American Royals

Beatrice couldn’t grab a moment alone with Teddy until the party was nearly over.

There were simply too many guests, all of them eager for their own personal moment with the groom-and bride-to-be. She caught Teddy’s eye a few times, and an invisible flicker of communication would pass between them—but then another well-wisher would pull him aside, or the photographer would request Beatrice for a photo, and they would again spin off in different directions.

A few partygoers still lingered on the scuffed dance floor. Footmen approached them with glasses of water, gently trying to herd them toward the entrance, where a long line of town cars stretched around the circle drive. Even the flowers in their towering arrangements seemed to have lost their bloom, stray petals already falling to the floor.

Beatrice finally turned to Teddy and asked for a moment alone. He nodded in understanding, and she led him toward the side of the dance floor, behind a column of rose-colored granite.

“Teddy, I’m so sorry about everything,” she hurried to say. “I hope you know that I … I mean, I never should have …”

“It’s all right,” he assured her, his blue eyes subdued. “As long as you’re okay.” The sentence upticked at the end, making it into a question.

“Not yet,” Beatrice admitted. “But I think—I hope—I will be.”

Teddy gave her a soft smile, one that she certainly didn’t deserve. “What can I do to help?”

It twisted her guilt like a knife, that Teddy was being so honorable and thoughtful at a time like this. That even when she was breaking off their engagement, he still focused on making things easier for her.

“Please don’t tell anyone yet.” She was eerily reminded of making the same request when she proposed, though for drastically different reasons. “I need to break the news to my dad first. Then we can figure out the next steps.”

Teddy nodded. “I’ll keep behaving like your fiancé until I hear otherwise from you.”

“Thank you,” Beatrice murmured. “And thank you for being so understanding about all of this. For not hating me, even after what I’ve put you through.”

“I could never hate you.” He reached for her hand, nothing romantic in the gesture, but as if he wanted to forcibly transfer her some of his strength. “Whatever happens, know that you can always count on me. As a friend.”

Beatrice nodded, unable to speak.

When they reemerged into the remains of the party, the Eatons had lined up to say their goodbyes.

They were all here: Teddy’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Boston; Teddy’s younger brothers Lewis and Livingston; and the youngest sibling, their sister, Charlotte. Even if she hadn’t met them already, Beatrice would have known at once that they were related. They all had that look about them. A golden-haired, patrician, photogenic look that made you think of playing football outside, fresh-baked apple pie, and windswept Nantucket summers. They seemed utterly at ease in their ball gowns and tuxedos, as if they woke up and got dressed in black-tie attire every morning of their lives.

“Thank you for coming,” Beatrice told each of them, with a clasp of their hands; this family wasn’t the hugging type.

“I’m so thrilled. So thrilled!” Teddy’s father boomed, throwing a jocular arm around Teddy’s shoulders.

Beatrice caught the awkward half hug of goodbye that Teddy gave Samantha, and stifled a smile. Maybe if they were lucky, both Washington sisters might end up with a happy ending.

It wasn’t until the Eatons had left that Beatrice cleared her throat. “Dad? Could I talk to you? Alone.”

“Sure. Let’s go to my office for a nightcap,” he suggested, still beaming.

Beatrice followed, to settle opposite her father in an armchair. A footman must have kept the fire going all night, because it blazed contentedly in the massive stone fireplace.

She wished she could relax into the chair like the young woman she was: pull her feet up onto the cushions and tuck them to one side, lean her head back. But she wasn’t permitted that kind of informality, because right now she wasn’t a daughter talking to her dad.

She was a future queen, talking to the current king. That was the context in which she and her dad had begun this discussion—a matter between monarchs, he’d said, when he told her that he was sick—and that was how she would continue it.

The king reached for the decanter on a side table and poured bourbon into a pair of cut-glass tumblers. He handed one to Beatrice, who immediately took a sip. Liquid courage, right?

“What a night,” he mused, still buoyed by his good mood. “You looked so beautiful, Beatrice. So regal. I’m proud of you.”

The only way to spill the news was all at once, she thought, and steeled herself.

“Dad, I want to call off the engagement.”

The jubilant smile slid off his face. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t marry Teddy. I don’t love him.”

There was a sudden urgency to her words, as if she’d broken open a tap and now they were pouring out like water, faster than she could catch them. “I tried to fall in love with him, really. I knew how much it meant to you. But I can’t do it, Dad. Not even for you.”

The king nodded. “I understand,” he said, and the knot in Beatrice’s stomach began to loosen. This had been so much less arduous than she’d expected. She should have known her dad wouldn’t pressure her—