His eyes darted from the door, to the hallway, back toward the windows, assessing the likelihood of a threat from any direction. He had run to her with impossible speed, and now he stood before her with preternatural stillness, the sort of bone-deep stillness that clearly resulted from years of training.

Beatrice’s heart raced. She was hyperaware of every place their bodies touched, from her legs up to her chest, which was pressed against Connor’s back. His uniform was scratchy against her cheek. She could feel the rapid rise and fall of his breath, smell the spiciness of his soap. The warmth of his body seemed to burn through her dress, to scorch her very skin.

The oath of the Revere Guard echoed in her mind. I am the lantern of honor and truth, the light against the darkness. In life and limb, to live or die, I swear to guard this realm and its Crown.

To live or die. Connor had literally sworn to protect her with his very breath. Beatrice had known this, but it was another thing entirely to see him fling his body in front of hers as a living shield. To know that he would fight for her, if it came to it. She felt oddly humbled.

It felt like an eternity passed before a voice crackled over the palace’s intercom system. “False alarm, everyone! One of the fireworks accidentally went off on the South Portico!”

Connor turned, placing his hands on Beatrice’s bare shoulders to steady her. They were the hard palms of a man used to physical exertion, a man who lifted weights and held a rifle and was no stranger to the boxing ring. His face was alight with something—alertness, and concern, and something else that radiated from him like heat.

“Bee, are you okay?”

Her throat felt very dry. She managed a nod.

Seemingly satisfied, Connor stepped away, holstering his weapon. In all the excitement, the collar of his suit had shifted, and there it was again: the edge of that tattoo. It hinted at the real Connor, the private body that he kept hidden beneath weapons and uniforms.

The palace was probably full of voices and running footsteps—it should have been, after a security scare like that. Beatrice heard none of it. The rest of the world seemed to have receded to nothing.

She stepped forward and lifted her mouth to his.

Her good sense must have momentarily fled her body, because she acted entirely without thinking; but all her senses came rushing back as their lips touched. The utter rightness of that kiss struck her, deep in her core.

Connor broke away and stumbled back. Something, maybe his lantern pin, had snagged on her ivory sash, ripping it from her shoulder as he stepped away. It fluttered to the floor like a white flag of surrender.

Oh god. What had she done?

Connor’s breath was as shallow and uneven as hers. Neither of them spoke. She imagined them frozen in time like cartoon people in a comic strip, little speech bubbles floating out of their mouths, but empty of any text.

A knock sounded at the entrance to her suite. “Beatrice!”

Just like he always did, her father pushed open the door before she could even say come in.

Nothing about their position was compromising; they were standing in her sitting room, Beatrice still dressed in her full ball gown and heels. She just hoped that her expression didn’t give them away.

“Are you all right?” the king exclaimed. “Sorry about the firework. I’m not quite sure how that happened.”

“I’m all right,” Beatrice said steadily.

Next to her, she felt Connor bob into a stiff bow. “Your Majesty,” he murmured, and hurried from the room.

“I just wanted to check in. How do you feel about the young men you met tonight?” the king asked, as the door shut behind Connor.

Beatrice’s ears were still ringing from what had happened. She had kissed her Guard. The knowledge of it echoed like the sound of the firework that had exploded several minutes ago.

Had it really been only a couple of minutes? It felt more like a lifetime.

“Can we talk tomorrow? I’m exhausted,” she asked her dad, with a wan smile.

“Of course. I understand.”

When her dad had left, Beatrice crossed her sitting room and bedroom and retreated into her final refuge—her closet. There was a deep bay window along one of the walls, with an old window seat piled high with cushions.

Climbing onto it, she kicked off her shoes and drew her knees up so that her skirt flowed over the cushions. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the cool silk of her gown, willing her pulse to slow down.

What did Connor think of what had happened? Was he still standing there, at attention outside her front door?

Beatrice couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

She was afraid that she’d messed things up with him forever, but even more afraid of herself—and the thrilling, terrifying new feelings that coursed through her.

Feelings for a person who would never end up in a manila folder of approved, appropriate options. A person who could never be hers.

SAMANTHA

Samantha pulled the coverlet over her head and squeezed her eyes shut, but it was no use. She’d forgotten to close her drapes, and the gray predawn light seeped into her room, highlighting the delicate pillows that she’d kicked unceremoniously onto the carpet.

Her ears felt pinched. She reached up, realizing that she’d accidentally slept in the diamond earrings from the Crown Jewels collection. Oops. She unscrewed them and tossed them onto her bedside table, then lunged for her phone, suddenly desperate to know whether Teddy had texted.