Page 3 of Reign
Daphne watched him, her face pleasantly neutral, though her body seethed with resentment. She hated the Duke of Virginia, but she hated his daughter, Gabriella, even more.
“Sirs and ladies,” Lord Ambrose intoned, his chest puffed up with arrogance, “I present to you Jefferson, your Acting King, who serves in the place of Her Majesty Queen Beatrice. Long may she reign.”
“Long may she reign” rumbled through the throne room.
The duke nodded approvingly. “May we all now swear him our service and fidelity in the name of Our Sovereign Queen, for as long as he shall hold this office on her behalf. We shall begin with His Highness the Duke of Manchester.”
It was strange to have Jefferson’s uncle Richard taking such an active role; normally these ceremonies didn’t need to stretch so far down the royal family tree. But Washingtonfamily members were in short supply right now, with Beatrice on life support and Samantha missing in action. Samantha and her boyfriend, Lord Marshall Davis, had run away together a month ago—and no one knew if they ever planned on coming back.
Richard ascended the steps of the throne and knelt before his nephew, then recited the Oath of Vassal Homage.
“I, Richard, Duke of Manchester, solemnly swear that I am your liege man. I will honor and serve you in faith and in loyalty, from this day forward, and for all the days of my life, so help me God.”
“I humbly and gratefully accept your service,” Jefferson replied evenly.
One by one, the lords and ladies of the realm all made their way to the throne, knelt before Jefferson, and swore the same vow. First came the Old Guard, the members of the thirteen original dukedoms that had been created in the wake of the Revolutionary War. Lord Ambrose Madison went first, looking as pompous and insufferable as ever. Then came the Duke of Boston; his son Teddy had renounced his rights to the dukedom, so he wasn’t in attendance. And then the rest of the Old Guard: the Dukes of Dover and Plymouth, of New Haven and Roanoke. They all looked stiff with formality in their court dress, some of the older generation even wearing breeches or white gloves.
Next came the rest of the dukes, then the marquesses and earls, until over an hour had passed and they had finally reached the lowly baronets.
Daphne’s father should have been up there, swearing his fealty to Jefferson like the rest of them, except that he’d been stripped of his title a month ago, as punishment for his so-called “ungentlemanly behavior.” He’d been caught gambling in Vegas—on the odds of Daphne and Jefferson getting married.
Now everyone in America knew the sordid truth. Wherever she went, people stared at her with judgmental—or worse,pitying—looks. Even the media, who had always adored Daphne with an obsession that bordered on worship, had turned on her. Worst of all was their new nickname for her: the Poker Princess.
Everyone assumed that Jefferson would break up with Daphne soon enough. Surely someone from such a tacky, déclassé family could never date a prince. But Jefferson loyally pretended not to hear the gossip.
He would do anything for the woman he thought was the mother of his child.
The strain was wearing on Daphne, but she knew it was worth it. People were wrong when they whispered that she wanted to marry a rich, well-connected man.
Please. She hadn’t braved years of social warfare and left scorched earth in her wake just to marry a rich, well-connected man. She had done it fortherich and well-connected man, the only one in America who really counted.
Now all she had to do was marry into the royal family, even though no commoner had done it before.
Daphne looked down into the throne room, and her eyes locked with those of Gabriella Madison. Gabriella’s mouth curled into a sneer, color flushing her cheeks. Daphne relished the fact that she was standing up on the dais while Gabriella was lost in the crowd. It was always nice looking down on one of your archrivals.
Daphne’s other sworn nemesis, Nina Gonzalez, wasn’t here today.
Earlier this year, Nina had pulled an elaborate and deeply cruel con on Daphne, pretending to be friends so that she could get close and try to break up Daphne and Jefferson. And like a stupid, naïve fool, Daphne hadlether.
She wouldn’t make that mistake a second time. She knew better than to believe in friendship anymore.
Friends became eyewitnesses to your weaknesses, your secrets. Friends could weaponize your vulnerabilities against you.
Gabriella looked away from Daphne with evident frustration. For now, the two of them were locked in a stalemate. Gabriella knew that Daphne had sold photos of herself to the tabloids, and Daphne had a video of Gabriella doing cocaine. Neither of them dared to act, for fear of the other sharing what she knew, but Daphne had a feeling that their cease-fire wouldn’t last forever.
She glanced back to where Jefferson was still accepting homage, reciting those same words over and over. As each person knelt before the throne, he studied them with calm focus, showing no signs of impatience or weariness.
Daphne knew better than to voice this thought aloud, but lately she’d caught herself wondering: What if Beatrice never recovered? What ifJeffersonwas America’s future?
What if she wasn’t just a future princess, but a future queen?
“Jefferson!” Daphne stepped into the Green Room: the vast chamber where the royal family gathered after public appearances, which also happened to be decorated in various shades of green. She noted with distracted pleasure that she matched the room perfectly, her dress set against the background as if she were a figure in an eighteenth-century painting.
Jefferson turned from where he’d been staring out the window and smiled. “Hey, Daphne. Thanks for standing up there all afternoon. I’m sure it wasn’t easy on you, given…” He trailed off before sayingthe baby.
She closed the distance between them, her heels sinking pleasantly into the lush carpet. Jefferson reached for her hands and tugged her closer, lowering his mouth to hers.
Usually their kisses were all sparks and fire and roving hands, but today it felt different: lingering, and soft, and tender. Not a frantic teenage kiss fueled by hormones, but the type of kiss that a man gave the woman he loved.
