They leaned back, both increasingly aware of all the places their bodies were touching—Sam’s head dipping onto Marshall’s shoulder, the length of her leg pressed against his.
“I missed you this summer,” Sam blurted out, and swallowed. “I just…Marshall, I…”
He stared at her for a moment, probably trying to figure out what she was asking. “I missed you, too, Sam.”
“At least the League of Kings conference is here in Orange,” she added, a little flustered. “I’ll get to see you whenever I have time off.”
“I’m excited about the opening ceremonies this weekend.” Marshall, along with five other young noblemen, had been named one of the lords attendant.
The wind picked up, loosening a few strands of hair from Sam’s ponytail. Marshall brushed them gently aside. She looked up at him, and something so bright and buoyant filled her chest that it nearly stopped her breath.
Samantha, who’d spent years quietly building a wall around her heart, who’d dealt in flirtation and innuendo rather than real emotion, had finally let someone past her guard.
Before the truth could spill out of her, she pulled Marshall into a kiss.
He shifted on the bench, one of his hands tangling in her hair, another closing over her shoulder. Sam shut her eyes and let a single thought thrum through her, as insistent as her heartbeat.
She was in love with him.
Daphne Deighton was in her element.
Tonight’s event in the ballroom of the Waldemere Hotel was a benefit—the Youth Charity League’s annual gala—so it wasn’t quite as glittering or exclusive as an actual court function. Plenty of the guests were wealthy bankers or businesspeople who had only purchased a table because they knew Prince Jefferson was a patron of YCL. You could tell they were commoners from the nervous, giggling glances they kept shooting his way, as if they’d never been in the same room as royalty before. Probably they hadn’t.
Still, Daphne warmed a little beneath the attention. It just felt so good, standing in a cocktail dress next to the Prince of America, accepting the adulation that was her due. This was what she did best: socialize, charm people, and, of course, look beautiful.
Jefferson plucked two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to Daphne. He looked so handsome in his tuxedo, the only outward sign of his rank an American flag pin on the lapel. But even in a room full of men in tuxes, there was no mistaking which of them was the prince. There was an indefinable air of royalty about him, something in his profile or the tilt of his head, and maybe a newfound hint of responsibility, now that he’d been officially named Regent.
The palace had just made the announcement yesterday: that while Beatrice and Samantha were at the League of Kings conference, Jefferson would serve as the Crown’s representative in the capital. He wouldn’t actually rule, of course; Beatrice would keep up with the real work of government remotely. Jefferson just had to show up at a few formal dinners and ribbon-cuttings, smile for the cameras.
And Daphne would be there at his side.
Jefferson smiled, lifting his champagne. “Congratulations, Daph. You deserve this.”
“I haven’t won yet,” she reminded him, though she still clinked their glasses in a toast. The champagne’s bubbles danced merrily toward the surface, matching her mood.
Tonight the Youth Charity League would announce their Person of the Year, an award granted to the student who’d contributed most to the organization during their time in high school. There were a few other hopefuls milling about the ballroom, but they were really only here for appearances’ sake. Everyone knew the award was Daphne’s. She’d been the chair of her local chapter for three years running and had logged a record number of volunteer hours.
It was the type of thing that would look great in a coffee-table book.
Because that was what people expected from a princess, wasn’t it? No one wanted to know Daphne’s real story: how she’d set her sights on Prince Jefferson at age fourteen and never looked back. She’d made mistakes along the way—had hurt her friend Himari, and slept with Ethan Beckett, Jefferson’s best friend—but that was all in the past. Daphne had no intention of letting anyone learn the truth behind her impeccable facade, because she couldn’t show anyone her real self, not even Jefferson. Especially not Jefferson.
If he ever discovered the things she’d done, he would walk away from her without a backward glance.
As Daphne lowered the champagne from her lips, she saw Lady Gabriella Madison weaving through the crowds toward them, and fought to keep her smile from slipping.
Gabriella and Daphne had met their freshman year of high school. They hadn’t overlapped for long: Gabriella had moved away over the holidays, once her father was appointed ambassador to France. Yet it had only taken a single semester to establish the two of them as vicious rivals.
Daphne was irritated to see that Gabriella looked better than ever after her four years abroad. She was beautiful in that indefinable rich-person way, with the translucent skin and shiny chestnut hair that only money could buy. Daphne recognized her column gown as one that had just debuted at Paris Fashion Week. Its sheer, cap-sleeved overlay was embroidered with dozens of tiny crystals, though in Gabriella’s case they might actually have been diamonds.
“Your Highness. I’ve missed you,” Gabriella purred, and curtsied before Jefferson.
She sank low enough, but Daphne noticed that she never bowed her head as etiquette demanded, keeping her eyes on Jefferson the entire time. Something about the bold way she held his gaze suggested that, in Gabriella’s mind, she was meeting someone of her own rank at last.
“Gabriella! It’s great to see you,” Jefferson said, reaching out a hand. Gabriella was still looking directly at him, ignoring Daphne’s presence.
Clearly nothing had changed in the last four years.
Daphne remembered when she’d run into Gabriella in line at the cafeteria’s salad bar. “Gabriella, right? We’re in Honors English together,” Daphne had ventured. “I’m Daphne.”
The other girl hadn’t moved her head a fraction of an inch. She’d just turned aside and started talking to the student on her left, as if she couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge Daphne’s existence with so much as a look.
Later, when Daphne recounted the exchange to Himari, her friend had snorted in derision. “She’s afraid of you,” Himari declared, but Daphne knew better. Gabriella didn’t see her as a threat, at least not back then. She was just so excruciatingly snobby that she refused to interact with anyone she considered beneath her. And since she was a Madison—her father, Ambrose, was the tenth Duke of Virginia—everyone was beneath her, except the other families in the Old Guard, the thirteen original dukedoms created after the Revolutionary War. Plus, of course, the Washingtons themselves.