Page 38 of American Royals
“Hairbrushes are overrated, those sneakers are way cooler than heels, and who cares about whether your family has a title?”
“America does! You know what I mean, Jeff,” she said impatiently. “I’m hardly the type of girl you should be taking to Matsuhara.”
“I thought we established that all our future dates were going to be at Wawa.” Jeff hazarded a grin. “I like you, Nina. I know that I messed up, before. But I really want to change your mind. At the very least, could you stop being so difficult and give me the chance to try?”
Despite her lingering misgivings, Nina smiled. “Don’t take it personally; I’m always difficult.”
“It hasn’t scared me away so far,” Jeff reminded her.
Nina shifted closer and kissed the Prince of America again.
BEATRICE
Beatrice didn’t dare glance back at Connor as she headed up the curved staircase of His Majesty’s Theater. The rest of her family, along with all their security, walked alongside her. Even Jeff was here, which should have surprised Beatrice, given that he usually went to great lengths to avoid the theater. But she was too preoccupied with her own anxiety to notice.
After the Queen’s Ball—after she’d crossed an uncrossable line and kissed him—she’d been half afraid that Connor might hand in his resignation. Yet he had just shown up to work the next morning as usual.
They’d barely spoken all week, their usual easy conversation and good-natured teasing replaced by a heavy silence. The few times Beatrice ventured a question, Connor’s answers were clipped and distant. He had clearly resolved to put the entire mess behind him and act like it had never happened.
Which was precisely what she should be doing.
“Beatrice, you sit here,” the queen commanded, as they swept through the curtain that led to the royal box.
Adelaide gestured to the seat that was front and center. It was the most exposed to the other theatergoers: in the orchestra below, on the balcony above, even the other occupants of the private boxes, which wound around the mezzanine in a gilded semicircle. Beatrice recognized all the curious faces on those balconies, from the Nigerian trade envoy to the elderly Baroness Västerbotten, who was openly staring at the royal family through her opera lorgnettes.
Beatrice took the seat her mother had indicated. She clasped one hand over the other in her lap, then reversed them. Strains of music floated from the orchestra, conversations overlapping as people found their way to their seats.
“Your Royal Highness,” said a voice at her shoulder, and Beatrice glanced up into the dancing blue eyes of Teddy Eaton.
She rose to her feet in a fluid motion, only to freeze with indecision. How was she supposed to welcome Teddy? A handshake felt too impersonal, given that this was a date, but a hug seemed a bit familiar.
As if sensing her panic, Teddy reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips in an old-fashioned, courtly gesture. His kiss just barely brushed the surface of her skin.
Beatrice swallowed. It took every last shred of her self-control not to turn around and glance at Connor. “Thank you for coming,” she declared, her words hollow and formal even to her own ears.
The moment they took their seats next to each other, a dull roar of interest swept through the theater. People craned their necks to catch a glimpse of them, held up their phones to snap a quick photo. Even the occupants of the other boxes didn’t bother to hide their stares.
Beatrice ground her back teeth, wishing she hadn’t suggested something so high-profile and public. Of course people were going to gossip about this. Beatrice never went on dates, and now she was at the season’s most anticipated show with the handsome, eminently eligible Theodore Eaton?
Teddy turned to her, ignoring the flurry of excitement at his arrival. “So, are you excited about the show? They’re saying it’s completely revolutionary.”
Beatrice saw her sister try to slip toward the back, but the queen put her hands on Samantha’s shoulders and steered her into the seat on Teddy’s left. She winced at the memory of how she’d snapped at Sam the other morning. She hadn’t meant to; she’d just been so on edge about what had happened the night before with Connor, and Sam’s accusations had caught her off guard.
“I’m looking forward to it,” she told Teddy, and glanced in her sister’s direction. Maybe she could extend an olive branch by drawing her into the conversation. “Though Samantha is the one who’s really into musicals.”
“Really?” Teddy asked, glancing at Samantha.
“Beatrice is the official patron of the arts, not me,” Sam said sullenly. She turned to her friend Nina, in the chair on her other side.
Beatrice blinked at her sister’s rudeness. “That position is just a formality,” she hurried to explain. “I’ve never had any musical ability.”
Teddy’s eyes flicked briefly to Samantha, and a shadow of something darted over his expression. Then he gave Beatrice a smile. “You’re not a singer?”
“I’m so tragically off-key that I got cut from fourth-grade choir.”
But there was more to it. The truth was, Beatrice had always lacked the patience for theater, for the same reason she rarely read novels: she couldn’t relate to the characters. She remembered how frustrated she’d been as a child, when she saw a play about a princess on a quest. The whole thing had felt so deceitful to her—this story about a princess who drove the action, who got to make choices. Because the life of a princess was decided for her, long before she was even born.
Writers got to pick the endings of their novels, but Beatrice wasn’t living a story. She was living history, and history went on forever.
