Majesty (American Royals, #2)(47)

“Is Sadie your dog?”

“She’s everyone’s dog. She pretty much has the run of this place.”

“I’m in love.” Beatrice turned a pleading face to Teddy. “Can we keep him?”

She’d said we, not I. But she meant it. Beatrice wanted to take care of this puppy with Teddy, together.

“Beatrice…”

“We can’t leave Franklin here!”

Teddy sighed, but she saw that he was smiling, and felt something catch within her at the sight of that smile. “You’ve already named him,” he observed.

“A patriotic American name. And a smart name.” She tightened her arms around Franklin. “Please?”

“All right.” Teddy held out a hand to help her to her feet.

Beatrice had expected him to put up more of a fight. “Really?”

“It’s not easy for me to tell you no.”

Ignoring his hand, Beatrice rose to her feet, still holding Franklin tight to her chest. “Because I’m the queen.”

“No. Because when you look at me like that, I can’t say no to you. I don’t want to.”

“Oh” was all she managed.

As they walked back toward the house, Teddy looped an arm around her waist to keep her from stumbling. The vodka was really hitting her, wasn’t it? She remembered something the Russian ambassador had once told her—that being drunk on vodka was the only true drunk. That while beer and wine muffled and muted your emotions, vodka revealed them.

Perhaps his words were true. As she and Teddy walked back across the moon-drenched grass, their shadows stretching before them, Beatrice no longer felt confused.

“Shhh,” Teddy whispered as they slipped through the back door.

“You shhh!” she shot back. “You’re the one making all the noise!”

He took Franklin from her arms. “Beatrice, you’ve had a lot to drink.”

“Don’t worry,” she said emphatically. “I assure you, I always behave in a matter befitting the Crown.”

Teddy snorted back a laugh and led her up the stairs. Beatrice found herself so unexpectedly grateful for him. She’d never done this before, never trusted anyone enough to just…keep drinking. She’d always been so terrified of doing or saying the wrong thing.

When they reached her room, Teddy grabbed a box from the closet and set Franklin down in it. “We’ll get a real crate in the morning.”

Beatrice kept trying to undo the buttons of her sweater, but her fingers no longer seemed to work properly. “Can you help with this?”

“Yeah,” Teddy said hoarsely. “Sure.”

She stood there quietly, swaying a little on her feet. Teddy’s hands fumbled for a moment, almost as if he was nervous, but then he unbuttoned the sweater, from her throat all the way down to the hem, and helped slide it off her shoulders. Underneath she was wearing nothing but a whisper-thin tank top.

“Let’s get you into bed.” Teddy pulled back the covers for her. Beatrice obediently sat down—but before he could walk away, she closed a hand over his arm.

“Don’t go. I can’t sleep.”

“After all that vodka, I bet you will,” he said lightly.

“Please. Ever since my dad died, I’ve had these nightmares.” Her throat felt raw; she swallowed. “Please just stay, for a little while.”

He nodded and walked around to sit on the opposite side of the bed, like some kind of sentinel.

“You can lie down, you know.”

He hesitated. “Just until you fall asleep,” he compromised, and stretched out on his back.

Moonlight edged around the brocaded drapes over the window. Beatrice could barely see the planes of Teddy’s face. There had always been so much distance between them, so much ceremony and formality. She had grown used to looking at him without actually seeing him.

But now, Beatrice let her eyes travel unabashedly over him.

The only word for Teddy’s body was…well, beautiful. His bones were long and gracefully drawn, his muscles flowing over them in taut smooth lines. He was still wearing his long-sleeved shirt, though its hem rode up a little at his stomach, revealing the carved outline of his abs.

Beatrice propped herself on one elbow, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the beat of his pulse, as rapid as her own.

Sensing her gaze, Teddy turned on the mattress to face her. In the dim light his eyes seemed to have turned a deeper shade of blue, almost cobalt. She heard his breath catch, and the sound made Beatrice feel curiously brave.

She shifted forward and pressed her lips to his.

Perhaps out of surprise, his mouth opened beneath hers, letting her tongue brush up against his.

She and Teddy had kissed plenty of times: PG-rated, chaste, performative kisses at engagement parties and official events. Kisses that were meant for America, not for the two of them.

This was something else entirely.

Suddenly, somehow, Beatrice was next to Teddy, curled up against the warm length of him. Her arms snaked around his shoulders to pull him closer. She could feel the rapid pounding of his heart.

She tugged impatiently at his shirt, trying to pull it over his head, but Teddy tore himself away. A small groan of disappointment slipped from Beatrice’s lips.

“We can’t do this,” Teddy said hoarsely.