Majesty (American Royals, #2)(72)

She felt an odd, lonely pang at the thought of sending Himari so far away. It wasn’t fair that Himari should wake up from her coma, only for Daphne to lose her all over again.

But what other choice did she have?

“I’m sure the Marikos would be wonderful representatives,” Beatrice agreed. “But Leanna Santos has asked me for that position, and I mean to give it to her.”

“Please,” Daphne said haltingly, her stomach plummeting.

“It was nice of you to lobby me on your friends’ behalf. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Daphne braced herself. Here she was, about to play her very last card. To throw everything she had into what might be the most reckless gamble of her life.

“If you don’t do it, I’ll tell everyone about your secret relationship.”

The queen went gravely still, and Daphne knew her words had found their mark.

“Are you blackmailing me?” Beatrice asked, her voice dangerously cold.

“I’m trying to reach an understanding with you. I promise, if you appoint the Marikos, I’ll never breathe another word on the subject. But if you won’t help…” Daphne let the moment of ominous silence drag out, then went on. “How do you think Teddy would feel, knowing you’d been with someone so completely unsuitable? Not to mention the media?”

Daphne had rehearsed her words ahead of time. She hoped, desperately, that Beatrice couldn’t tell how little she actually knew—that, in fact, she had no idea whom the queen had been secretly involved with.

“How. Dare. You.” Beatrice’s face was illuminated with a regal fury that Daphne had never seen before.

Some deep-rooted instinct prompted her to sink into a deep curtsy, and stay there. She kept her head bowed, trying frantically to plan her next move.

Finally Beatrice spoke into the silence. “I’ll appoint the Marikos, as you request.”

She hadn’t given permission to rise, so Daphne remained in the curtsy. “Thank you,” she murmured, almost swaying from sheer relief.

“Oh, get up.” Beatrice’s voice was laced with anger and disappointment.

Slowly Daphne rose, swallowing the bitter taste of fear. It struck her in that moment that she would never be a real royal, not the way Beatrice was.

She’d spent too many years scheming and snatching up privilege. Even if everything went according to plan—if she got rid of Himari, and got Jefferson back, and eventually married him—she would never be as regal as Beatrice.

“Daphne, this is the one and only time I will let you hold this information over my head,” Beatrice said tersely. “If you ever again mention what you think you know, to me or to anyone else—if you ever try to blackmail another favor from me—you won’t find me so forgiving.”

“I understand. And thank you. For your mercy.”

“You took an enormous risk today,” Beatrice went on, her eyes still locked on Daphne’s. “And I can’t really understand why. I thought Himari was your friend.”

“I…she was,” Daphne whispered.

There was a brush of something softer in the queen’s expression, and Daphne wondered if Beatrice had somehow guessed what she was going through. If she knew what it was like, to be famous and publicly adored and yet keep no counsel but her own.

Beatrice reached for a silver bell on a side table, and rang it. Moments later Wendy rushed back into the room, followed by Robert Standish.

When she saw Robert, the queen stiffened. Probably she blamed him for letting Daphne come over and bully her into something she didn’t want to do. After all, he was the one who’d granted Daphne this appointment.

“Robert,” Beatrice said, gritting her teeth into a smile, “please escort Daphne to the front doors. And do make sure she signs an NDA on her way out.”

Daphne nodded and backed out into the hall. She understood what Beatrice was saying: that Daphne had forfeited her trust.

She and Beatrice might never have been close, but until today Beatrice had tolerated her, maybe even approved of her. Now Beatrice would never look at her the same way again.

It was a very high price to pay. But Daphne had no choice except to pay it.





Marshall shifted closer to Samantha in the Los Angeles sunshine. “When I said to wear orange, I didn’t realize you were going to choose fluorescent tangerine,” he whispered.

Sam rolled her eyes. “For your information, I like this dress.”

“You look like a Skittle.” Marshall’s mouth twitched. “The cutest Skittle in the pack, obviously.”

They were standing before the Ducal Pavilion, the white-pillared building that served as the administrative center of the Duchy of Orange, while Marshall’s grandfather delivered his welcome speech. From what Sam could tell, he and Beatrice were going to reenact the moment when Orange officially acceded to the union.

“What’s your grandfather wearing?” she murmured, nodding at the duke’s black fur cloak, which looked far too heavy for this kind of heat.

“Oh, that’s the bear cloak that the Dukes of Orange wore back when they were kings. Apparently my ancestors thought a grizzly-bear pelt was more badass than a crown,” he added wryly. “Normally that thing lives in the museum, but they take it out for special occasions.”