Majesty

“And I thought it best that we all meet before your weekend in Boston,” Robert added, with an ingratiating nod toward Beatrice. “That way you can review the schedule with His Lordship’s family and let me know if they have any preferred changes.”

Sam hardly heard her sister’s reply, hardly registered her mom chiming in, saying that she would be down in Canaveral this weekend and would they give the duchess her love. Sam had focused with relentless cruelty on those four words: your weekend in Boston.

Teddy was bringing Beatrice home to Walthorpe.

He’d moved on from Sam to her older sister. Which was fine by Sam, since he meant nothing to her, either. All it had been was a stupid flirtation, and now it was over.

Robert was still droning on about something—most likely etiquette—while Sam edged closer to her brother.

“It’s just us this weekend,” she whispered, with a nod toward Beatrice and Teddy. “Should we have people over?”

Back in high school, they had often thrown parties when their dad left town. It was as if, once the monarch had gone and the Royal Standard was lowered from the flagpole, the palace stopped feeling like an institution and started feeling like their house.

Jeff blinked. “You want to throw a party, after what happened last time?”

Sam winced at the memory. “Himari’s fall was an accident. And besides—she’s out of her coma!” Sam had seen the news; it was all over social media. “Come on, Jeff, we could all use some cheering up right now.”

Not to mention, it would show Teddy how little she cared that he and Beatrice were being all couple-y up in Boston.

“Okay. Let’s do it,” Jeff whispered.

“What are you two conspiring about?” their mother demanded.

“Nothing,” the twins chorused. It felt so much like old times again that Sam had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

Robert cleared his throat, a pompous, grating sound. “As I was saying, today we will be practicing the opening moments of the reception. After their entrance, the newlyweds will begin the traditional first dance to ‘America, My Homeland.’?”

At his words, Beatrice and Teddy made their way onto the ballroom’s polished wooden floor.

“Following the first chorus, the family members will join in, as dictated by tradition.” Robert nodded at Queen Adelaide. “Your Majesty, His Grace the Duke of Boston will lead you onto the dance floor. As for His Highness Prince Jefferson…” Robert turned pointedly to Jeff. “You still haven’t told me the name of your date.”

Jeff flashed a blithe, careless smile. “I’m waiting until the last minute. It’s more fun to keep everyone guessing.”

Sam wondered if her brother had anyone in mind. There was always the possibility he would do what the world expected of him, and get back together with Daphne.

She hoped not. It certainly wouldn’t be easy on Nina, seeing Jeff and Daphne together again.

“Samantha,” Robert said now, omitting her title, though he’d used it for everyone else. “You said that you’ve invited Lord Marshall Davis. Where is he?”

Sam was inordinately pleased by how startled Teddy looked at the news. Even Beatrice, who never revealed her emotions, widened her eyes in surprise.

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” she began, though she wasn’t at all sure. But somehow, right on cue, the doors to the ballroom were flung open.

Marshall crossed the room with bold, easy strides and came to stand next to Sam. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t hold things up too much.”

It was the most unapologetic sorry that Sam had ever heard. Which meant a lot, coming from her.

Robert pursed his lips in disapproval. “Now that we’re all here, let’s begin.” He swiped at his tablet, and the opening notes of “America, My Homeland” played on the speaker system.

It really was a dour song, Sam thought, feeling almost sorry for Beatrice. At least when she got married, she would get to choose the music for her first dance.

Marshall draped an arm over her shoulders in a casual gesture. “Hey, babe.”

Sam nestled in closer, letting her head tip onto his shoulder. “I told you not to call me that,” she murmured—and gave his side a pinch.

Marshall didn’t even wince. He just caught her hand with his, lacing their fingers. “Oh, snookums, I have a younger sister. You’re going to have to do better than that to send me running.”

“Snookums? Seriously?” Sam tried to tug her hand from his grip, but Marshall held it fast.

He began brushing his thumb in lazy circles over her knuckles. It was distracting enough that Sam fell still. She let her gaze drift to where Beatrice and Teddy were floating through the steps of the dance.

She hated to admit it, but they looked good together. When Teddy spun her on her toes, Beatrice’s dress even fluttered out a little, hinting at how much better the real dress would look. The exertion seemed to warm her, so that by the time they’d reached the first chorus, her cheeks were flushed with a delicate pinkness that made her look…happy.

Robert turned around with a clucking noise. As Jeff headed to the other side of the ballroom—dancing with their mother, who was standing in for his date, whoever that would be—Marshall tugged Sam onto the dance floor. He clasped her right hand firmly in his left, settling his other hand on her hip. She fit into his arms with surprising ease.

The music slid into a bleak, lonely-sounding bridge, and Marshall groaned. “How do they expect us to dance to such a depressing song?”

“Just shut up and do as you’re told,” Sam snapped, a little disconcerted that his thoughts so closely mirrored hers. “I’m starting to worry that you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

He smiled at that. “No one will believe we’re dating if you keep saying what you actually think. Especially about me.”

“But you make it so easy to insult you,” Sam tossed back, even as she realized that Marshall was right. She’d never been this brutally honest with a boy before—because she’d never entered a relationship knowing it would go nowhere. Honestly, it was kind of liberating.

“Look, I know we said we’d go on our first public date next week,” she went on, “but Jeff and I just decided that we’re having a party on Saturday. You should come.”

Marshall’s grip on her waist tightened. “Ah, so your mystery guy is going to be there. And you need me to strike fear and jealousy into his heart.”

No, but I’ll post such fantastic pictures that he’ll have no choice but to see them, and realize I’ve moved on. “I can invite Kelsey, if that’s what you’re asking,” she offered.

“Kelsey rarely leaves LA. She only came to that museum party because she was filming a commercial the next day.”

“I thought you said you hadn’t talked to her,” Sam replied, and he gave a wry shrug at being caught.

“We didn’t talk. I just…saw her post about the commercial online.”

“Marshall!” Sam hissed. “You haven’t unfollowed her? That’s the first thing you’re supposed to do after a breakup!”

“Sorry if I don’t rush to take your advice. I know that when it comes to relationships, you’re infinitely wise and mature,” he said drily, and Sam rolled her eyes.

“Just promise you’ll come to the party, okay?”

“Sure,” he agreed, surprising her. “When in my life have I turned down a party?”

“I—okay. Thanks.” Sam was suddenly distracted by the way Marshall’s hand drifted lower, to settle over the curve of her spine.

Really, dancing was a strange social phenomenon. Here she was, so close to Marshall that they could talk without being heard, close enough that she could smell the clean, laundered scent of him. Yet everyone seemed determined to pretend that it was just like any other court ritual—that it wasn’t intimate or physical at all.

Her next step landed her foot squarely on his. She stumbled back, but Marshall tightened his grip on her elbow to steady her.

“I know this won’t come naturally to you, but you could try following my lead,” he offered.

“This is what I hate about ballroom dancing. Why should you be the one to lead, anyway?”

“Because I’m taller. Obviously.” Marshall’s lips twitched. “Also, I have more durable shoes. They’re built to be stepped on by even the sharpest of high heels.”

“It was your fault,” she insisted, though she was biting back a smile. “You were in my way.”

They danced for a few more minutes in silence. But when Marshall started to angle them on a diagonal, Sam shook her head. “What are you doing? This is the three-step turn!”

“That comes later. First it’s the chassé.”

She dug her heels in, her shoes squealing in protest on the hardwood floor.

“Samantha! The chassé comes first!” Robert shouted. Sam could hear his frustration from across the ballroom.

She started to shrug off the criticism the way she always did, but to her shock, Marshall drew to a halt, right there in the middle of the dance floor.

“Sorry, Lord Standish; it was my mistake. I led Samantha astray.”

Robert grumbled to himself, but waved aside the apology.

Marshall turned back to Samantha, a hand held out expectantly. Slowly, a bit startled, she placed her palm in his.

“Did you just take the fall for me?”

“That’s what fake boyfriends are for, isn’t it?”