American Royals
Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, and she stuffed her hands into Jeff’s pockets. He had a stray button in one of them. She kept toying nervously with it.
“I never meant to hurt you,” the prince said slowly. “But I felt embarrassed about the way I handled things. I wasn’t broken up with Daphne when you and I … I mean, I didn’t actually break up with Daphne until the next morning.”
“The press made it sound like the breakup was mutual.” Nina felt an instant bolt of shame, that she’d admitted to reading those articles.
“You of all people know the tabloids make that stuff up. I called Daphne the morning after the graduation party to break up with her. But I never told her about us,” Jeff added. “It just seemed unnecessarily cruel. I don’t know, maybe that was wrong of me. Or cowardly.”
Nina wasn’t sure how to respond. She had gone up those stairs too, had muddled the line between right and wrong.
“I wanted to talk to you at the reception earlier, Nina, but you ran off before I could find you. I took a chance that you might be out here.”
“You came looking for me?” She’d thought Jeff’s appearance on the balcony was a coincidence.
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Nina … do you think there’s any chance that you and I could start over? Try again?”
“I don’t know.” It was as much of a truce as she was willing to give.
A corner of Jeff’s mouth lifted, as if he wanted to smile but wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to. “Well, I don’t know is much better than a flat-out no. I’ll take it for now.”
His words were both a question and a promise. All Nina could do was nod. She shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to him before heading back inside.
BEATRICE
Beatrice had been going on royal tours her entire life.
She’d only been six months old on her first tour, of the American South and Southwest. She didn’t remember it, of course, but she’d seen the photos so many times—of her parents stepping out of Eagle V, holding her in their arms—that she felt like she remembered it. Her parents had apparently carried her everywhere on that trip, even when she was asleep. At the sight of the infant who would be the first-ever Queen of America, the crowds had roared with a frenzy that bordered on hysteria.
Beatrice had grown used to the tours, the way she had to smile and make eye contact with every person she met, thanking them for their time, greeting them by name. She knew just how important these moments were for the image of the royal family. As her grandfather had put it, A monarch must be seen by his people, all his people, in order to truly be believed.
Even so, Beatrice occasionally caught herself rolling into autopilot mode, saying Thank you and It’s a pleasure to meet you so many times that she forgot what the words even meant.
She felt that way now, at the Queen’s Ball. Like she wasn’t inhabiting her own life but had turned into an actress, reciting a script that someone else had written.
It didn’t help that she was struggling valiantly, and with little success, to avoid being stepped on by her dance partner.
“… and that’s why the harvest went so much more smoothly this year,” explained Lord Marshall Davis, grandson of the Duke of Orange. He was very handsome, especially when he smiled, white teeth flashing against his smooth ebony skin.
They were box-stepping around the ballroom in a languid waltz. It was rare for Beatrice to dance so much at an event like this; usually she and her parents refrained from dancing. When you’re dancing, you can only talk to one person, her father always said. It’s a more effective use of your time to stand to the side, and circulate through the crowds.
Tonight was an exception, of course, because tonight Beatrice needed to get to know the various candidates. She still refused to think of them as potential husbands.
She was grateful, at least, that the young men already knew what was going on, because that saved her from having to explain why she was introducing herself. And they each seemed to know who the others were; that much was clear from the way they kept staring at one another across the ballroom.
So far she’d met most of the young men. There was Lord Andrew Russell, future Earl of Huron, whose father was currently serving as the ambassador to Brazil. Lord Chaska Waneta, future Duke of the Sioux, and Lord Koda Onega, future Duke of the Iroquois; the two heirs to the Native American duchies who were closest to Beatrice in age. There was even a pair of brothers, Lord James Percy and Lord Brandon Percy, heirs to the Duchy of Tidewater, the narrow strip of land that encircled most of the Gulf of Mexico.
The one thing they all had in common was their eagerness to brag about their own accomplishments. Marshall, for instance, was currently boasting about a vineyard his family owned in Napa.
Beatrice forced a smile on her face. She rarely even drank wine. “I’m glad the harvest was successful. Agriculture is such an important part of the American economy, especially in Orange.” She was tired, grasping at straws, but clearly she’d said the wrong thing.
“Creating wine is not agriculture. It’s an art,” Marshall informed her.
“Of course it is,” she hastened to say. He nodded stiffly before leading her into a careful promenade turn.
As she spun, Beatrice caught sight of a blond head across the ballroom. That was Theodore Eaton, the only young man on her parents’ list who hadn’t yet sought her out. She recognized him from the photos in her manila folder.