Page 83 of Reign
“That isn’t fair.” Daphne’s voice came out dangerously quiet. “You can’t do this to me, Ethan.”
“Do what?”
“I was just fine until you came back from Malaysia and upended everything—”
“Now you’re the one being unfair,” he protested. “The mess with Gabriella isn’t my fault.”
“I’m not talking about Gabriella; I’m talking aboutus! You said you didn’t want me, remember?” Part of her couldn’t believe she was speaking this out loud. “At Beatrice’s wedding, you said that you wanted nothing to do with me.”
Ethan had gone very still. Daphne noticed again how close they were, noticed that she’d turned her body to face his, that his gaze had dropped to her lips.
They were going to kiss again, like they had at the engagement party, except this time it would be purposeful. This time it would mean something.
“I guess letting go of you was harder than I expected.” Ethan shifted closer, looping an arm tentatively around her waist.
Daphne leaned in to him—and something glittered in the corner of her vision.
Her diamond engagement ring was sparkling like a warning flare, like a blowtorch.
She forced herself to take a step back. “I was never yours to let go of.”
There was an uncharacteristic flash of hurt in Ethan’s eyes, and Daphne forced herself to ignore the stabbing feeling of regret.
She couldn’t afford to be near Ethan. When they were together, the world seemed to melt away, as if there was nothing but the two of them.
But it wasn’t just the two of them. It never had been.
“Do you need a ride back to the palace?” Ethan asked stiffly.
Daphne swept the file of incriminating papers into hertote bag. Of course he couldn’t give her a ride back to the palace. What would she say if anyone saw them together?
“My house is fine. Thank you,” she replied, her voice as coolly distant as his.
It was better this way, for both of them.
Beatrice had never really liked the merry-go-round of events leading up to the holidays: embassy parties, charity galas, end-of-year celebrations for volunteers and bureaucrats and clerics and staff. But this year she was grateful for the social whirl, because it meant almost all the senators were in the capital. She needed as much time with them as possible, to lobby them for support against Madison.
And every last senator was here tonight, which made sense, since this was the congressional holiday party.
There was no space inside Columbia House that could fit this many people, so Congress had rented an enormous tent that sprawled over the back lawn: the expensive, semipermanent kind of tent with space heaters in the corners and chandeliers twinkling overhead.
So far, things had gone much better than they had at Jeff and Daphne’s engagement party, when Beatrice had kept saying the wrong thing. It was all thanks to Teddy.
From the moment she’d walked in, he’d been at her side, rapidly feeding her information about the members of Congress.Richard Tomlinson is in contentious disagreement with the rest of the Committee on Infrastructure. Don’t mention Andrea Donnelly’s son; he’s in rehab and she hates talking about it.Domention the new tax bill to Dominic Rauch; he likes taking credit for it, even though he joined the deliberations at the last minute.
Armed with Teddy’s information, Beatrice was starting to feel almost like herself again.
It was time for her to leave soon; this party was intended for the members of Congress and their hundreds of staff members, not for the monarch. But since everyone here was a part of Her Majesty’s government, Beatrice was expected to stay for the first hour.
As with so many of her appearances, there was a formal script—greet the Speaker of the House, offer to host the party (she suspected that was why Congress had erected the flashy tent, since they knew full well the Crown would pick up the tab), dance a single dance, then leave.
When the Speaker of the House started toward her with a microphone, Beatrice knew that was her cue. She felt the voices in the tent die down, heads turning expectantly toward her.
“Representative MacDougal,” Beatrice said, using the same phrases that countless monarchs had spoken before her. “Thank you for spearheading my government for another year. Please, let this event be a gift from the Crown, though it in no way repays all your service.”
The congressman inclined his head. “It is an honor to serve,” he said formally. “Will Your Majesty please have the first dance?”
Beatrice felt a little pang. She thought of all the times she’d seen pictures of her parents doing this same end-of-year dance: whispering to each other, eyes twinkling. And now, somehow, it was her turn.
