Page 29 of American Royals II: Majesty
Most peers looked forward to ceremonial occasions like this. It was one of the few chances they had to put on these dusty old robes—and stare down their noses at all the commoners who didn’t have the right to wear them.
“He’s been sending me as his proxy a lot lately. He says he hates the cross-country flight. Not that I actuallydoanything,” Marshall added under his breath.
“What do you mean?”
“Even when the dukes are all assembled, I’m only there to help fill out the room. I can’t actually speak or vote. Being a proxy literally means that I’m a body filling a seat—a very good-looking body, obviously.” He flashed his usual cocky smile, but Sam sensed that his heart wasn’t in it. She surprised herself by answering with a truth of her own.
“I know the feeling. No one ever wants me to be anythingbuta body—a smiling, waving, tiara-wearing body.”
“Would it help if I said you look great in a tiara?” Marshall offered, and Sam rolled her eyes.
“The tiara isn’t the problem. It’s the rest of it that I can’t stand.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’m not the smiling-and-waving type either.”
“But at least you have apurpose! You’ll get to rule someday!”
He seemed surprised by her reply. “In forty years, maybe. For now, there’s nothing for me to do except sit around and wait.”
“Welcome to life as the spare. It’s a job full of nothing,” Sam said drily.
“You, doing nothing? I find that hard to believe.” Marshall’s mouth twitched. “Just think of all the buildings you haven’t yet kicked.”
“Look, can you please forget about that?”
Sam hated that Marshall had caught her in that moment. She felt more exposed, somehow, than if he’d seen her naked.
“Absolutely not,” he said mercilessly. “The American princess taking out her frustrations on a national monument? It’s one of my most treasured memories.”
“Then you’ll be next,” Sam warned, and he laughed.
As she pushed open the door, she saw Marshall cast a few curious glances around her sitting room. Unlike the rest of the palace, Sam’s suite was an eclectic clash of styles and colors. Brightly colored rugs were strewn over the floor at odd angles. Against one wall, an ornate grandfather clock—which Sam’s ancestor Queen Tatiana had brought from Russia, its hours marked with gorgeous Cyrillic numerals—stood next to a table that was hand-painted in bright green turtles.
Sam headed to her desk and pulled out the top drawer. An assortment of objects clattered inside: old lipsticks, earring backs, a pearl button that had fallen off her leather gloves. At the center of all the disorder was the enamel bear pin.
“See? I told you I hadn’t lost it!”
She reached for the fabric of his robes. Surprise flickered in Marshall’s eyes, and she realized belatedly that he hadn’t expected her to pin itonhim.
Sam’s hand fell abruptly from his chest.
“Here, let me.” Marshall reached to hook the pin in place. It was made to be worn like this, Sam realized: not pinned against the drab backdrop of a suit, but atop the scarlet robes, where it gleamed like liquid gold.
She took a step back, struck by the immediate physicality of Marshall’s presence. He no longer looked ridiculous in the robes at all. If anything, the other peers would look ridiculous next tohim.
“So, did it work?” she asked, recalling why she’d taken the pin in the first place. “Did we make Kelsey jealous?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t heard from her.” Marshall shrugged. “What about you and your mystery guy?”
“He saw us,” she said evasively.
When she’d walked into the reception hall arm in arm with Marshall, Sam hadn’t dared look over at Teddy. But she felt certain he’d seen them together. Everyone at that party had seen them, because she and Marshall were, if nothing else, gossip-worthy. And they’d been making a bit of a scene.
Thinking of it gave her a rush of hot, vindictive pleasure that quickly evaporated.
Teddy was going tomarryher sister. And no matter what Sam did, there was no way she could hurt him worse than he’d hurt her.
“Thanks, Samantha. I’ll see you around,” Marshall said cheerfully, and started toward the door.
