Majesty (American Royals, #2)(75)
“Thanks, Sam,” Marshall said gruffly.
Sam was hyperaware of where their hands were still touching. It would be so easy to pull him close and kiss him, right there under the broad expanse of sky. A real kiss, not to make anyone jealous or to cause a scene but because she wanted to. Because she wanted him.
Yet somehow Samantha—who’d had her first kiss with the Prince of Brazil at age thirteen, who’d marched up to the world swimming champion after the last Olympics and invited herself to his victory party, who’d always gone after what she wanted in the boldest, most direct way possible—did nothing.
And then her chance was gone, because Marshall was pulling her to her feet with a familiar, mischievous smile. “Come on, love muffin. We don’t want to miss too much of the party.”
Sam rolled her eyes good-naturedly, following him back down the stairs.
She hated to admit it, but she’d gotten used to Marshall’s ridiculous nicknames. She was going to really miss them when this whole charade was over.
* * *
Several hours later, the ballroom of the ducal mansion was a blaze of chaotic orange.
Sam saw actors and producers, a few tech billionaires and philanthropists, and most of the aristocracy of Orange—including the Viscount Ventura, in his electric-orange tuxedo, and the aging Countess of Burlingame, who was walking around the party with a teacup-sized dog clutched to her chest. The room undulated with shades of pumpkin and persimmon and fiery orange-red.
She’d gotten separated from Marshall almost an hour ago, but had ended up finding his sister, Rory, who was just as smart as Marshall said. She was getting a degree in computer science, and had zero interest in following in her family’s footsteps and working in government.
“Orange comes from the flag, Sam,” Rory was saying, in answer to Sam’s question about the duchy. “The original flag we used, when we fought for independence from Spain. It was supposed to be red and white, but the dye kept changing to orange after a few days in the sun. So we leaned into it.”
“From what I can see, you’ve leaned into it hard.” Sam laughed, glancing around the room—and saw two things that made her go utterly still.
She saw Teddy, standing in a corner with Beatrice, leaning over to whisper in her ear. Beatrice said something in reply, and they laughed.
And she saw Marshall on the dance floor with Kelsey.
The actress’s arms were looped around Marshall’s neck, her matchstick-thin body pressed up against his. Sam held her breath, waiting for Marshall to pull away, but he didn’t. He just kept smiling down at Kelsey as they swayed back and forth to the music.
“I…excuse me,” she told Rory, and started blindly across the room. When she found an empty table in a corner, she sank down gratefully.
Only then did Sam realize that she wasn’t upset about Teddy and Beatrice. She had seen them together—in a moment that was real and intimate and genuinely affectionate—and she didn’t especially care. Exhaustion hit as some tether deep within her finally snapped.
She didn’t belong with Teddy at all. She belonged with Marshall.
Sam forced herself to think back to last year’s Queen’s Ball, when Teddy had met her at the bar, smiling and easygoing, the light glinting on his blond hair. They’d kissed in a closet, and the very next day, Sam had learned he was going on a date with Beatrice.
In response, she’d flung the full force of her teenage infatuation at him, and called it love.
If she and Teddy had ever gotten a chance to date normally, she would have realized that they didn’t make sense together. Sam would have bored of Teddy by the second date, the way she had with every other aristocratic guy she’d dated. Until Marshall.
Marshall, who was irreverent and exuberant and headstrong, like she was. Who provoked her, who galvanized her into being a better person. Who understood her. Marshall, who’d seen the messy truth of her life and hadn’t run away.
Sam sat there for a numb moment, letting herself adjust to this new strange truth. To the fact that Marshall was the one she’d wanted all along.
It was too late, she thought darkly. She’d lost him to Kelsey after all.
But then, he’d never really been hers to lose.
Daphne flashed her diamond-bright smile as she sailed through the doors of Tartine, the newest and trendiest restaurant in Washington. She’d gotten her hair blown out and was wearing a painfully chic black dress with cap sleeves. A pair of tourmaline droplets, on loan from Damien, brought out the vicious green of her eyes.
When Jefferson had asked her to dinner, she’d known that she needed to pull out all the stops. If he didn’t invite her to Beatrice’s wedding tonight, she wasn’t sure he would.
“Miss Deighton,” the hostess greeted her. “Please, let me show you to your table.”
As Daphne followed her toward the back of the restaurant, a few of the diners nudged one another, very unsubtly snapping pictures on their phones. Daphne kept her eyes straight ahead, but she walked a bit more slowly than necessary, her lips softening into a gentle smile.
When they reached the table, she scanned it with expert eyes, trying to determine which seat would cast her in a more flattering light. Then she sat down, smoothing her dress over her legs and tucking one ankle behind the other: arranging herself just so, on display.