Page 13 of American Royals II: Majesty
The prince was grieving, Daphne reminded herself: he needed his space. Yet she couldn’t help worrying. What if he was no longer interested in her? Or, worse, what if he was getting back together withNina?
Unlike Daphne, Nina could show up at the palace whenever she wanted, ostensibly to see her best friend. But who could say whether all those visits were to see Samantha…or her brother?
Daphne redoubled her efforts in the direction of the French ambassador: smiling her perfect smile, laughing her brightest laugh, being the most intoxicating, glittering version of herself.
Delighted, the ambassador introduced her to several of his colleagues. Daphne heard the click of a photographer’s camera to her left. She sucked in her stomach but pretended she didn’t notice, because she didn’t want the moment to look staged.
When people all over the capital opened the society pages tomorrow, this was the image they would see—the prince’s ex-girlfriend charming government officials with ease, just as a princess should.
Sometimes Daphne felt that only at moments like this, when she was somewhere public, did she truly exist. Thatshe wasn’t real unless someone else’s eyes were on her, unless shewas beingseen.
Eventually she murmured her excuses and headed toward the bar. Her dress, a silk chiffon that shifted from burnished bronze at her shoulders to soft gold at the hem, billowed out behind her as she walked.
Daphne ordered a soda water with lime, then deliberately arched her back and leaned her forearms onto the bar’s surface, turning to her most flattering three-quarter angle. She looked as if she didn’t have a care in the world, as if she were completely unaware of the party and its hundreds of influential guests.
It was an old party trick of hers, from when she’d first started attending royal events. She would make sure everyone noticed her, then deftly extricate herself from the group, making it easy for Jefferson to come find her alone. It worked every time.
The prince inevitably wanted what everyoneelsewanted. That was just human nature, and it was especially true for royalty.
At the sound of footsteps behind her, Daphne allowed herself a small, triumphant smile. He’d come faster than she’d expected.
Slowly, sensually, she turned around—only to realize that Jefferson hadn’t come to find her. It was his best friend, Ethan Beckett.
Daphne quickly blinked away her confusion. She hadn’t been this close to Ethan since the night of Beatrice’s engagement party.
Or really, the morning after.
“Hey, Ethan,” she said, as normally as she could manage.
He leaned against the bar next to her. The cuffs of his blazer were folded back, revealing his strong, tanned wrists. “You seem to be having quite the night.”
There was something sardonic in his tone, as if he knew precisely what lay behind her wild display of charm, and was amused by it.
Daphne flicked a glance back at the dance floor, but she’d lost sight of Jefferson in the crowds. Where had he gone, andwhowas he with?
She felt Ethan’s gaze on her and glanced back up. An idea began to take hold in Daphne’s mind, stubborn and burrlike: an idea so simple that it was either brilliant, or deeply foolish.
“Ethan,” she asked sweetly, “can we talk?”
“Am I mistaken, or isn’t that what we’re doing now?”
“I meant alone.”
Ethan stared at her for a moment, then held out an arm in a careless display of chivalry. “Sure.”
“Thank you.” She had no choice but to place her hand over his sleeve. And there it was again, the way her whole body sparked to alertness at his touch.
Daphne realized that even though she’dsleptwith Ethan—twice—they had never actually held hands. Her fingers itched to lace themselves in his, just to see what it felt like.
She let go of Ethan’s arm as if it were burning.
“This way.” Daphne started toward the archway that led out into the rest of the museum. Ethan gave a resigned sigh but followed.
Long ago the G&A had been a train station, until the new, longer trains that ran on electricity had rendered its platforms obsolete. It was King Edward II who’d decommissioned the entire thing, turning it into an art museum instead, and naming it after his grandparents. Out here in the main causeway, you could still see traces of the old rail station: the grand curves of the mezzanine where travelers once sat gossiping over their morning espressos, the brick entrances to the train platforms, which now led guests to impressionist paintings. The ceiling soared overhead, its iron supports swooping up in a series of elegant arches.
Daphne didn’t break stride until they were halfway down the hallway. Finally she paused at a statue of a man on horseback—a Roman emperor, probably, or one of the Washington kings. Whoever he was, his horse had reared up onto its hind legs, as if the man meant to trample anyone who stood in his way.
Daphne knew the feeling.
