Page 62 of Rivals
Sam acted like she hadn’t heard. “Meet downstairs in ten? I know what to wear; you don’t need to worry aboutme,” Sam added to Louise, who smiled broadly.
“I never do.”
They exchanged a complicit, knowing look, like two parents making eye contact over their toddler’s head. It made Beatrice laugh in defeat. “Fine, I can fight one of you, but not both. Just tell me what to wear.”
Louise beamed. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
She disappeared into Beatrice’s closet, emerging a few minutes later with a slinky black dress—which Beatrice had only ever worn with tights—and over-the-knee boots. Once Beatrice had changed, Louise put her hands on her shoulders and led her to the vanity.
“Close your eyes,” she commanded. Beatrice felt an eyeliner pencil, then a dusting of shadow along her upper lid. “Now open them,” Louise told her. Beatrice stared up at the ceiling as Louise brushed wet mascara over her lashes.
“Look at us. We’re two of a kind.”
Beatrice glanced to where their faces hovered in the mirror. Despite their obvious differences—Louise’s hair a pale blonde, Beatrice’s dark brown—they looked startlingly similar. They had the same dark-rimmed eyes and smoky lashes, the same red lips.
Beatrice looked nothing like her usual demure self. She looked like a new Beatrice, powerful and a little bit dangerous.
The tsar’s yacht was at anchor in the bay, its lights dancingover the water. When they reached the dock, they all lowered themselves into a motorboat, and the driver sped off.
Beatrice glanced back at Bellevue. She so rarely saw it from this vantage point. On one side its beaches curled into the ocean; on the other, cliffs fell in a sheer drop to the crashing surf. The turrets of the main house rose up in stone splendor, lights glowing like fireflies behind the windows.
When a crew member helped them onto theXenia,Beatrice nearly gasped. The doors to the great room were open, revealing an indulgently opulent space, its surfaces covered in gold leaf and baroque tracery. Chandeliers cast glittering light over dark wood furniture and silk couches. It could have been a room lifted straight from a palace, except for the enormous windows that overlooked the water. The sun was setting, orange whorls of flame descending into the ocean and turning the water a molten yellow-gold.
There must not be anyone at tonight’s official programming, since this yacht was packed with people.
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses. Welcome.” Tsar Dmitri stepped forward to greet them. He was a bear of a man, tall and imposing, wearing the Romanovs’ signature dark red.
Louise and Sam each gave a slow curtsy. Beatrice knew it bothered Louise, but since she was technically still a princess, she was required to give way before monarchs.
Beatrice, of course, did not curtsy. She inclined her head to the tsar, her nod just low enough to be polite but not so low that it would be mistaken for submission.
Dmitri waved at a footman, who came over bearing a tray of crystal flutes. Beatrice accepted one and took a sip, then nearly choked. It wasn’t champagne, but vodka.
The party was clearly in full swing. Kings and queens were spilling onto the promenades that encircled the boat,exchanging rapid stories in a variety of languages. The queens of Mexico and Morocco perched on the edge of the hot tub, feet in the water, loudly instructing one of the staff about how to prepare some frozen cocktail that involved bananas and cream. “Just bring the blender up here and I’ll make it myself,” Queen Monica exclaimed, at which Queen Leila squealed, “It’ll be like old times!” Farther down the deck, the kings of Spain and Nigeria were bent over a phone, tugging it back and forth as they fought over the playlist. No one else seemed to care that the music was switching frenetically from one song to another. Princess Maria of Italy was carrying around a large shopping bag, tossing out glow bracelets and ring pops that she’d apparently purchased at a dollar store. And here was Prince James, walking around with the top half of his shirt unbuttoned.
Feeling Beatrice’s gaze on him, Jamie grinned and sank into an absurdly low bow, so that his shirt fluttered open and revealed his tanned chest. “Your Majesty. A pleasure to see you, as always.” He eyed Beatrice’s diamond watch and added, “What time is it, by the way?”
Beatrice glanced down at her wrist. “Six.”
Jamie crowed in delight. “It’s time, then! A button an hour! A button an hour!” To Beatrice’s shock, all the men on board—except Dmitri—obediently unfastened another button of their shirts, which now hung half-open. Beatrice saw the chests of far more kings than she’d ever expected to see in one place.
“Seriously, Jamie?” Sam rolled her eyes.
Jamie just laughed, unbothered. “You’re welcome to join in, of course, Samantha.”
Beatrice bristled, but Jamie was already heading off to harass someone else. And Sirivannavari, Bharat, and Alexei had started toward them, wearing dopey smiles and glowingnecklaces and, in Alexei’s and Bharat’s case, shirts with the top few buttons undone.
“Really, boys?” Louise teased.
“A button an hour. I don’t make the rules, I just obey them,” Bharat said flippantly, but Alexei must have caught Louise’s disapproval, because he hurried to redo his buttons.
There was a loud thump from outside, and they all turned. Alexei shrugged. “Don’t worry, that’s just some drunk idiot trying to unhook the lifeboats. Happens every time. They’re securely fastened,” he added reassuringly.
Louise leaned over, nudging Beatrice’s shoulder with her own. “Told you. The Romanovs really know how to throw a party.”
An hour later, Beatrice ducked from the terrace back into the great room.
The party had, impossibly, gotten even rowdier. Bharat and Alexei had broken into the pool closet and unearthed a huge crate of squirt guns, and now all the royals were engaged in an all-out water fight, their expensive silk dresses and custom-fitted shirts soaking wet. Beatrice just wanted to catch her breath for a minute, escape all the chaos.
