Majesty (American Royals, #2)(7)

That was the difference between Daphne and all the other beautiful girls who’d set their sights on Prince Jefferson over the years. In Daphne’s experience, most beautiful girls tried to skate through life relying on nothing but their looks. They lacked brains, or hustle—while Daphne had more than enough of both.

A volley of trumpets sounded, and everyone in the crowd glanced expectantly downriver, to where the pennants of the royal barge snapped against the sky.

Sunlight sparkled on the Potomac, setting its pewter waters afire. Daphne’s eyes automatically zeroed in on Jefferson, who stood next to his twin sister, one hand lifted halfheartedly, though he wasn’t quite waving. The wind stirred his sleeves, ruffled his dark hair. At the front of the boat, a fragile smile on her face, was Beatrice.

The riverbanks erupted in applause and whistles. People shouted at Beatrice, or, just as often, at Jefferson. Parents hoisted children onto their shoulders so they could catch a glimpse of the new queen.

A song began to play over the loudspeakers, and the cheers quickly died out. For a moment all Daphne heard were the opening notes of the music, above the hiss of wind and the steady rumbling of the barge’s motor. Then thousands of voices wove together as everyone began to sing.

    From shore to shore, from sea to sea

Let our beloved nation ring

With cries of love and loyalty

Our hearts we pledge to you, our queen



Until now, the lyrics had always ended in our king; the rhyme of ring and queen didn’t work quite as well.

The barge pulled up to the dock, and the Lord Chamberlain stepped forward to help the royal family disembark. All the courtiers on the lawn quickly fell into bows or curtsies. In their pastel dresses and seersucker suits, they looked like an indolent flock of butterflies.

Daphne didn’t rush. She sank down as gracefully as a flower drooping, and held the pose for a long, slow moment. She’d taken ballet as a child, and at times like this she was every inch a dancer.

When she finally stood, Daphne skimmed her hands over the front of her dress, which followed the enclosure’s strict rules and hit at precisely knee-length. It fell around her legs like peach sorbet. Atop her glorious red-gold hair she’d pinned a custom-made fascinator, the same delicate shade as her gown. It was so nice to wear color again, after all the weeks she’d spent dressing somberly, observing the official mourning period for the late king.

Though, to be fair, Daphne also looked striking in black. She looked striking in everything.

She made her way to where Jefferson stood, atop the grassy embankment that sloped liltingly to the river. When he saw her, the prince nodded in greeting. “Hey, Daphne. Thanks for coming.”

She wanted to say I’ve missed you, but it felt too flirtatious, too self-centered, after everything Jefferson had been through. “It’s good to see you,” she decided.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It feels a little weird to be here, you know?”

Daphne didn’t feel weird at all. If anything, she felt that she and Jefferson were back where they were meant to be: with each other. After all, their lives had been intertwined since Daphne was fourteen.

That was when she’d decided that she would marry him, and become a princess.

For over two years everything had gone according to Daphne’s plan. She’d thrown herself in Jefferson’s path, and soon enough they were dating. He adored her, and, just as crucially, America adored her—because Daphne had won them over, with her gracious smiles and her soft words and her beauty.

Until Jefferson had abruptly ended things, the morning after his graduation party.

Another girl might have accepted the breakup and moved on. But Daphne wouldn’t admit defeat. She couldn’t, not after the lengths she’d gone to for that relationship.

Now, thankfully, the prince was single again. Though he wouldn’t be for long, if Daphne had anything to say about it.

Didn’t Jefferson see how easy things would be if he followed her plan and asked her out again? They could attend King’s College together this fall—he’d taken a gap year, which meant he would enter with Daphne’s class—and then after they graduated he would propose, and they would get married in the palace.

And finally, at long last, Daphne would be the princess she’d been born to be.

“I’m so sorry about your father. I can only imagine what you’re going through.” She reached for his arm in a silent gesture of support. “I’m here if you want to talk.”

Jefferson nodded absently, and Daphne lowered her hand.

“Sorry, I just…there are some people I need to say hi to,” he mumbled.

“Of course.” She forced herself to remain still, her expression placid and unconcerned, as the Prince of America walked away from her.

Bracing herself for endless small talk, Daphne bit back a sigh and began to circulate through the crowds. She caught sight of her mother across the lawn, chatting with the owner of a department store chain. How typical. Rebecca Deighton was nothing if not an instinctive judge of people she could use.

Daphne knew she should go over there, flash her perfect smile, and charm yet another person into being on Team Daphne. She glanced back at Jefferson—and froze.

He was talking to Nina.

It was impossible to hear them over the low roar of the party, but that didn’t matter; she could see the pained, pleading look in the prince’s eyes. Was he asking Nina to forgive him for the way he’d treated her…or for a second chance?