Daphne’s father, Lord Peter Deighton, was the second Baronet Margrave. Which meant that Daphne was too far down the aristocratic hierarchy for Gabriella to bother with.
“Welcome back, Gabriella.” Daphne forced herself to smile pleasantly.
Gabriella looked over as if she’d just noticed her standing there. “Daphne. How lovely to see you.” There was a syrupy insincerity to her words that grated on Daphne’s nerves. Couldn’t Jefferson hear it?
“How was France?” she asked.
Gabriella waved a hand dismissively. “You know how the French are. Oh, Jeff, I have great news.” She turned back to the prince, looking up at him with thick-lashed eyes. “I’m starting at King’s College with you next week! We’ll be classmates again.”
“That’s awesome,” Jefferson said warmly.
“How exciting that we’ll all be reunited,” Daphne cut in. She was starting at King’s College this year, too. The timing worked out nicely: since Jefferson had taken a gap year, they would be entering in the same class.
“You’re not living on campus, are you?” Gabriella asked the prince, as if Daphne hadn’t spoken.
“Maybe later this year. Beatrice wants me at the palace as long as I’m her deputy in the capital.”
“Same. The minute I saw the dorms, I told my parents I would be staying at home. Communal showers?” Gabriella shuddered dramatically. “Whatever, by next year we’ll be living in the frat and sorority houses anyway.”
Daphne felt strangely uncomfortable, hearing her own thoughts voiced by Gabriella. She’d been relieved when Jefferson had told her that he wasn’t living on campus, because it made her own decision seem a little more normal. There was no way she could room with a stranger or use a coed bathroom.
Not because she thought it was disgusting, as Gabriella clearly did, but because it was too risky. Daphne was a future princess; she couldn’t afford to let anyone get close to her. What if they sold unflattering photos of her to the tabloids?
Though a small, unruly part of her wondered what it would be like to actually have a real college experience.
One of the waitstaff began to circle the room, ringing a chime that signaled the beginning of dinner. Daphne started toward the sign that read table one, but Gabriella swept ahead of her.
“Oh, Jeff, look! We’re at the same table.” Gabriella slid into the seat next to Jefferson’s as if this whole thing had come as a surprise, but Daphne wasn’t fooled. She knew a calculated move when she saw one.
Throughout the dinner, Daphne’s attempts to talk with Jefferson were consistently interrupted by Gabriella, who kept edging Daphne out of the conversation. Eventually Daphne gave up and chatted with Sandra Su, assistant director of the Youth Charity League. It was easy to half listen to Sandra’s stories while keeping a cautious ear pricked toward Gabriella and Jefferson.
“By the way,” Gabriella was saying, “I ran into Anne the last time I was in Vienna! You’ll have to come with us the next time we do Oktoberfest. She has access to the most exclusive tents, the ones that serve champagne instead of just beer.”
“Anne Devonshire was at Oktoberfest?” Jefferson asked, and Gabriella gave him a playful shove.
“Anne Esterhazy, of course!” Gabriella leaned forward. “Though I did see Anne Devonshire at Princess Maria’s wedding. Everyone missed you so much….”
It went on and on like that. Gabriella mentioned von Hohenbergs and Lamballes, Rochechouarts and Romanovs: families that had been noble since the Renaissance, since the Crusades. In the game of name-dropping, these were high stakes indeed.
Daphne, with her pitiful little two-generation baronetcy, could never hope to keep up.
Her spirits brightened when the waiters began serving dessert, and the chairman of YCL headed up to the podium. Daphne waited throughout the welcome and the obligatory slideshow demonstrating all the charity’s good works, until finally it arrived. Her moment to shine.
“I’m so honored to be naming the Youth Charity League’s Person of the Year.” The chairman reached up to adjust his glasses, shifted his weight. “This year’s recipient is a very special young woman. She continues to inspire us all with her dedication and overwhelming generosity….”
Daphne discreetly tucked her feet to the side of the chair, nudging her gown to one side so that she wouldn’t trip over it when she stood. She tilted her face upward, ensuring that the photographer in the corner would catch her most flattering angle—
“Gabriella Madison,” the chairman finished.
An involuntary cry of surprise left Daphne’s lips, though she quickly covered it with a breathless “Congratulations!” Hopefully, no one had heard beneath the applause.
Gabriella floated gracefully up to the microphone and lifted a hand to her chest, her eyes fluttering as if she were overcome with emotion. “Thank you. I’m so very honored.”
Daphne watched, her face contorted into a smile, as the other girl accepted the recognition that should have been hers. It didn’t make sense. Gabriella hadn’t even been in the country; how could she have swooped in and stolen Daphne’s award?
“I’m sorry.” Sandra leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but the Duke of Virginia made a large donation earlier today, with the understanding that, in exchange, his daughter would win this year’s award.”
“Of course,” Daphne managed, and Sandra let out a relieved breath.
“Thank you, Daphne. I knew you would understand! Besides, it’s about the charity, isn’t it? This was never meant to be a competition.”
What an utterly stupid thing to say. It’s not a competition was something that losers told themselves after they lost.
As she watched Gabriella simpering up there onstage, Daphne reminded herself that it didn’t matter. So what if Gabriella wanted to buy her way into the spotlight? She didn’t have the one thing that really mattered—Prince Jefferson.
Daphne glanced down at the signet ring on her right hand, blazoned with the Washington family crest. It was so small, just a hunk of engraved metal, yet it was the most powerful thing she owned. This ring marked her as a member of the innermost circle of influence.
Of course it was a competition. Everything was a competition.
And right now, Daphne was winning.
“I can’t believe you convinced me to live in the Chalet,” Nina teased, propping open the door for her friend Rachel Greenbaum.
Technically their dorm was named Chalmondrey Hall, but it had always been known around campus as the Chalet. In a school full of Gothic buildings, of gabled ceilings and towering spires and gargoyles, Chalmondrey Hall was the most supremely Gothic of all. It had the iconic stone turret—the one featured in all the King’s College brochures, and on the website—which actually housed three dorm rooms, one on each floor.