American Royals

What use was fiction when confronted with cold hard facts? “I guess so,” Beatrice said noncommittally.

She felt relieved when the houselights dimmed and the curtain lifted, shifting Teddy’s attention, and that of most people in the theater, away from Beatrice at last.

An actor in a braided red jacket and paste crown stepped onstage, accompanied by an actress in a glittering rhinestone tiara: most likely the pair playing King John and doomed Queen Emily. Their eyes fixed on the royal box directly across from them, they both sank into a deep reverence.

It was a tradition dating back to the founding of this theater two hundred years ago: any actors portraying royalty must bow and curtsy to the real royalty before the show could begin.

The lights softened, gleaming on the reflective sheen of Emily’s costume. The rest of the world dissolved into oblivion as she began to sing.

And Beatrice’s self-control began to slip.

She’d never heard music this powerful and emotional and poignant. It reached deep into her core, grabbed at the feelings that were tangled there in hot angry knots and unspooled them like a skein of thread. She leaned forward, rapt, her hands clutching tightly at the program. She felt so brittle and transparent that she might snap in two.

Emily sang of nation-building, of legacy and sacrifice. She sang of love gained and lost. And as the score swept toward the end of the first act—as Emily launched into a heart-wrenching ballad about how she would need to give up the person she loved, for the good of her country—Beatrice realized that she was trembling.

She stumbled to her feet and fled, ignoring the startled glances of her family and Teddy. The hallway was mercifully empty, save the flock of her family’s security stationed outside the door to their box.

She didn’t let their murmured protests slow her down, didn’t stop even when her heels almost tripped over the red carpet. She just charged frantically down the hallway, not sure where she was going, knowing only that she couldn’t bear to be still.

“Are you all right?” Connor fell into step alongside her. “Did that duke say something to upset you? Because if so, I promise I’ll—”

“It’s okay. I just got emotional, watching the show.” She tried to dab at her eyes without Connor seeing, but he reached into his jacket to give her a handkerchief.

“A musical made you cry,” he repeated, with evident disbelief.

Beatrice gave a strangled laugh. “I know it doesn’t sound like me.” But then, she hadn’t really been herself since the Queen’s Ball.

She drew to a halt partway down the mezzanine’s hallway. Snatches of music drifted through the closed doors to the boxes. The light of the ornate wall sconces fell on Connor’s uniform, on his hair, on the molten steel of his eyes. Those eyes were now locked meaningfully on Beatrice’s.

So many things lay unspoken between them, and Beatrice didn’t know how to begin to say them.

“Connor,” she whispered. His name on her lips was a plea, a prayer.

He ventured a step closer, so close that Beatrice could see each individual freckle dusted over his nose. Her face tilted upward—

“Your Royal Highness! Are you okay?”

At the sound of Teddy’s voice, Connor took a quick step back. Beatrice had to bite her lip to keep from reaching for him again.

Quieting the expression on her face, she turned around to where Teddy was striding briskly down the hall in their direction. “I’m fine,” she said evenly. “I just needed a minute, after that song.”

“And here I thought you weren’t really into musicals,” Teddy said gently. His eyes drifted to a velvet-covered settee against the wall. “Do you want to wait a minute before we head back?”

Beatrice couldn’t help looking over at Connor, who gave an imperceptible shrug. “Whatever you want, Your Royal Highness.”

The way he said her title was utterly cold. As if he needed to remind himself, remind both of them, of her rank.

Beatrice sank wordlessly onto the cushions, trying not to glance over to where he stood: a few meters away, but most likely within earshot. What was he thinking? Was his blood sparking and spinning with as much wild abandon as hers?

Teddy came to sit next to her. Slowly, the panic in Beatrice’s veins began to subside. Neither of them rushed to speak, yet the silence didn’t feel tense or awkward, just … simple. Companionable, even. Perhaps because, alone among all the courtiers she’d met, Teddy had made no demands of her.

Everyone else wanted something. They wanted money or a title or a position in government; they wanted their names next to hers in the papers. Except Teddy. He hadn’t asked anything of her, except perhaps for honesty.

Which she wasn’t entirely sure she could give.

“When I was little, my parents used to bring me and my siblings to the opening night of every show.” Beatrice stared down at her lap, but she could feel Teddy’s gaze on her. “Sam always begged my parents to let us leave at intermission.”

“Why?”

“She hated unhappy endings. Or really, she hated all endings. I think Sam preferred to imagine her own ending, rather than stay and watch everything unravel into a tragedy.” Beatrice glanced over at Teddy. “Now I know how she felt.”

“We don’t have to stay,” he offered, and Beatrice knew he understood that this was about more than the musical.