Majesty (American Royals, #2)(91)
“What the hell?”
Marshall stood in the doorway, looking at them in outraged horror.
Sam and Teddy sprang apart as if scalded. Which, she realized, probably made them look even guiltier.
“Marshall—let me explain,” she pleaded, taking a step toward him. He recoiled, and Sam fell back, wounded.
Teddy held out his hands in a placating gesture. “Look, it’s not what you think—”
“So this is who you’ve been using me to make jealous,” Marshall cut in, his eyes on Sam. “When you told me that your mystery guy was taken, I never thought you meant he was marrying your sister.”
Teddy was still talking in a low, urgent tone, explaining that this was all a misunderstanding, that he and Sam were just friends. But Sam’s eyes must have betrayed her, because Marshall retreated another step.
“I assume this is why you wanted me as your date? It was all a last-ditch attempt to make Eaton here jealous?” He barked out a sharp, defensive laugh. “What did you think he would do, call off the royal wedding?”
“No, I—I never wanted—” Sam stammered, but Marshall was already gone.
She stumbled into the hallway and saw that he’d taken off in the direction of the throne room.
“Marshall!” she cried out. He heard her, and started walking even faster.
It was so stupid, so completely immature of them to be racing through the palace like a pair of shrieking children. Sam kept shouting for Marshall to please just talk to her, but he broke into a jog, refusing to turn around.
She yanked the skirts of her gown as high as she could, now hurtling down the hallway in a full-out sprint, fighting to stay steady in her satin pumps. Stunned footmen and staff flung themselves out of her path. Sam ground to a halt at the back stairs—had Marshall headed up to the second floor?
As she hesitated, a tall stranger turned the corner.
He walked with bold, tense strides, his shoulders stiff. Sam looked at him for a moment in puzzled confusion, only to remember who he was.
Connor Markham, Beatrice’s former Guard.
She stiffened in a hot flush of panic. Oh god. Connor was here because she had found his wedding invitation in Beatrice’s desk—and sent it.
Sam watched, her lips parting in horror, as Connor lifted a fist to knock at the entrance to the Brides’ Room. The door swung open, and Robert Standish frowned up at him with disdain. “I’m sorry,” he snapped, “but who are you?”
And then Beatrice, in a faint voice: “Connor?”
Sam edged closer, looking past Connor to her sister’s face.
It was a naked storm of emotions. Agony, confusion, and, most tellingly, a bleak sort of uncertainty.
In the silence that followed, Sam realized what she had to do.
She took off running in the opposite direction.
Connor was here.
Shock splintered through Beatrice with an almost physical impact, reverberating in her very bones. She tried to move, to breathe, but all she could do was stand there in the Brides’ Room and look at him.
She was fully dressed for the wedding, a human mannequin at the center of yards of white fabric. The train of her gown curled around her like a great slumbering animal. A beautiful combination of veils cascaded over it all: the tulle one that her mother had worn and, beneath, a Chantilly lace that had been in the family since Queen Helga. The light caught in the tulle, glittering on the diamonds of her tiara.
“I’m Connor Markham,” she was dimly aware of him saying. “I’m here to see Beatr—I mean, the queen.”
Understanding sparked in Robert’s eyes, and he shook his head. “Well, Connor Markham, Her Majesty can’t see you right now. As you might be aware, she’s about to walk down the aisle in twenty minutes.”
“It’s all right,” Beatrice heard herself say.
She’d spoken numbly, as if in a trance. What else could she do? Now that Connor was here, she had to speak to him alone.
Connor and Robert both turned to look at her. “Robert,” she clarified, “we need the room, please.”
“Right now?” the chamberlain demanded.
Connor let out a low growl. And even though he was out of uniform—wearing a tux, and, unlike all his years as a Guard, not carrying a single weapon—he still looked broad and imposing, every line of his body radiating a fierce, coiled strength. Beatrice saw Robert wilt a little beneath that glare.
“You have two minutes.” He pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Beatrice and Connor alone.
This room was already small, with the clothes rack along one wall, the makeup artist’s table tucked into a corner. Now it felt even smaller. Connor seemed to take up more space than he should have, as if he’d dragged all their memories in here with him.
Connor was here, just a few feet away, standing there with military straightness, watching her. Connor, whose arms had held her, whose mouth had kissed her, whose hands had brushed away her tears when she’d learned that her father was dying.
Beatrice couldn’t meet his gaze. Her eyes fell to his neck, where—below the starched white of his collar, if she unbuttoned it—she knew she would find the edge of his tattoo, a sweeping eagle that covered the planes of his chest.
She wanted to say how sorry she was, and how hard it had been, telling him to leave. She had daydreamed this moment a thousand times, and still she didn’t know how the daydream ended, whether she told him to get out—or kissed him.