Majesty (American Royals, #2)(11)

He still didn’t know that she and Teddy were really getting married. She needed to tell him, and soon; the palace was planning to announce the wedding date later this week. But every time she started to bring it up, she found herself dodging the subject like an utter coward.

“I’m just tired,” she murmured, which was true: she still wasn’t getting much sleep.

“Don’t do that. You don’t need to be strong with me, remember?” Connor crossed the distance between them and gathered her into his arms, pulling her close.

For a moment Beatrice let herself relax into the embrace. Somehow she always forgot how much taller he was until they stood like this, her face nestled into the hollow at the center of his chest.

“I’m here for whatever you need,” Connor said into her hair. “You don’t have to be the queen around me, you know. You can just be you.”

“I know.” It was easy for Beatrice to be herself around him, and maybe that was the problem. Maybe with Connor she was too much of herself, and not enough of a queen.

She twisted out of his embrace, her eyes lifting to meet his. “Connor—there’s something I need to tell you.”

He nodded, clearly alerted by her change in tone. “All right.”

The entire world seemed to fall still. Beatrice was suddenly aware of every detail—the feel of her silk blouse over her collarbones, the dust motes slanting in the hard afternoon light, the devotion in Connor’s eyes.

He wouldn’t look at her like that again, not once he found out what she’d agreed to. Beatrice took a deep breath, and let the truth fall painfully into the silence.

“Teddy and I are getting married in June.”

“You—what?”

“The engagement isn’t just for show. It’s…we’re really going through with it.”

Connor recoiled. “I don’t understand. The night of the engagement party, you two agreed that you would call off the wedding as soon as it was appropriate. What happened?”

My father died, and it’s all my fault.

“I’m queen now, Connor.” The words seemed to strangle Beatrice as they floated up out of her lungs. “It changes things.”

“Exactly! Now you can change things, for the better!”

Hearing that excitement, his belief in her, nearly undid her. “It’s not that simple. Just because I’m queen doesn’t mean that I can rewrite the rules.” If anything, she was more bound by the rules than ever before.

Connor caught her hands in his. “I love you, and I know that we can figure this out. Unless…unless your feelings have changed.”

Tears stung Beatrice’s eyes. “You want me to say it? Fine, I’ll say it! I love you!” she burst out, so viciously that she might have just as easily been saying I hate you. “But that isn’t enough, Connor!”

“Of course it’s enough!”

He spoke with such conviction, as if the truth of his words was self-evident. As if loving her was as simple and uncomplicated as the fact that the sun rose in the east and set in the west.

But their relationship had never been simple. From the very beginning they’d been sneaking around, living on scattered moments together: the secret brush of Connor’s hand over her back as she slid into a car, their eyes meeting in a crowded room and lingering a beat too long. The late nights when he slipped into her bedroom, only to leave before dawn.

Even now, no one knew about them except Samantha, and Sam had no idea who Connor was, only that Beatrice loved someone who wasn’t Teddy.

For months, Beatrice had told herself that those stolen moments added up to something worth protecting. But she knew now that they weren’t enough.

She thought with a dull pang of what her father had said the night she told him that she loved her Guard. That if she pulled Connor into this royal life, he would eventually come to hate her for it—and, worse, he would come to hate himself.

There was a cold wind coming off the river; Beatrice had to stop herself from going to shut the window. “This obviously wasn’t an easy decision. But it’s what’s best. For both of us.”

“Why are you the one deciding what’s best for both of us?” Connor said roughly. “When you’re making choices about our future, I want a damn vote!”

Before she could answer, he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her.

There was nothing gentle or tender in the kiss. Connor’s body was crushed up against hers, his hands grasped hard over her back, as if he was terrified she might pull away. Beatrice rose on tiptoe, digging her fingers into his uniform.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathing heavily. Beatrice’s hair fell in damp wisps around her face. She looked up and saw the quiet anguish in Connor’s eyes. He knew her well enough to know that she didn’t normally kiss like that—with such wild, desperate abandon.

He understood that she’d been kissing him goodbye.

“You really mean this, don’t you,” he breathed.

“I do,” Beatrice told him. It struck her that those were the words of the wedding service, words that normally swore eternal love. And here she was, using them to tell Connor that he should leave her forever.

His jaw was tight, but he managed a nod. Beatrice almost wished that he would shout, call her cruel names. Anger would have been so much easier to bear. Anything would have been easier than this: the knowledge that Connor was in pain, and she had caused it.