For a fleeting instant, Louise looked the way she had at the Soirée Bleue, wistful or even vulnerable. Beatrice recalled what Louise had told her that night—that as a future queen, she needed to always hold a piece of herself back from the world, or else the world would consume her whole.
“Louise…”
The princess looked at her expectantly, and Beatrice fumbled, not sure what she wanted to say. “It’s good to see you again.” She was repeating herself; she sounded drunk, though she hadn’t even taken a sip of wine. “I hope you know that we’re all still praying for your father’s recovery.”
“Thank you,” Louise cut in stiffly, and Beatrice realized that somehow she had said the wrong thing.
It had been like this at Harvard, the few times she’d tried to attend parties. Everyone else seemed to behave naturally, at ease with their surroundings, while she had to second-guess her every move. And still she kept on failing.
At times like that, Beatrice would shoot panicked glances at Connor, her Revere Guard. He always knew when to rush over with a fake security alert and insist that she leave.
Connor was gone, Beatrice reminded herself. She had let go of him when she’d told him that he should stop loving her—that she didn’t need rescuing anymore. She was strong enough now to rescue herself.
She just needed to make herself believe it.
Samantha leaned against Marshall and swayed contentedly to the music. They were nearly alone on the dance floor, but then, this wasn’t exactly a dancing crowd. Kings and queens rarely danced in public unless it was for a national dance, like the French gavotte or Russian polka. Monarchs hated to appear foolish, especially around other monarchs.
People kept looking over at her and Marshall. Sam could feel the weight of their glances: some curious, a few judgmental. Whatever, she thought, let them stare. Sam couldn’t care less what a bunch of foreign royals thought about her relationship.
“Thanks for coming. I know this isn’t your ideal way to spend a Friday night,” she murmured. As one of the lords attendant, Marshall was required to attend tonight’s welcome reception and the farewell ball, as well as the photo shoot later this month. The ladies-in-waiting and lords attendant would return to Bellevue in a few weeks, for the official pictures that would be printed on postcards and in coffee table books for years to come.
“I’m happy anywhere with you, Sam.” A wicked glint entered Marshall’s eyes. “Besides, it’s kind of nice being the lowest-ranking person in the room for once. With all these kings and emperors around, I doubt anyone will notice if I misbehave.”
Sam lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of misbehaving do you mean, exactly?”
“Red-wine pong, of course. What else would I have meant?” Marshall asked, all innocence.
“Of course. We should re-create your high school glory days.” Sam nodded to the King of Serbia, or maybe it was Croatia, who’d stationed himself firmly at the door to the kitchens. Each time the butlers emerged with a new tray of hors d’oeuvres, the king grabbed an entire fistful. “We could recruit that guy. He seems like a red-wine pong dude for sure.”
Marshall chuckled appreciatively, pulling Sam closer. A golden pin shaped like a grizzly bear, the emblem of the Dukes of Orange, gleamed on his chest.
“By the way, Aunt Margaret’s latest movie is premiering next week,” Sam went on. “Beatrice can’t get away from the conference, so she asked me to go. Will you come with me?”
Sam’s aunt Margaret had always delighted in breaking the rules and stirring up trouble. She’d moved to Orange years ago, married a relatively unknown actor ten years her junior, and started producing and financing movies—usually starring her husband.
“You know I’d never miss a chance to see an Aunt Margaret movie.” Marshall grinned. “Let me guess, it’s a bodice-ripping epic starring your uncle Nate as the swashbuckling hero?”
Aunt Margaret’s movies were usually based on books, and since the only books she read were steamy historical romances, Sam’s uncle Nate had been cast as more soldiers, cowboys, roguish dukes, and kilt-wearing Scotsmen than anyone could keep track of.
Sam rolled her eyes. “I assume so. It’s called Stowaway.”
“Wait, I’ve seen the posters for this! It’s a pirate movie. I’ll wear my Hawaiian shirt to the premiere,” Marshall exclaimed, delighted.
“If I’m forced to wear a cocktail dress, the least you can do is put on a button-down in solidarity.”
“Sorry, you get one night of formal Marshall per week.” He winked. “The rest of the time, you’re stuck with regular old Hawaiian-shirt-wearing Marshall.”
Sam tried to sound offended, but she couldn’t keep the laughter from her voice. “Sometimes I think you’re being difficult just to provoke me.”
“Of course I am. But I make up for it with my devastating good looks and quick wit.”
“And your humility,” Sam teased.
Marshall swept an arm toward the rest of the room. “Just think, you could’ve had one of these nice, bland, well-behaved princes instead. Like that guy,” he said, nodding at the Crown Prince of Japan. “Or that guy,” he added, indicating Prince James of Canada.
Seeing the gesture, Jamie caught Sam’s gaze and grinned devilishly. She rolled her eyes, then turned back to Marshall. “You’re right. None of those princes would argue with me the way you do, or wear ugly Hawaiian shirts in public, or drunkenly sing the wrong words to ‘Beer for My Horses’—”
“My words are so much better than the original,” Marshall interjected.
“And yet here I am,” Sam finished in a softer tone. “I’m not going anywhere, Marshall.”
She’d never belonged with one of those guys: the type who would have nodded and agreed with anything she said, because she was a princess and they hated controversy. She liked that Marshall pushed her buttons. He challenged her and teased her and made her a better version of herself.
Marshall’s eyes met hers. “Glad to hear it, my gordita.”
“Your what?” Sam blinked. Surely her boyfriend hadn’t just called her fat.
“Gordita! I like you more than a Cheesy Gordita Crunch.” At her expression, he clarified his remark. “Please tell me you’ve eaten Taco Bell. If not, I’m stealing one of the palace cars and taking you on a field trip this minute.”
I like you more than a Cheesy Gordita Crunch. That was far less of a statement than the three words that kept fluttering insistently in Sam’s chest.
Before she could reply, Marshall took a step back and pulled his phone from his pocket. He scanned the screen, cursing softly under his breath, then lifted his eyes to hers.