American Royals (33 page)

There was no thrill quite like that of walking into a party and knowing that of all the young women present, you were unquestionably the most beautiful.

Daphne sailed into the ballroom like a swan at sunset, her eyes glowing with reflected stares of admiration—and several of envy. Her gown swished pleasantly with her movements. It was a soft color caught somewhere between champagne and blush, with delicate straps that skimmed over her shoulders, and layers of featherweight tulle cascading over one another like petals. Her hair fell in lustrous curls down her back.

She saw Princess Juliana of Holland speaking with Lady Carl, who looked dour in a long black gown—didn’t she know
anything
about etiquette? It was poor form to wear black to an engagement party. And here was the unfortunately named Herbert Fitzherbert, clumsily flirting with one of the king’s handsomer equerries. Snatches of conversation floated all around her.

“—I would fire my assistant, except that at this point he knows way too much about me—”

“—No, the best avocado toast is definitely at Toulouse; I’ll take you for brunch tomorrow—”

“—she’s not rude; she’s just French. If you wanted to be coddled, you should have worked at the Swedish embassy—”

“—I hear that Sedley intends to kill that bill the moment it hits the floor—”

They all paused to greet her as she passed, their breath catching a bit at her beauty. Daphne gave each of them a serene smile, revealing none of her anxiety, the way her muscles felt coiled and tense beneath her gown. She was like an Olympic runner poised before the gunshot that began a race. Waiting for Jefferson.

But then she saw Ethan Beckett heading toward her with long, loping strides, and Daphne’s smile widened into something real.

“Dance with me?” he asked with his typical abruptness.

Daphne knew better than to say yes. She had a prince to find, a relationship to break up, and always, always, an endless supply of people to charm.

Instead she placed a hand on his, letting Ethan lead her through the crush and glitter of the ballroom.

He looped one arm around Daphne to settle it lightly above the base of her spine. With the other he reached to interlace their fingers. “You look far too pleased with yourself.”

“Do I?” she asked lightly.

“You look as though someone just granted you an earldom.” He gave his usual sardonic grin, and Daphne felt her own lips curling up at the edges.

“So, are you going to tell me your plan?” Ethan went on.

Daphne didn’t deny it. He had a disconcerting habit of seeing through her no matter what she did.

“If I did have a plan, I would hardly share the details with you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Ethan’s movements weren’t showy, yet they had an unexpected grace. He was self-assured, easy on his feet for someone so tall. Other, less glamorous couples flitted and chatted around them, making Daphne feel more striking by comparison.

“You’re a good dancer,” she observed.

There was a twist to Ethan’s bow-shaped mouth. “Try not to sound so shocked, the next time you give someone a compliment.”

“I don’t make a habit of it.”

Something sparked in the onyx of his eyes. “You’re an easy partner,” he conceded; then added, more softly, “We’re well matched.”

There was nothing Daphne could say to that. She knew just as well as Ethan why they danced so well together. Because Ethan knew her movements and she knew his—because, beneath the heated verbal sparring, they were ultimately the
same.

The song ended. There was a burst of applause, and the band struck up another one. Daphne and Ethan, through some unspoken agreement, continued to dance.

“I’m going to miss you, you know,” he said in an undertone.

“What do you mean?” Her heart had curiously picked up speed.

“Once you and His Highness get back together, I’m going to miss you.” It was strange of him to refer to Jefferson by his formal title, but Daphne pretended not to hear it. Just as she pretended not to hear the subtext of what he was saying.

“I don’t exactly plan on leaving.”

Neither of them was smiling, as if they had reached some point that was beyond smiles. Although they were surrounded by hundreds of people, it seemed to Daphne that they were completely alone: a bubble of uncertain silence in a sea of noise.

“Daphne,” Ethan said at last. “What do you want? Really.”

Some strange part of her whispered an answer she refused to acknowledge. Daphne brutally silenced that voice.

“I want everything,” she told him.

There was no need to elaborate. Daphne wanted a crown, which might very well be the only thing in the world Ethan couldn’t give her, no matter how wealthy or powerful he became, no matter how much he schemed or struggled or succeeded.

“Everything.” Ethan repeated drily. “Well, if that’s all.”

His words inexplicably made her laugh—and then they were both laughing, their laughter twining around them as they moved in the familiar steps of the waltz.

Ethan’s eyes were still fixed on hers.

“What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?” he asked, so softly that he might have been talking to himself. At Daphne’s curious look, he explained. “It’s a paradox from ancient philosophy. What happens when an unstoppable force, like a weapon that never fails, meets an immovable object, like a shield that can’t be broken?”

“Well?” She gave an impatient toss of her paprika curls. “What’s the answer?”

“There is no answer. That’s why it’s a paradox. A riddle.”

But Daphne knew. What happened was
sparks.
She caught her body inclining toward Ethan’s and forced herself to step back.

She really should know better—especially after what had happened between them last May.

Daphne refused to let her mood ruin Himari’s birthday party, though her smile felt increasingly precarious as the night wore on.

She was worried about her relationship. Things with Jefferson had been rocky for some time now; he was blowing her off, ignoring her for days on end, going out with his guy friends and letting himself be photographed with some random girl’s arm snaking around his waist. Daphne had a panicked fear that when he graduated high school next week, he would break up with her.

It didn’t help that he was currently in Santa Barbara, at the royal family’s first wedding in decades. His aunt Margaret was finally marrying her actor boyfriend—and Jefferson hadn’t invited Daphne as his date.

The tabloids were eating it up. DAPHNE DITCHED FOR THE WEDDING! read the headlines. Several blogs had reviewed the guest list in obsessive detail, wondering who might tempt Jefferson to cheat on her. Meanwhile the bookies had dropped her odds on marrying the prince from one in seven to one in eighteen, somewhere between his third cousin Lady Helen Veiss and the six-year-old princess of Mexico.

Daphne drifted aimlessly around Himari’s house, a margarita glass in hand—that was her signature move at parties, to carry sparkling water in a margarita glass, because it looked so festive that no one ever questioned it—except that tonight its contents weren’t sparkling water, but straight tequila. She kept hoping that if she drank enough, she might temporarily forget that her hard-won, high-profile relationship was unraveling at the seams. So far it hadn’t worked.

When the party devolved into a sloppy free-for-all, everyone jumping and making out on the makeshift dance floor, Daphne hit her limit. She slipped outside, across the cool flagstones of the terrace, to open the sliding door of the pool house.

The pull-out couch had been made up with sheets and blankets: probably Himari’s parents’ idea, in case someone got too drunk at the party to make it home. It was so blessedly quiet in here. Daphne let out a breath and sank onto the edge of the bed.

And then the floodgates opened, and she began to cry.

“You okay?”

Ethan stood in the doorway. The light spilled out from behind him, making him resemble one of those medieval paintings where the figures were limned in gold leaf.

“I’m fine,” Daphne snapped, her pride kicking in. She brusquely wiped away her tears. Hadn’t she sworn never to let anyone see her cry?

Ethan came to sit on the edge of the bed next to her. “What’s going on?”

Daphne couldn’t look away from the liquid dark irises of his eyes. They had spent so many hours together—of course they had, as the prince’s girlfriend and his best friend—and Ethan had never acted anything but friendly toward her. But for some reason, Daphne had a feeling that he
knew
her. That unlike everyone else in their world, he wasn’t fooled by the way she behaved. That he saw the thoughts swirling beneath her calm veneer.

Yet she couldn’t read
him.

She had long ago figured out Jefferson; he wasn’t all that complicated. It had become a sort of game with her, to introduce topics seemingly at random—reggae music, the Spanish Inquisition, last year’s congressional scandal—and try to guess what Jefferson would say. So far she hadn’t been wrong once.

Not at all so with Ethan, who was maddening and elusive and impossible to understand.

“Can I do anything to help?” he insisted.

Daphne let out a breath, shrugging off his concern. “How long have you known Jefferson?”

If Ethan was surprised by her question, he didn’t show it. “We’ve been best friends since kindergarten,” he said. Which she already knew.

“And you stayed that close ever since age five?” Daphne hadn’t meant to sound condescending. But if
she
couldn’t hold the prince’s interest for a mere three years, how had Ethan managed to do it for most of their lives?

He shrugged. “You know, the king was actually the one who originally invited me over. I guess he thought it would be good for Jeff to spend time with someone from a different background. Someone middle-class.” Ethan said it bluntly, without hesitation, almost as if he was proud to be a commoner. Then his gaze focused again on Daphne. “Why do you ask?”

She clenched her hands on the quilted bedspread and closed them into fists. “I need to figure out what I did to make Jefferson lose interest,” she heard herself say, in a dull, hollow tone. “Otherwise he’s going to break up with me.”

She hadn’t meant to confess that fear, especially not to Ethan, but the tequila seemed to have numbed the edges of everything and she no longer cared.

“That’s ridiculous,” Ethan said quietly. “Only a fool would throw away the chance to be with you.”

Something in his tone made Daphne look up, but his face was as inscrutable and still as ever. She swallowed and explained. “Things between me and Jefferson have felt weird lately. And with his graduation coming up … I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

Ethan must have been drunk too, the alcohol blunting the edges of his usual cynical courtesy, because his next words shocked her.

“Why do you care anyway, when you don’t even like Jeff?”

Daphne blinked. “Of course I
care.
I lo—”

“You
love
him? Really?” Ethan’s voice made a mockery of the word.

“I’ve come too far to stop now!”

The words were like champagne fizzing out of a bottle, impossible to suppress, as if Daphne’s final emergency pressure valve had snapped at last. “I have been struggling for years to be perfect enough for the royal family,” she said heatedly. “Do you have any
idea
how hard it’s been?”

“No, but—”

“It’s exhausting, and I can never let up, not even for a second! I have to be constantly charming, not just to Jefferson and his parents and the media, but to every
single
person who crosses my path, even if it’s only for a moment, because they will judge me by that moment for the rest of their lives. I can’t ever stop smiling, or the entire thing will come crashing down around me!”

The sounds of the party felt very far away, like something in a dream.

Ethan swore. “If this is really what it’s like, then maybe you and Jefferson
should
break up. Maybe he isn’t the right person for you. Maybe,” he went on, “you should be with me instead.”

Daphne didn’t know how to answer.

Her stomach was a turmoil of confused emotions—attraction and irritation, liking and hate—all clawing inside her for dominance, as if every last neuron in her brain had turned on in a wild electric light show.