Majesty (American Royals, #2)(2)
She had caused her dad’s death. If she hadn’t shouted at him that night—hadn’t threatened to marry her Revere Guard and renounce her position as queen—then King George might still be alive.
Beatrice bit back a sigh. She knew better than to let herself think like this. If she did, her mind would sink like a stone, deeper and deeper into a well of grief without ever touching bottom.
“Your Majesty.” Robert glanced down at the tablet he carried with him at all times. “There are a few things I’d like to discuss. Should we head up to your office?”
It took a moment for Beatrice to realize that he meant her father’s office. Which belonged to her now.
“No,” she replied, a little forcefully. She wasn’t ready to face that room—and all the memories trapped inside it. “Why don’t we talk in here?” she added, gesturing to one of the sitting rooms.
“Very well.” Robert followed her inside and pulled the double doors shut behind them, leaving Connor in the hall.
As she perched on a striped green sofa, Beatrice darted a glance at the three bay windows that overlooked the front drive. It was a nervous habit she’d picked up after her father’s death: to study the windows of each room she walked into. As if the natural lighting might help her feel slightly less suffocated.
Or as if she was looking for an escape route.
“Your Majesty, your schedule for the upcoming week.” Robert held out a sheet of paper, embossed with the royal crest.
“Thank you, Lord Standish,” Beatrice said, and paused. She’d always addressed him by his full title, ever since she’d met him as a teenager, but now…“May I call you Robert?”
“I would be honored,” he said obsequiously.
“In that case, you must start calling me Beatrice.”
The chamberlain gave a throaty gasp. “Oh, no, Your Majesty. I would never presume to do such a thing. And I would suggest,” he added, “that you never make an offer like that again, certainly not to anyone in a service position. It simply isn’t appropriate.”
Beatrice hated that she felt like a chastened schoolgirl, like she was seven years old again and her etiquette master had snapped a ruler over her knuckles as punishment for a sloppy curtsy. She forced herself to study the paper in her lap, only to look up in confusion.
“Where’s the rest of my schedule?”
The only events listed were low-stress public appearances—a nature walk outside the capital with a conservation group, a meet-and-greet with the local Girl Scouts—the sort of goodwill-generating events that Beatrice used to do as heir to the throne. “I should have an audience with each of the party leaders in Congress,” she went on. “And why isn’t a Cabinet meeting scheduled for Thursday?”
“There’s no need to dive into all of that right away,” Robert said silkily. “You’ve been out of the public eye since the funeral. Right now, what the people need from you is reassurance.”
Beatrice fought off a sense of disquiet. The monarch was meant to govern, not run around shaking hands like some kind of mascot for America. That was what the heir to the throne was for.
But what could she say? Everything she knew about this role she had learned from her father. Now he was gone, and the only person left to advise her was Robert, his right-hand man.
The chamberlain shook his head. “Besides, I’m sure you’ll want to spend the next few months planning the wedding.”
Beatrice tried to speak, but her throat seemed to have glued itself shut.
She was still engaged to Theodore Eaton, the son of the Duke of Boston. But in the past month, each time she’d started to think of Teddy, her mind had violently shied away. I’ll figure it out when I’m back, she’d promised herself. There’s nothing I can do about it now.
It had been easy to let herself forget about Teddy at Sulgrave. None of her family members had spoken of him. They hadn’t spoken much at all, each of them wrapped up in their own private grief.
“I’d prefer not to focus on the wedding just yet,” she said at last, unable to hide the strain in her voice.
“Your Majesty, if we start planning now, we can hold the ceremony in June,” the chamberlain argued. “Then, after your honeymoon, you can spend the rest of the summer on the newlyweds’ royal tour.”
Might as well say it all at once, Beatrice thought, and braced herself. “We’re not getting married.”
“What do you mean, Your Majesty?” Robert asked, his lips pursed in confusion. “Did something…happen between you and His Lordship?” Beatrice drew in a shaky breath, and he lifted his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Please, forgive me if I’m overstepping. To do my job effectively, I need to know the truth.”
Connor was still standing out there in the hallway. Beatrice could picture him: frozen in the Revere Guard stance, his feet planted firmly, a hand near his holstered weapon. She wondered, with a bolt of panic, if he could hear them through the closed wooden doors.
She opened her mouth, ready to tell Robert about Connor. It shouldn’t be hard; she’d had this very conversation with her father—had marched into his study and informed him that she was in love with her Revere Guard—the night of her engagement party to Teddy. So why couldn’t she say the same thing now?
I need to know the truth, Robert had insisted. Except…what was the truth?