Page 134 of Reign
It had started a few weeks into her time here, when Daphnewas newly settling into her life as Louise’s employee. She saw Ethan’s name on the incoming video call and scrambled to answer, heart pounding in her chest. Just looking at him had sent static dancing over her skin, a low-frequency hum of nostalgia and want.
“It’s better that I’m not there,” Daphne said now, replying to Ethan’s remark about the coronation. “Besides, I’m pretty busyruling France.”
“And how is the reign of Queen Daphne so far?”
“France should be so lucky,” she teased. “Really, though, I can’t believe Louise gave me her power of attorney while she’s gone.”
Princess Louise was currently in Washington. It wasn’t typical for foreign royals to attend each other’s coronations—being crowned was nothing like a wedding, after all. A wedding was a social event and a celebration of love, whereas a coronation was a sacrament of duty between rulers and their countries. The guests invited to Beatrice’s coronation were almost exclusively American: aristocrats, bureaucrats, judges, and hundreds of ordinary citizens who’d been chosen out of a lottery.
Louise had gone anyway, in a personal capacity rather than an official one. “Of course I’ll be there to support my friend. Women in charge need to stick together,” she’d insisted, her eyes lighting on Daphne’s as she said this last: “You can take care of France while I’m away.”
And Daphne was doing exactly that. Technically her title was Director of Media Relations, but over the past six months her role had grown into something much bigger. By now she was Louise’s right-hand woman.
A nice perk of the job was living at Versailles rent-free. Louise paid her a generous salary, so Daphne could have afforded her own place, but she was saving that money for tuition. She would start taking part-time classes at the Sorbonne in September.
Besides, why would anyonevoluntarilymove out of a palace? She had her own suite of rooms on the second floor. Everything was elegant and classically French, from the blue wallpaper in a delicate floral motif to the antique desk, its drawer pulls shaped like miniature fleurs-de-lis, to the breathtaking white marble countertops and enormous Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom. A massive antique mirror reflected all the opulence back to her, the patina on its golden frame suggesting that countless women had admired themselves here over the years.
Actually, a maidservant had told her, these rooms had once belonged to Madame de Pompadour, the commoner whose relationship with LouisXV nearly brought down the French monarchy.
Daphne had to hand it to Louise; she had a sense of humor.
“In other news,” Ethan said, more tentatively, “the Duke of Virginia’s trial begins next week. I wonder how Gabriella feels about it all.”
Daphne gave a derisive snort. “Who knows? Last I heard, she was in Mallorca with Juan Carlos.”
Daphne had seen the whole thing unfold, the day after Beatrice and Teddy’s wedding, when she went to the private airport with Louise. The VIP reception area had been crowded with foreign royals, all of them gossiping with fascinated annoyance about the Washingtons’ wedding switch. Daphne had been tying her printed scarf around her head, trying to go unrecognized, when she’d heard Gabriella’s imperious voice.
“What do you mean, my family’s plane has beenseized?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the woman at the private airport’s front desk had said, flushing. “But your plane has been confiscated by the government, under orders from the FBI.”
Daphne had watched as Prince Juan Carlos of Spain—the carefree playboy prince, the one with the eponymous tequilacompany—had approached Gabriella. “I’m going to Mallorca. Can I give you a ride somewhere along the way?” As if dropping her off by private jet was as easy as pulling to the side of the highway.
“I still can’t believe it,” Ethan mused. “Gabriella and Juan Carlos, I mean.”
“I can. That girl was dead set on marrying a prince.” Daphne said it disdainfully, ignoring Ethan’s raised eyebrow.
“You’re not jealous of all her millions of followers?” he teased. Ever since she’d hooked up with Juan Carlos, Gabriella’s social-media army had skyrocketed to the millions. Her feed was a study in hedonism, all sparklers and beach raves in Ibiza and Spanish aristocrats chugging the infamous royal tequila.
“I have a country to run. I can’t be bothered with some socialite’s online presence,” Daphne sniffed. “Honestly, Gabriella and Juan Carlos seem perfect for each other.”
Ethan chuckled, then changed the subject. “So I was looking at the calendar, and I was thinking—what if I come to Paris next month? I’d get my own hotel room,” he said quickly, reddening. “I mean—it’s probably best if we, um, don’t rush into anything—”
“I’d love that.” Daphne’s breath hitched at the thought of Ethan, here. Of having him entirely to herself. No subterfuge, no secrets. Holding hands as they walked together through Paris, wandering in and out of museums, sharing a gelato from her favorite place on Île Saint-Louis. “And don’t be ridiculous. My room is plenty big, and the French have no qualms about overnight guests.”
“Well…if you’re sure.”
His eyes deepened at that, and Daphne forced herself to look away, grabbing her calendar. “Any weekend but the seventeenth.”
“Going somewhere with Louise?”
“Not exactly,” Daphne said vaguely. She wasn’t ready to talk about these plans yet, in case they went horribly wrong.
“I really should go,” she added, and Ethan nodded.
“I’ll text you later. Daphne—I’m proud of you.”
After they hung up, she glanced down at the pile of paperwork on her desk. Managing things during Louise’s absence was a job on top of her already full-time job. She needed to review the notes on the Assemblée Nationale’s upcoming legislation, and then she had a call with Alexei’s Imperial Secretary, Gus: a gruff, grouchy Swedish man who hadn’t been easily won over by Daphne’s charm or charisma. Between the two of them, she and Gus were building a new system of diplomatic firewalls and information protocols that might—hopefully—allow Alexei and Louise tobothrule.
