Page 33 of Reign
He stood and bowed. “Your Majesty, we were all thrilled to hear that the Queen’s Ball would take place in the new year. Can you give us any hints of who might receive a title?” His smile let her know that the question was meant as a friendly softball. “Perhaps Miss Deighton, or Mr.Eaton?”
“Teddy?” Beatrice blurted out, startled. But he was already titled; he would inherit the Duchy of Boston someday. Unless…
Unless he’d renounced his rights out of loyalty to her.
He would have to do such a thing as king consort, but had Teddy gone ahead and relinquished the dukedombeforethey were married?
She realized that the silence had stretched out to an uncomfortable point and gave a nervous laugh: the one she used when someone had caught her off guard, which wasn’t often. “Mr.Dunleavy, you know better than to ask me about matters that are best kept secret. I can’t reveal the list of Queen’s Ball honorees until it is published.” She looked back out over the crowd. “Next?”
A reporter in a navy skirt suit jumped to her feet like a wind-up toy. Beatrice nodded, mind racing as she tried to remember the woman’s name. “Yes, Miss…”
Her hands grabbed the sides of the podium in a death grip. God help her, she simply had no clue who this woman was.
“Helen Crosby,” the reporter supplied, seeming hurt. “Your Majesty, you should know that we were all so impressed with the bill you championed at the League of Kings conference. Now that you’re back in the office, what will you do to further its goals?”
Beatrice shot a panicked glance at Anju, who was standing in the wings. They’d spent the last day in a flurry of briefings on legislation and economic updates, yet Anju had never thought to recap the League of Kings conference? Anju was mouthing something, but Beatrice couldn’t tell what it was.Children?Had Beatrice proposed some kind of global children’s health initiative?
“I remain committed to global reform. Thank you for asking,” Beatrice said, well aware that it was hopelessly vague. “Of course we will all continue the work we began at the conference, for the good of children everywhere.”
The room felt suddenly stifling. Everyone was glancing at her with a puzzled expression, or whispering to one another, wondering if she had slipped up—and what it meant. She felt color rising to her face but forced herself to keep going.
When the press briefing was finally over and everyone rose to their feet, Beatrice fled into the hall. Her breath was coming fast and shallow, her throat hot with restrained tears—
She nearly collided with someone and drew to a startled halt. What was Lord Ambrose Madison doing at the palace?
“Your Majesty. Welcome back.” He bowed, though the gesture was so cursory that it bordered on disrespect. Beatrice couldn’t help marveling at his phrasing, the way he’dwelcomed her to the palace as if it belonged to him. She’d never much liked the Duke of Virginia or his daughter, Gabriella, who was as coldly arrogant as her father.
And she couldn’t forget that Ambrose had authored the bill stripping Samantha of her titles. Not that Beatrice was defending Sam’s actions—it was hardly responsible of Sam, running off into the sunset like that—but hadn’t Congress overreacted by removing her HRH?
“I hadn’t expected to see you today, Your Grace.”
“I came to your press conference, of course,” he replied stiffly.
“Are you a member of the media now?” Beatrice said it like a joke, though her smile was edged.
The duke scoffed. “Please. As hereditary Queen’s Champion, I’m entitled to attend all your press briefings.” His voice was overly loud as he added, “I’m certainly glad that I did.”
As if Queen’s Champion were a real position. They both knew it was wholly ceremonial, the sort of thing that involved wearing an oversized plumed hat and standing onstage, reading names off a heavy paper scroll. No one actually expected Lord Virginia tomonitorthe queen.
“Well, thank you for your support.” Beatrice tried to make it sound like a dismissal, but instead of leaving, the duke fell into step alongside her, uninvited.
“Your Majesty, I was startled to hear that you’re already returning to work. I know I speak for my fellow congressmen when I beg you to slow down.”
“You mean your fellow members of Congress,” Beatrice corrected him. She sensed that he’d used the outdated term on purpose, as if the female members of Congress weren’t even worth a mention.
Ambrose ignored her remark. “It might be best if we formalized the current situation.”
“Current situation?”
“With Jefferson as your Regent. You’re so delicate, and you’ve been through so much over the past year, between the loss of your father and the accident. You need to focus on your health.”
His tone was slick with what he probably hoped sounded like avuncular concern, but Beatrice knew it for what it was—condescension.
“Let your brother carry the burden of government for you. You may think you’ve recovered, but after severe accidents, it’s best not to push yourself too hard.” He chuckled. “We wouldn’t want you hurting yourself because you’d returned to work on a whim!”
Of course. When a man wanted something it was a need, but a woman’s desires were merely awhim.
That thought sprang into Beatrice’s head without warning, surprising her. It reminded her of someone, though she wasn’t sure who.
