“Don’t worry, I’ll be at school next year. And in the meantime, you’re getting the lay of the land for me. It’s perfect.”
Daphne must have delivered her line with a little too much enthusiasm, because Jefferson looked at her curiously. “Do you still feel like you made the right choice, taking a gap year?”
She readied herself to deliver her usual canned answer, the one she’d been giving to courtiers and reporters who asked about her time off: Between all my junior board positions and charities, I don’t even have time for class right now!
But Jefferson was looking at her with bright, earnest eyes, and now that Daphne had told the truth—to Nina, of all people—she found that the lie just wouldn’t come.
“Honestly, I’m not sure,” she confessed. “I guess I thought I would have more to do.”
“In that case, I was wondering if you would help with some of the events I have to carry out as Regent. Will you cohost the military banquet in a few weeks?”
Daphne tried not to let her excitement show. Did Jefferson realize the full import of what he was asking? Hosting an event, particularly something as rigidly protocol-driven as a military banquet, was a task that could only be performed by a senior member of the royal family. She was pretty sure Jefferson had broken an unwritten rule by asking her to take this on. But no way was she going to point that out.
She’d attended more events with Jefferson over the years than she could count, but always as his date, as a guest. Being the hostess of an event at the palace was something else entirely.
“Thank you. I’d be honored,” she told him, and he smiled.
“Of course. I just want to make you happy, Daph.”
The warmth of his eyes was so disarming, she almost—almost—told him everything. About Gabriella, and her family’s demise, and how truly desperate she felt.
Yet she couldn’t risk tugging even a single thread of the image she had woven around herself. If Jefferson learned about her family’s title, everything else might begin to unspool—what she and Ethan had done, and what she’d done to Himari.
Jefferson wouldn’t want the real her.
No one would.
The Daphne he thought he knew was a myth. That girl had never existed; Daphne had invented her, over years of painstakingly doing or saying exactly what she thought Jefferson wanted. That Daphne was utterly separate from her, a persona she took off at the end of the day, like the Korean sheet masks she used.
Jefferson snaked an arm around her, pulling her closer. There was something so reassuring about the rise and fall of his chest. “I love you,” he said softly.
He spoke the words so easily, with his whole heart. And for the first time in all their years together, Daphne wondered if she might love him, too. Not in the way he thought she loved him—the passionate, romance-novel, heart-stopping way—but something softer and more tranquil.
She might not be in love with Jefferson, but she did love him. There were many kinds of love, weren’t there? Who was to say that one was any more valid than another?
She shifted around to stare at him: his thick lashes, the even slope of his nose, the hint of stubble along his jawline. After all this time, his features were as familiar to Daphne as her own reflection.
Her relationship with Ethan had been turbulent and painful. They were both too sharp, too aggressive, and far too ruthless. Daphne had spent years peeling away his layers, searching for the real Ethan beneath all the bravado and wit.
There were no layers to Jefferson. He was sweet and uncomplicated all the way to his core, which was more than Daphne could say for herself.
Jefferson caught her glance and smiled. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, and for the second time that night, Daphne answered honestly.
“About us.”
She was suddenly aware that they were alone in the palace. Jefferson’s sisters were both at the League of Kings conference, and Queen Adelaide was out of town. For once, there was no one to walk in on them.
Daphne knew that most of America assumed she and Jefferson had been sleeping together for years. But they never had.
If Jefferson had pressured her even once, Daphne might have changed her mind, but he seemed content to let her set the pattern of their relationship. Which only confirmed Daphne’s faith in her strategy. She wasn’t some casual hookup; she was a princess-to-be, and she’d behave accordingly.
That was the reason she and Jefferson had waited, Daphne told herself. It had nothing to do with the fact that she’d been in love with Ethan all those years.
Well, Ethan was in the past now. She was done with him and recommitted to Jefferson. What was she waiting for anymore?
Daphne tipped her face up to Jefferson’s and kissed him.
He returned the kiss easily, tracing circles on her back, and Daphne skimmed her hands up his arms and around his shoulders, deepening the kiss.
One by one, she undid the buttons of his shirt, then slid it off. Jefferson sucked in a breath as she reached around her back to pull at her zipper. Her cocktail dress loosened, falling in a delicate pink spill around her waist and frothing up around her legs.
“Daph.” Jefferson’s heart was pounding beneath her palm. “Are you—”
“Shhh.” She silenced his question with a kiss. Then, her meaning unmistakable, she reached for the waistband of his trousers. His skin felt hot to the touch.
Still, Jefferson pulled away and caught her hands in his. “Daphne,” he asked hoarsely. “Are you sure? I thought…I mean…”
“I’m sure,” she told him.
Jefferson studied her expression for a moment, as if trying to figure out what had changed her mind. Then he smiled. “All right.”
He stood in a single movement, swept Daphne into his arms as easily as if she weighed nothing at all, and carried her through the doorway to his bedroom.
“Marshall, please!” Sam whacked her boyfriend lightly on the shoulder. “We’re almost at your grandparents’ house, and you haven’t told me which of these I should bring as a thank-you gift for dinner. What will they like more, the chocolate truffles”—she pulled each item out of an oversized shopping bag as she narrated—“the aromatherapy diffuser, the coffee beans, or the linen hand towels? Beatrice says if you give hand towels, they have to be monogrammed, but I didn’t have time for that.”
He began sorting through her various gifts. “You don’t have any wine in this Mary Poppins bag of yours?”
Sam flushed. “I worried it might seem rude, bringing wine to people who own a vineyard. If you give them any other wine, then you’re implying theirs isn’t the best, but it would be weird to bring them a bottle of their own wine, right?” Flustered, she called out to the driver. “Sorry, is there a liquor store on the way? We need to make a stop—”