Majesty (American Royals, #2)(8)
What if Nina decided to give him one?
Daphne tore her gaze away before anyone caught her staring. She strode blindly into the cool shade of the tent, past delicate tables topped with pyramids of flowers, all the way to the ladies’ room at the back.
She braced her hands on either side of the sink, forcing herself to take slow, shaky breaths. She was curiously unsurprised when, moments later, a pair of footsteps sounded behind her.
“Hello, Mother,” she said heavily.
Daphne watched as Rebecca prowled through the restroom, making sure the row of stalls was completely empty before she turned back to her daughter. “Well?” Rebecca snapped. “He’s talking to that girl again. How could you let that happen?”
“I was with him, but—”
“Do you realize how much it cost to be here this afternoon?” her mother cut in. At times like this, when she got upset, the old Nebraska twang slipped back into her voice. As if she’d forgotten that she was Rebecca Deighton, Lady Margrave, and had slipped back into her old persona—Becky Sharpe, lingerie model.
Daphne knew her parents had gained access to the Royal Enclosure the tacky way, by underwriting the regatta itself. And while the higher-ranking, wealthier aristocrats probably hadn’t flinched at the amount, the Deightons felt every penny they spent. Acutely.
“I’m aware how much it cost,” Daphne said quietly, and she wasn’t just talking about the check her family had written. Not even her parents knew everything Daphne had done in her attempts to win Jefferson—and to keep him.
For a moment the two women just stared at each other in the mirror. There was a guarded wariness to their expressions that made them look more like enemies than mother and daughter.
Daphne could almost hear the gears of her mother’s mind turning. Rebecca was never hampered by obstacles for long; she didn’t think about what was, but what could be. Everyone else lived in reality, but Rebecca Deighton occupied a shifting shadow-world of infinite possibility.
“You’ll have to get rid of her,” her mother concluded, and Daphne nodded reluctantly.
Nina had loved Jefferson, really loved him, and that made her a more dangerous opponent than any of the aristocratic girls at court, with their sterile, cookie-cutter beauty. Daphne could outwit and outshine those girls any day. But someone who genuinely didn’t care about Jefferson’s position—who, in fact, loved him in spite of it—that was a real threat.
“I know you’ll think of something.” Her mother turned on one heel so fast that her skirts fluttered around her.
As the bathroom door clattered, Daphne began fumbling through her leather clutch. Her hands shaking only a little, she quickly dabbed concealer beneath her eyes and touched up her waterproof mascara. She felt like an Amazonian warrior, arming herself before battle.
When she was done, she stared into the mirror—at her high arched brows, her full lips, the vivid green of her thick-lashed eyes—and let out a breath. The sight of her reflection always calmed her.
She was Daphne Deighton, and she had to keep moving relentlessly, ruthlessly, constantly forward—no matter what, or who, stood in her way.
It was hard for Princess Samantha to enjoy the Royal Potomac Races this year.
Usually she loved them. Not for the reason some people did, because they were a chance to see and be seen: the first event of the spring social calendar, marking the return of galas and parties after a winter of hibernation. No, Sam had always enjoyed the races for their energy. They were so brash, so utterly American, with an infectious, carnivalesque sense of excitement.
But this year the colors felt dull, as if her senses were muted under a thick blanket. Even the band sounded strangely out of tune. Or maybe she was the one out of tune.
Everywhere she looked, all she saw was the achingly conspicuous space where her father should have been.
Sam remembered how once, when she was little, she’d told her dad that she wanted to grow up and be as strong as the rowers. “But you are strong,” he’d replied.
“As strong as what?” Sam had never understood why people used adjectives without defined parameters. “Strong as a lion? Stronger than Jeff?”
King George had laughed, leaning down to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “You are as strong as you need to be. And I am prouder of you than you’ll ever know.”
Sam blinked rapidly at the memory, wrapping her arms around herself despite the afternoon sun. Then she saw a familiar blond head across the crowds, and her breath caught.
He was as gorgeous as ever in a linen jacket the same shocking blue as his eyes. A matching pocket square, monogrammed with his initials, completed the look. Sam would have teased him for the absurd preppiness of it, if every cell of her body weren’t aching at his nearness.
She’d never meant to fall for her sister’s fiancé. When she’d met Teddy Eaton, the chemistry between them had been instant and electric. Neither of them had known that he was intended for Beatrice. Sam had tried, after that, to stay away from him…but by that point it was too late.
When Teddy saw her heading toward him, an instant of surprise, or maybe even pain, flickered over his features, but he quickly smoothed it over with a smile—the same way Beatrice always did. Sam shivered a little at the thought.
She hadn’t heard much from Teddy this past month, but she’d assumed he was keeping his distance out of respect for her grief—that when they saw each other again, everything would fall back into place. Now she couldn’t help fearing that his silence meant something else.