Page 36 of Rivals
Still, Jefferson pulled away and caught her hands in his. “Daphne,” he asked hoarsely. “Are you sure? I thought…I mean…”
“I’m sure,” she told him.
Jefferson studied her expression for a moment, as if tryingto figure out what had changed her mind. Then he smiled. “All right.”
He stood in a single movement, swept Daphne into his arms as easily as if she weighed nothing at all, and carried her through the doorway to his bedroom.
“Marshall, please!” Sam whacked her boyfriend lightly on the shoulder. “We’re almost at your grandparents’ house, and you haven’t told me which of these I should bring as a thank-you gift for dinner. What will they like more, the chocolate truffles”—she pulled each item out of an oversized shopping bag as she narrated—“the aromatherapy diffuser, the coffee beans, or the linen hand towels? Beatrice says if you give hand towels, they have to be monogrammed, but I didn’t have time for that.”
He began sorting through her various gifts. “You don’t have any wine in this Mary Poppins bag of yours?”
Sam flushed. “I worried it might seem rude, bringing wine to people who own a vineyard. If you give them any other wine, then you’re implying theirs isn’t the best, but it would be weird to bring them a bottle of theirownwine, right?” Flustered, she called out to the driver. “Sorry, is there a liquor store on the way? We need to make a stop—”
“Sam, I was kidding.” Marshall put a hand over hers. “This is just dinner, okay? It’s not a big deal.”
She knew he was trying to reassure her, but for once, she wished he were less flippant, less irreverent. “It’s a big deal to me,” she said quietly.
Their car slowed to a halt, and Sam looked up at the soaring white pillars of the ducal mansion. “You know what? I’lljust bring everything,” she decided, gathering the various boxes into her arms as the driver came around to open the door. She had to jostle all the gifts in her arms to keep from dropping any of them to the ground.
“I can carry some of that for you, if you want,” Marshall offered, trotting alongside her.
“Fat chance. They’remypresents.”
“Wait a second.Whatare you wearing?” he asked, as if just now noticing her cowl-necked sweater dress and black heels.
Sam must have tried on two dozen outfits before finally admitting defeat and asking for her sister’s help. Getting old people to like her was one of Beatrice’s strong suits.
“I got dressed up,” she told him, and Marshall barked out a laugh.
“For a job interview to sell life insurance in Ohio?”
Before Sam could answer, Marshall’s grandmother—Lady Joanna Davis, Duchess of Orange—opened the door.
“Your Royal Highness,” she said warmly, lowering herself into a curtsy before Sam.
“Oh, please don’t call me that! It makes me sound a hundred years old!”
The moment she said it, Sam cringed; that probably wasn’t the right thing to say to Marshall’s eighty-two-year-old grandmother. But the duchess just smiled, her eyes crinkling pleasantly around the corners.
“What I meant was, please call me Sam.” She tried unsuccessfully to hand over the gifts, but the diffuser almost shattered on the floor, and Marshall stepped forward to help. “Um—these are for you, Your Grace. Thank you for inviting me into your lovely home.”
“It’s our pleasure, Sam. And please, call me Jojo, like Marshie here does.” The duchess turned and pulled her grandson in for a hug. Sam nearly hooted with delight.
“Marshie!” she whispered as they followed his grandmother into the cavernous entry hall. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that one. Best. Nickname. Yet.”
“I already regret bringing you here,” he replied.
“Sam!” Rory, Marshall’s sister, stepped forward to help Sam deposit the rest of her boxes on a side table. “You came prepared,” she added, opening the box of truffles and popping a coconut one into her mouth.
“How’s school?” Sam asked.
Rory brightened. She was a junior in college, studying computer science. “I’m in this amazing class on robotics right now. I programmed a toy car to drive itself around the room!”
“Rory’s on track to graduate with honors,” Marshall’s grandfather announced, joining their conversation. His eyes cut to Marshall, and Sam felt the silent reproach beneath his words—the disappointment that Rory was succeeding where Marshall had barely squeaked by with passing grades.
Sam didn’t understand the Davises’ attitude toward Marshall’s dyslexia. He had a learning difficulty, but so what? He was still one of the smartest people she knew; his intelligence just manifested in different ways. He was perceptive and quick-witted and empathetic and thoughtful, instead of book smart. Yet his family acted like his dyslexia was something to hide, as shameful as if he’d committed a felony.
She fought back the urge to rush to Marshall’s defense and instead turned respectfully to his grandfather. “Thank you for having me, Your Grace.”
