And to reach this moment of triumph, Daphne had ensured that she was just as alone as the prince now found himself.

Dimly, she realized that she hadn’t actually told Jefferson I love you in return. She needed to. She should open her mouth and say it; it would be easy, just three simple words. Hadn’t she said them countless times before without meaning them?

The afternoon slanted through the windows, to fall in a play of light and shadow over the planes of the prince’s face. His Highness Jefferson George Alexander Augustus, Prince of America, was still waiting for her answer.

Since she was fourteen her life had revolved around him: winning him, keeping him, trying to hurt anyone who got between them, hurting herself instead. Daphne had plotted and schemed and manipulated, had burned bridges and scorched earth in her efforts to draw him back to her side. And now he was here, and it was all over at last, and the only thought running through her head was what an utter fool she had been, to build her life around the wrong boy.

It was too late to change course. Her chance for a future with Ethan was gone. And now that Daphne was here, confronted with the future she’d spent all those years striving for, no one could ever know what it had cost her.

No one could ever know that the smiles she gave Jefferson were smiles she should have showered on Ethan, the boy she’d loved, only to realize it too late. No one could know that she had paid for the highest of titles with the greatest of heartbreaks. And she would never tell them.

She remembered what Nina had said this morning: that Daphne would get everything she had ever wanted, only to find that she was completely alone.

Daphne looked at Jefferson and gave him the answer he expected, the answer her parents wanted her to give—the Deighton answer.

“I love you, too,” she assured him, her face frozen in her beautiful, perfect smile. “And I’m so very happy.”

Beatrice had never seen the palace in such upheaval. Especially not when she was the cause of it.

Security and footmen and party planners swarmed the halls, searching for something to do, for an answer that no one seemed able to give. In all their centuries of history the Washingtons had never experienced anything like this: a royal wedding that wasn’t. It was especially chaotic given that the Lord Chamberlain had just handed in his resignation, leaving his assistant in charge.

If only Beatrice had been confident enough to fire Robert months ago. He’d never really been working for her; he’d been working for an outdated notion of what her role should be. And she could never become the queen she needed to, not with him undermining her efforts.

She remembered, suddenly, what her father had said that final morning at the hospital: It won’t be easy for you, a young woman, stepping into a job that most men will think they can do better. Harness some of that energy of yours, that stubbornness, and stick to your beliefs.

Her father wouldn’t have wanted her to be a puppet queen, her every movement dictated by Robert and the palace establishment. King George had understood that change was an integral part of America’s DNA, that change was crucial to the nation’s success. If the monarchy was as stiff and inflexible as Robert wanted it to be, it would never survive.

“Franklin,” Beatrice called out. The puppy emerged from beneath a marble coffee table, his tail wagging furiously. At her voice he bounded toward her. She settled onto the rug, smoothing her skirt over her legs, pulling his warm puppy weight contentedly into her lap. If only everything in life could be this simple.

The two of them were alone in the second-floor sitting room known as the Green Room. It had originally been named in the theatrical sense, since it was where the royal family gathered before their famous appearances on the Washington Palace balcony. But forty years ago, Beatrice’s grandmother had decided that the name should match the setting, and redecorated. Now the room looked like something out of the Emerald City, all forest green and gold.

Curtains looped over the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that lined one wall. Through the gap between them, Beatrice saw the crowds still gathered outside the palace. They milled about restlessly, clearly wondering whether she and Teddy were still going to come out onto the balcony, even though they hadn’t gotten married today. It didn’t help that the palace still hadn’t confirmed when the wedding would take place, and refused to release any details about the so-called “security scare” that had delayed it.

If Samantha had never pulled that alarm—if the wedding had moved forward as planned—Beatrice and Teddy would be standing out on the balcony right now: waving down at crowds who were bright with excitement, instead of murmuring in confusion. The newlyweds’ balcony appearance dated to the reign of Edward I. He’d thought it the easiest way to introduce America to its new queen, only recently arrived from Spain. By now the balcony appearance was arguably the most beloved of all the Washingtons’ wedding traditions.

Beatrice had appeared on that balcony so many times in her life—in smocked dresses and ribbons as a child, in tailored skirts and patent-leather heels as she grew older—smiling, waving, presenting a meticulously curated image of herself to the world.

A memory rose to the surface of her mind, of one of those annual Fourth of July appearances. Beatrice had leaned her elbows over the balcony’s iron railing, craning her neck to see the military planes that soared in formation overhead. Then strong hands had hoisted her upward: her father, propping her onto his shoulders so that she could see.

When he’d gestured, it wasn’t upward, to where the planes were leaving great trails of smoke like messages in the sky, but to the sea of jubilant, shouting people below.

“They’re cheering for you, you know,” he’d told her. “Because they love you, Beatrice. Just like I do.”

Her vision blurred, and she twined her fingers in Franklin’s fur to steady herself. Her father’s words rattled around her empty head like pebbles in a jar. What would he say if he could see her now, hiding from her people instead of facing them?

A knock sounded at the door, and Beatrice wiped furiously at her eyes. “Come in,” she called out, her voice surprisingly steady.

Teddy stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him.

He was still wearing his outfit from this morning, the white button-down shirt and striped blue trousers of his ceremonial dress uniform, though he’d taken off the matching jacket. His shirt was untucked, and unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a small triangle of his tanned chest. Beatrice forced herself to look away as she stood, smoothing her dress against her thighs.

“You took off your gown.” Teddy nodded to her royal blue dress, with its elbow-length sleeves and pintucked waist.

“It’s a lot of gown” was all Beatrice could say. It hadn’t seemed right to keep it on, not after the decision she had reached.

Teddy lingered near the doorway, not making any move toward her. The new distance between them, when just last night they had been twined together in bed, made her chest ache.

“Beatrice,” he said heavily, and it struck her that he’d used her full name. “What happened earlier?”

“That security breach spooked everyone,” she began, automatically launching into the explanation she’d given all day: that after the jarring chaos of the alarm, she’d felt too on edge to move forward with the ceremony. Surprisingly, Queen Adelaide hadn’t objected—probably because she could tell that her daughter’s mind was made up. Even Jane had agreed, especially once Beatrice had clarified that her family would personally cover the cost of today’s events, leaving nothing to the taxpayers.

“We both know it takes more than a security scare to change your mind,” Teddy interrupted. “If you’d still wanted to get married after the alarm, we would have. Please, Beatrice—we promised each other secrets, but no lies. Remember?”

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, shame silencing her.

“You know why the alarm went off, don’t you,” Teddy went on. It wasn’t really a question.

“I do.”

At first Beatrice hadn’t been able to believe what Sam had done. But then, seeing her sister’s quiet composure as she’d confessed, Beatrice had realized that it was the right decision.

And she’d realized, too, how much Sam had changed.

Her irrepressible mischief was still there, but the loss of their father had transmuted it into something else: a bold self-possession that turned heads. Where she had once been willful and rambunctious, Sam now let her inner confidence carry her along. And the world was taking notice. Certainly Beatrice was.

For the first time, she felt truly glad that Samantha was next in line for the throne.

“Samantha set off the alarm,” she confessed, meeting Teddy’s gaze. His bright blue eyes went wide with shock.