Page 28 of American Royals II: Majesty
“What?” Robert wanted to pick out herwedding date?
His eyebrows rose. “I’m sorry, did you have someone in mind? I wasn’t aware that you were seeing anyone.”
Sam thought of Teddy, and her jaw hardened. She tilted her head up defiantly. “I don’t need a date. I’m perfectly happy to go to Beatrice’s wedding alone.”
“Unfortunately, that’s out of the question. You’ll need to help lead the opening dance.” Robert made an expression that was probably meant to be a smile, though it resembled a grimace. He began organizing papers on his desk, arranging their stacks into careful right angles. “I’m afraid we have to conclude today’s meeting. I really wish we’d had more time, but since you were nineteen minutes late, we’ll have to pick back up on Thursday.”
“You want to meetagain?”
“It’s crucial that we begin meeting several times a week. We have a great deal of material to cover.”
Sam felt her own anger rising to meet his. “You should know that you’re wasting your time.”
“Because you refuse to cooperate?”
Of course Robert assumedshewas the problem. He didn’t know what it was like growing up in a sister’s shadow—fighting for years to be taken seriously, only to realize that fighting would never get her anywhere.
The nation had neverwantedto like Sam. Wasn’t there an old saying, that nothing drew people together like a common enemy? Well, if Americans could agree on one thing, it was their disapproval of Princess Samantha.
“It doesn’t matter how hard we try,” she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. “I’m the least popular member of my family. America hasnevercared what I do. They aren’t about to start now.”
She marched out of Robert’s office before he could answer, letting the door click shut behind her.
As Sam turned down the hallway, she fumbled in her pocket for her phone. She started to call Nina, to see if they could meet up later—but a familiar voice emanated from the palace’s two-story entryway, halting her in her tracks.
Standing at the foot of the curved staircase was Lord Marshall Davis. He was gesticulating wildly as he argued with a footman. And he was wearing full ceremonial dress.
“Marshall? What are you doing here?” Sam hadn’t known when she would see him again, after they said goodbye at the end of the museum party.
He looked up in evident relief. “Samantha! I came to see you, actually. I need my lapel pin back.”
Sam flushed as she remembered the proprietary way she’d grabbed that pin, fastening it to her dress before dragging Marshall into the party. It had all been impulsive, fueled by obstinate pride and that bottle of wine.Think before you act, Sam,her father always used to say. But Sam had a tendency to act first, leaving the thoughts—or, often, regrets—for later.
She braced her palms on the stair railing and leaned forward, trying to sound nonchalant. “You didn’t think to text?”
“You never gave me your number.” Marshall started up the stairs, taking them two at a time, the same way Sam did.
He was wearing the peers’ ceremonial robes: crimson wool trimmed in gold lace, complete with a cloak that tied at the throat with a white satin ribbon. They looked absurd on him. The robes had been designed centuries ago, back when the leaders of most duchies had been old white men. Marshall was so tall and imposing that he made the outfit look ludicrously like a Halloween costume.
“I can’t believe you came here on your way to…where are you going?”
“Swearing-in of the new Chief Justice.” He glanced down ruefully at his robes. “Believe it or not, I only just realized the pin was missing.”
“Don’t you have an extra?”
“Did you lose it?” Marshall sighed. “I’ve lost it too. I wore it on a dare, once, and it fell out on the streets of Vegas. It actually wasn’t at the casino, but at the In-N-Out we stopped at when—”
Sam cut him off with a groan. “Chill out, okay? I have your jewelry.”
Marshall didn’t rise to the bait. He just smiled and said, “Where is it?”
“In my room.”
To her surprise, he followed her down the hall, his red velvet cloak streaming out behind him. Historical portraits glared at them from the walls: statesmen with powdered wigs and pointed beards, women in pearl necklaces layered six strands deep. Marshall’s outfit wouldn’t have looked out of place inside one of the paintings.
Sam wondered what he was wearing underneath the robes. She glanced over at the broad expanse of his chest with an idle spark of curiosity.
Marshall’s eyes met hers. Aware that he’d caught her staring, she hurried to ask a question. “Why are you the one here representing Orange? Isn’t your grandfather the active duke?”
