Majesty (American Royals, #2)(15)
A narrow balcony wound around the side of the museum. Still clutching the wine bottle in one hand, Sam draped her elbows onto the railing. The iron felt blessedly cool against her feverish skin.
Below her stretched the capital, a jagged quilt of light and dark. It had rained that morning, and headlights flickered through the haze, making the cars seem to float above the shimmering pavement. The scene blurred disorientingly in her vision.
She hadn’t realized how much it would sting, seeing them together. I don’t care, she thought furiously. I hate them both. Beatrice and—
There was a brief struggle in her chest, pride warring with affection, but at her core Sam was a Washington, and pride won out. It didn’t matter that once upon a time she’d thought she was in love with Teddy.
He wasn’t her Teddy anymore. He was just another face in a room full of strangers.
In choosing Beatrice, or duty, or whatever he wanted to call it, Teddy had proven that he was just like the rest of them. He was part and parcel of this whole stuffy institution, which had never understood or valued her.
Sam’s hand closed around the railing so tight that her palm hurt. She glanced down and saw that the iron was carved with a pattern of tiny faces: woodland sprites laughing in a sea of leaves and flowers. It felt like they were mocking her.
Letting out a ragged cry, she lifted her satin heel and kicked the medallion in the center of the railing. When it didn’t budge, she gave it a few more kicks for good measure.
“I don’t know what that railing ever did to you,” remarked a voice to her left. “But if you need to attack it, at least set down the wine first.”
Slowly, Sam turned to look at the tall, broad-shouldered young man who stood a few yards away.
She had a feeling she’d met him before. He wore an expensive gray suit that set off his deep brown skin, though his tie was askew and his shirt untucked, giving him a decidedly rakish air. When his eyes caught hers, he grinned: a cool, reckless grin that made Sam’s breath catch. He looked a few years older than she was, around Beatrice’s age. Sam felt something in her rise to the challenge of his dark eyes.
“How long have you been lurking out here?” she demanded.
“Lurking?” He crossed his arms, lounging carelessly against the railing. “I was out here first. Which makes you the intruder.”
“You should have said something when I came outside!”
“And miss that epic royal tantrum? I wouldn’t have dreamed of it,” he drawled.
Sam’s grip on the railing tightened. “Do I know you?”
“Lord Marshall Davis, at your service.” He bent forward at the waist, executing a perfect ceremonial bow. The words and the gesture were elegant, the type of thing any nobleman might have done when meeting a princess, yet Sam sensed that he didn’t mean a word of it. There was an irreverence to the gesture, as if Marshall had exaggerated his courtesy in contrast to her own undignified behavior.
He rose from his bow, his mouth twitching with suppressed laughter, just as his name clicked in Sam’s memory. Marshall Davis, heir to the dukedom of Orange.
Orange, which spanned most of the western seaboard, hadn’t joined the United States until the nineteenth century. Marshall’s family wasn’t part of the “Old Guard,” the thirteen ducal families knighted by King George I after the Revolutionary War. In fact, Marshall’s many-times-great-grandfather had been born into slavery.
Daniel Davis was one of the thousands of formerly enslaved people who sought their fortunes out west after abolition had set them free. He fell deeply in love with his new home, and when Orange revolted against Spain, he became a key figure in its war for independence. Daniel was such a popular general that when the fighting was done, the people of Orange clamored for him to lead their new nation. And so—just as a century earlier George Washington had become King George I—Marshall’s ancestor was named King Daniel I of Orange.
Twenty years later, Orange gave up its status as an independent kingdom to join the United States: meaning that the Davises, once kings, were now titled the Dukes of Orange. They weren’t the first Black aristocrats—Edward I had ennobled several prominent families after abolition—but they were former royalty, which made them the most newsworthy.
Sam knew that Marshall was a stereotypical West Coast playboy, who surfed and went to parties in Vegas and was always dating some Hollywood actress or vapid aristocrat. Come to think of it, hadn’t he been invited to last year’s Queen’s Ball as a potential husband for Beatrice? Though given his reputation, Sam doubted her sister had danced with him all that long.
Marshall nodded at the wine bottle, interrupting her thoughts. “Would you mind sharing, Your Royal Highness?” Somehow he made even her title sound like a source of amusement.
“I hate to disappoint you, but I forgot a corkscrew.”
Marshall held out his hand. Bemused, Sam passed him the bottle. Moisture beaded along its sides.
“Watch and learn.” He reached into his pocket for a set of keys before jamming one into the cork. Sam watched as he twisted the key in quick circles, gently teasing the cork from the neck of the bottle, until it emerged with an eager pop.
She was impressed in spite of herself. “Nice party trick.”
“Boarding school,” Marshall said drily, and handed her the sauvignon blanc. Sam hadn’t brought any wineglasses, so she went ahead and drank straight from the bottle. The wine had a crisp tartness that settled on the back of her tongue, almost like candy.