“Sam, I was kidding.” Marshall put a hand over hers. “This is just dinner, okay? It’s not a big deal.”
She knew he was trying to reassure her, but for once, she wished he were less flippant, less irreverent. “It’s a big deal to me,” she said quietly.
Their car slowed to a halt, and Sam looked up at the soaring white pillars of the ducal mansion. “You know what? I’ll just bring everything,” she decided, gathering the various boxes into her arms as the driver came around to open the door. She had to jostle all the gifts in her arms to keep from dropping any of them to the ground.
“I can carry some of that for you, if you want,” Marshall offered, trotting alongside her.
“Fat chance. They’re my presents.”
“Wait a second. What are you wearing?” he asked, as if just now noticing her cowl-necked sweater dress and black heels.
Sam must have tried on two dozen outfits before finally admitting defeat and asking for her sister’s help. Getting old people to like her was one of Beatrice’s strong suits.
“I got dressed up,” she told him, and Marshall barked out a laugh.
“For a job interview to sell life insurance in Ohio?”
Before Sam could answer, Marshall’s grandmother—Lady Joanna Davis, Duchess of Orange—opened the door.
“Your Royal Highness,” she said warmly, lowering herself into a curtsy before Sam.
“Oh, please don’t call me that! It makes me sound a hundred years old!”
The moment she said it, Sam cringed; that probably wasn’t the right thing to say to Marshall’s eighty-two-year-old grandmother. But the duchess just smiled, her eyes crinkling pleasantly around the corners.
“What I meant was, please call me Sam.” She tried unsuccessfully to hand over the gifts, but the diffuser almost shattered on the floor, and Marshall stepped forward to help. “Um—these are for you, Your Grace. Thank you for inviting me into your lovely home.”
“It’s our pleasure, Sam. And please, call me Jojo, like Marshie here does.” The duchess turned and pulled her grandson in for a hug. Sam nearly hooted with delight.
“Marshie!” she whispered as they followed his grandmother into the cavernous entry hall. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that one. Best. Nickname. Yet.”
“I already regret bringing you here,” he replied.
“Sam!” Rory, Marshall’s sister, stepped forward to help Sam deposit the rest of her boxes on a side table. “You came prepared,” she added, opening the box of truffles and popping a coconut one into her mouth.
“How’s school?” Sam asked.
Rory brightened. She was a junior in college, studying computer science. “I’m in this amazing class on robotics right now. I programmed a toy car to drive itself around the room!”
“Rory’s on track to graduate with honors,” Marshall’s grandfather announced, joining their conversation. His eyes cut to Marshall, and Sam felt the silent reproach beneath his words—the disappointment that Rory was succeeding where Marshall had barely squeaked by with passing grades.
Sam didn’t understand the Davises’ attitude toward Marshall’s dyslexia. He had a learning difficulty, but so what? He was still one of the smartest people she knew; his intelligence just manifested in different ways. He was perceptive and quick-witted and empathetic and thoughtful, instead of book smart. Yet his family acted like his dyslexia was something to hide, as shameful as if he’d committed a felony.
She fought back the urge to rush to Marshall’s defense and instead turned respectfully to his grandfather. “Thank you for having me, Your Grace.”
Stephen Davis bowed stiffly, his back ramrod-straight. “It’s an honor, Your Royal Highness.”
He didn’t ask her to call him by a grandparent name, and Sam knew better than to suggest he call her Sam.
Marshall’s parents greeted her a bit more warmly, but Sam told herself that was because they knew her better, not because Marshall’s grandfather disapproved of her.
When they all sat down to dinner, Sam was disappointed to see that she’d been seated as far from Marshall as possible. At least she was next to Rory. They began passing dishes around the table: biscuits and butter, green beans, and an enormous Pyrex filled with something vaguely beige and sloppy-looking. No one said what it was. As Sam scooped some onto her plate, she felt Marshall’s grandmother watching her.
“This looks delicious. I love chicken,” Sam said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
Next to her, she felt Rory swallowing silent laughter.
“This isn’t chicken casserole; it’s grouse,” the duchess explained. “Stephen and I hunt these ourselves, when we go shooting up in the valley. The grouse are becoming a real problem up there, overbreeding, forcing out the natural wildlife.”
“Well, I can’t wait to try it.” Sam forced herself to take a bite of the casserole, though it looked alarmingly like dog food. Somehow it managed to be too salty and bland at the same time.
“Be careful how you bite into it. There might still be some shot in there,” the duchess added placidly. “I wouldn’t want you breaking a tooth.”
As Sam was still grappling with this alarming possibility, the duke turned to her. “Samantha, how is the League of Kings conference going so far?”
Marshall’s parents, who’d been asking Rory about her professors, fell silent. An expectant hush extended over the table as everyone glanced at Sam.
She didn’t want to admit that the conference had been something of a letdown—that the heirs probably didn’t need to be there at all. Their presence was purely ceremonial, their lectures designed to keep them busy, with topics like “Financial Markets in an International Context” and “Labor and Infrastructure: A Symbiotic Relationship.” Sam had already dozed off on two occasions.
“It’s been informative,” she said diplomatically. “Mainly I’m grateful that I get to be in Orange for a whole month and spend time with Marshall. I don’t know if any of you watched, but he did a fantastic job at the opening ceremonies,” she added. “It’s no easy feat, keeping the Orb of State balanced on a velvet pillow, but Marshall managed it.”
Marshall shrugged. “At least I looked better than the Duke of Virginia, galloping down the great hall.”
“He didn’t gallop,” Sam admonished, a smile tugging at her mouth. Ambrose Madison had seemed a little ridiculous, especially since he was such a heavy man and on such a heavy horse.
“If he’d galloped, the whole thing would have been even better.” Marshall’s eyes danced. “Can I trade roles with him? I’d rather be the guy on horseback than the guy with the Orb of State.”