“Her pulse is picking up.”
“What?” Beatrice exclaimed, and the fox darted off. She sighed and released her grip on her dad. “Why did you say that?”
“Say what?” Her dad leaned against a tree, fiddling with one glove as if adjusting it, but Beatrice realized that he was stalling. He had moved more slowly than usual this morning, which she’d attributed to the cold, but now she wondered if it was more.
“Bee, I miss you,” he went on.
“Dad, are you okay? Why are you saying that?” She took a step forward, her brow creased with concern—
“I miss you, Bee. I love you so much.”
She opened her eyes and blinked. A fluorescent light came into disjointed focus. A beeping noise, the low hum of machines. A face bent over hers, handsome features creased with concern.
What was Teddy doing here?
“Bee? Thank god!” Teddy’s hand grabbed hers, the feel of his skin startling and familiar at once. “Dr. Jacobs!” he cried out, blue eyes never leaving her face. “She’s awake! Hurry!”
Where am I? Beatrice longed to ask, but her mouth couldn’t form the words. She tried to search the room for Connor, because surely he was nearby, but her eyelids felt so heavy, and everything was so bright, and it hurt….
Before she could force the images and sounds to make any kind of sense, her mind slid into darkness once more.
Hundreds of people craned their necks as the doors to the throne room swung open. The trumpets blared, and then he stepped forward—the most important man in the country, possibly in the world. Acting King Jefferson.
Daphne Deighton allowed herself a brief moment of satisfaction. To think that after everything that had happened, after all the ups and downs of their relationship, she was finally here: higher than she’d ever imagined she might soar. Standing next to Jefferson while the senior peers of the realm swore him homage.
According to protocol, the dais should have been reserved for members of the royal family. But when the Lady Chamberlain had pointed this out, Jefferson had simply stated that Daphne would be up there with him, and that was that.
After all, the only person who outranked him was currently in a coma.
An equerry began to unfurl the ermine-trimmed robe of state, but Jefferson made an impatient gesture, letting the robe whip out behind him. When Beatrice appeared in public, she always walked slowly, like a bride processing down the aisle. Not so her younger brother. As Jefferson strode forward, light gleamed on the crimson of his ceremonial blazer, the white sash of the Edwardian Order, the burnished gold of the Imperial State Crown. He looked like some conquering hero from a long-ago era, a figure from a painting sprung to life. He looked every inch a king.
Daphne could practically hear the sighs of the millions of Americans who were watching the live coverage of this event, and imagining themselves in love with her boyfriend.
The room echoed with the sounds of rustling fabrics as everyone bowed or curtsied. Daphne tucked one leg behind the other and sank exquisitely low, letting her skirts ripple around her. She held the gesture for several beats longer than necessary, eyes downcast, so that the photographers could capture the flattering image. She was well aware that she looked resplendent today, her deep green gown emphasizing the vivid green of her eyes.
Jefferson proceeded up the steps, and then—his jaw set with regret, or perhaps with disbelief—he sat on the throne, his hands curling over its armrests.
Lord Ambrose Madison rose heavily from his chair and made his way to the microphone. As hereditary Queen’s Champion, he would serve as today’s master of ceremonies.
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 Washington family 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.