Majesty (American Royals, #2)(9)

“It’s so good to see you,” she breathed, once she’d finally reached his side. Her voice was hoarse with longing. This was the closest they’d been since her father’s funeral.

“Samantha.”

At his distant, formal tone, her smile faltered. “What is it?”

“I thought—I mean, I wasn’t sure…” Teddy studied her face for a long moment; then his shoulders sagged. “Beatrice hasn’t told you?”

Dread pooled in her stomach. “Told me what?”

He ran a hand helplessly through his hair; it fell back in the same perfect waves as ever. “Can we go somewhere alone, just the two of us? We need to talk.”

At the mention of going somewhere alone, Sam’s heart had lifted, only to seize in fear when she heard we need to talk. The four most ominous words in the English language.

“I…all right.” Sam shot Teddy an anxious glance as she led him around the corner, into a narrow passageway between the Royal Enclosure and Briony, the next tent over. There was no one in sight, just a few humming generators that fed air-conditioning into the tent through fat cords.

“What’s going on?” Sam dug her heel anxiously into the mud.

Teddy’s expression was shadowed with remorse. “I’m kind of glad the queen didn’t tell you. I guess…it’s best you hear this from me.”

Sam felt her muscles quietly tensing, her body caving inward as if readying for a blow.

“We’re getting married in June.”

“No,” she said automatically. It couldn’t be. The night of her engagement party, Beatrice had pulled Sam out onto the terrace and confessed that she was calling off the whole thing. She was going to talk about it with their dad, come up with a plan for telling the press.

Except they’d lost him before Beatrice had time to do any of that. And now that she was queen, Beatrice clearly felt obligated to go through with this ill-advised engagement.

“So it meant nothing, when you said that we were in this together? Teddy, you promised!” And so had Beatrice.

Sam should have known better than to hold her sister to her word.

Teddy’s fists clenched helplessly at his sides, but when he spoke, his voice was oddly formal. “I’m sorry, Samantha. But the queen and I have agreed.”

“Stop calling her the queen! She has a name!”

He winced. “I owe you an apology. The way I’ve handled all of this…it hasn’t been fair to Beatrice, and especially not to you.”

There was something so stubbornly honorable about his confession that Sam couldn’t help thinking how right she’d been when she’d told Beatrice—in a fit of pique—that she and Teddy deserved each other.

“It’s not fair to you, either!” Sam cried out. “Why are you doing this?”

He looked down, fiddling with a button on his blazer. “A lot of people are counting on me.”

Sam remembered what he’d said in Telluride, which felt like a lifetime ago: that the Eatons’ fortune had evaporated overnight. Marrying Beatrice, gaining the support of the Crown, would save his duchy from financial ruin. Because it wasn’t just about Teddy’s family: the Eatons had supported the Boston area—had been its source of financial stability, its largest employer—for over two hundred years.

Teddy, who’d been raised as the future duke, felt obligated to take that responsibility onto his shoulders.

“You shouldn’t get married because you think you owe it to the people of Boston,” Sam said heatedly.

Teddy looked up to meet her gaze. His eyes were more piercingly blue than normal, as if confusion, or perhaps regret, had deepened their color. “I promise you that I’m not doing this lightly. I have my reasons, and I’m sure your sister does, too.”

“If she really has to rush down the aisle, tell her to pick someone else! There are millions of guys in America. Can’t she marry one of them?”

Teddy shook his head. “You know it doesn’t work like that. Beatrice can’t go and propose to someone else. It would make her seem fickle and capricious.”

The truth of it hit Sam like a sickening blow. Teddy was right. If Beatrice broke off her very public engagement and began dating another guy, it would just fuel the attacks of all those people who were already cheering for her to fail. America would start to wonder: If Beatrice couldn’t even make up her mind about her personal life, how on earth would she make decisions about the country?

“You can’t seriously be going through with this,” she insisted.

“I know you don’t understand—”

“Why, because I’m just the spare?”

At some point Sam had taken a step forward, closing the distance between them, so they were now standing mere inches apart, their breathing ragged.

“That’s not what I meant,” Teddy said gently, and the red-hot anger pounding through her veins quieted a little.

“You’re really doing it,” she whispered. “You’re choosing Beatrice.” The way everyone always did.

“I’m choosing to do the right thing.” Teddy met her gaze, silently pleading with her for understanding, for forgiveness.

He wasn’t about to get either. Not from her.

“Well then. I hope the right thing makes you happy,” she said caustically.