How dare you, Beatrice wanted to cry out, and It’s none of your business, and strangest of all, It’s not like that between us. Because it was exactly like that…wasn’t it?
Why was some part of her ready to insist that she loved Teddy?
“Thank you for your concern. I’m grateful to have such a dedicated Queen’s Champion.” Beatrice nodded in the direction of the front door. “A footman can show you out.”
Ambrose’s expression darkened at the brusque dismissal. “I’ll be watching for your recovery,” he said ominously, and stormed off.
Beatrice waited until he’d disappeared around the corner before drawing in a breath. She felt like her dress was tightening around her chest, her bobby pins digging tiny claws into her skull.
“Your Majesty?”
Through monumental force of will, Beatrice rearranged her features into something resembling a smile. She was relieved to see that Anju was alone.
“The press conference went well,” Anju began, with forced cheerfulness. Beatrice didn’t bother acknowledging the lie.
“Anju. If I ask you for a favor, can you keep it confidential?”
“Everything between us is confidential, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you.” Beatrice let out a breath. “I want you to help me track someone down. A former Revere Guard of mine, actually. His name is Connor Markham.”
Anju seemed startled by the request, but nodded. “I’ll start looking right away.”
Maybe if Beatrice talked to Connor, the bewildering events of the past year would begin to make sense. Maybe then her memories—elusive, half-formed thoughts that melted away each time she reached for them—might start coming back.
“Give Jeff some time. I’m sure he’ll come around,” Marshall insisted.
Samantha nestled into Nina’s couch, pressing the phone tighter to her ear. “I don’t know, Marshall. We’ve never fought like this before.”
She wasn’t even sure if fight accurately described what had happened between her and Jeff. She’d come home to find that her entire life had imploded, including—or, rather, especially—the relationships she’d always taken for granted.
Thank god she still had Marshall. The moment she’d emerged from Beatrice’s hospital room a few days ago, Sam had been relieved to find a text from Marshall’s new burner phone. She’d immediately called him and shared everything that had happened since her arrival in Washington: Beatrice’s memory loss, Jeff’s anger, his engagement—and Congress’s decision to strip her of her royal status.
“Jeff probably isn’t thinking clearly right now,” Marshall said. “He should have stood up to Congress when they removed your titles. That wasn’t fair of him, or of them.”
“Thank you for saying that,” Sam murmured.
Neither of them mentioned the fact that Marshall’s position as future Duke of Orange was still safe—that Sam was the only one who’d been punished by this. But then, she was more famous, and had a much bigger title to lose.
For better or worse, being a princess had shaped Sam’s entire life. She had enjoyed it at times and hated it at times, but whether she was basking in it or grappling with it, her status had always been a part of her. Even in Hawaii, living under a false identity, she had assumed that she could go home and reclaim her old life when she was ready.
And just like that, it was gone.
“At least now your family can’t be upset that you’re dating a princess, since I’m not one anymore,” Sam pointed out, striving for levity.
Marshall didn’t laugh. “Sam…you know this wasn’t how I wanted anything resolved. Not without you getting to choose.”
She stared at the oak tree outside Nina’s window, its limbs gently lifted by the wind. “I know.”
Her royal status had been one of the many obstacles to their relationship, because a member of the royal family couldn’t marry a duke or duchess. It was a conflict of interest.
Well, Congress had solved that problem for her.
“Oh, and I forgot to tell you—the tabloids coined a new word for my situation,” she added. “Samcelled. As in Samantha was canceled.”
Marshall groaned. “I didn’t think it was possible for their puns to get worse, but they keep proving me wrong.”
“Enough about me,” Sam decided. “How are things on Molokai?”
Marshall clearly sensed that she needed a distraction, so he launched into a story about how he and Kai had encountered a pod of dolphins while surfing yesterday. “You’d never believe it, Sam! They weren’t scared of us at all; they swam right up next to our boards. I ducked my head underwater and could hear them clicking to each other….”
Sam closed her eyes, letting the low rumble of Marshall’s voice steady her. It was a poor substitute for the real thing—she wanted to throw her arms around him, bury her face in his neck, feel the weight of his body against hers. But even hearing him on the phone helped settle the queasy anxiety that had had plagued her since she’d learned of Beatrice’s accident.
When Marshall finally said he had to go, Sam could barely squeak out a goodbye. Her throat was burning. She started to toss aside her phone—only to pause at the Breaking News alert on her home screen. The palace has confirmed Queen Beatrice’s recovery! Her Majesty is expected to give a press conference today, sharing all the details….
Beatrice was giving a live press conference? No, no, Sam thought, this was a terrible idea. Why couldn’t her sister have done a taped interview instead, something much safer and easier to control? She was doomed to slip up and reveal the extent of her memory loss.
Sam hurriedly changed into jeans, sunglasses, and one of Nina’s King’s College sweatshirts, pulling the hood low over her brow. She ducked into the hallway outside Nina’s dorm room, where she nearly collided with Caleb, her Revere Guard.
“Oh my god, Caleb!” Her smile was flustered but genuine. “Have you been here the whole time?”
“Off and on. I wanted to make sure your cover wasn’t blown.”
Sam watched as he tucked a bag of M&M’s guiltily into his pocket. It looked like Nina had paid him a visit.
“I need to get to the palace. Can you help?”
Caleb cleared his throat. “I have been instructed to take you nowhere but your grandmother’s house, and to tell you that if you refuse to go there, I can no longer serve as your Guard. Since you are now a private citizen and not a working employee of the Crown, you’re no longer entitled to security at the taxpayers’ expense.”