daphne thought. It was hers. She wished she could get the same absolution from her friend—but she knew she never would.
He nodded toward a table laden with drinks. “I’m thirsty. You guys coming?”
Now that Jefferson had broken the ice and talked to Himari, everyone else was surging forward. They began peppering her with questions: How was she feeling? Did she dream all those months? What was the first thing she said when she woke up?
Daphne hesitated. Jefferson had stepped ahead, the crowds parting before him as he walked, but Himari lingered, reveling in the sudden flurry of attention. She met Daphne’s gaze. For a moment, something flickered in Himari’s eyes, but then she gave a little jerk of her chin to say, Go ahead. Daphne hurried to catch up with the prince.
It was her first time alone with him since the Royal Potomac Races, though Daphne had done her best to keep tabs on him. She was pretty sure he still hadn’t invited a date to Beatrice’s wedding.
And he hadn’t been spotted with Nina, either, though Daphne knew better than to make assumptions. Just because they weren’t together publicly didn’t mean that nothing was going on in private. Last time, Jefferson and Nina had been hooking up for weeks before Daphne—and then the media—found out.
And wasn’t Ethan supposed to be handling the Nina situation for her? The few times Daphne had checked in, he’d replied with vague one-line answers. Then, last weekend, she’d lost patience and dialed his number—only for Ethan to decline the call.
You can quit with the harassment. I’m with Nina right now, he’d texted, before she could try him again.