From shore to shore, from sea to sea
Let our beloved nation ring
With cries of love and loyalty
Our hearts we pledge to you, our queen
Until now, the lyrics had always ended in our king; the rhyme of ring and queen didn’t work quite as well.
The barge pulled up to the dock, and the Lord Chamberlain stepped forward to help the royal family disembark. All the courtiers on the lawn quickly fell into bows or curtsies. In their pastel dresses and seersucker suits, they looked like an indolent flock of butterflies.
Daphne didn’t rush. She sank down as gracefully as a flower drooping, and held the pose for a long, slow moment. She’d taken ballet as a child, and at times like this she was every inch a dancer.
When she finally stood, Daphne skimmed her hands over the front of her dress, which followed the enclosure’s strict rules and hit at precisely knee-length. It fell around her legs like peach sorbet. Atop her glorious red-gold hair she’d pinned a custom-made fascinator, the same delicate shade as her gown. It was so nice to wear color again, after all the weeks she’d spent dressing somberly, observing the official mourning period for the late king.
Though, to be fair, Daphne also looked striking in black. She looked striking in everything.
She made her way to where Jefferson stood, atop the grassy embankment that sloped liltingly to the river. When he saw her, the prince nodded in greeting. “Hey, Daphne. Thanks for coming.”
She wanted to say I’ve missed you, but it felt too flirtatious, too self-centered, after everything Jefferson had been through. “It’s good to see you,” she decided.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It feels a little weird to be here, you know?”
Daphne didn’t feel weird at all. If anything, she felt that she and Jefferson were back where they were meant to be: with each other. After all, their lives had been intertwined since Daphne was fourteen.
That was when she’d decided that she would marry him, and become a princess.
For over two years everything had gone according to Daphne’s plan. She’d thrown herself in Jefferson’s path, and soon enough they were dating. He adored her, and, just as crucially, America adored her—because Daphne had won them over, with her gracious smiles and her soft words and her beauty.
Until Jefferson had abruptly ended things, the morning after his graduation party.
Another girl might have accepted the breakup and moved on. But Daphne wouldn’t admit defeat. She couldn’t, not after the lengths she’d gone to for that relationship.
Now, thankfully, the prince was single again. Though he wouldn’t be for long, if Daphne had anything to say about it.
Didn’t Jefferson see how easy things would be if he followed her plan and asked her out again? They could attend King’s College together this fall—he’d taken a gap year, which meant he would enter with Daphne’s class—and then after they graduated he would propose, and they would get married in the palace.
And finally, at long last, Daphne would be the princess she’d been born to be.
“I’m so sorry about your father. I can only imagine what you’re going through.” She reached for his arm in a silent gesture of support. “I’m here if you want to talk.”
Jefferson nodded absently, and Daphne lowered her hand.
“Sorry, I just…there are some people I need to say hi to,” he mumbled.
“Of course.” She forced herself to remain still, her expression placid and unconcerned, as the Prince of America walked away from her.
Bracing herself for endless small talk, Daphne bit back a sigh and began to circulate through the crowds. She caught sight of her mother across the lawn, chatting with the owner of a department store chain. How typical. Rebecca Deighton was nothing if not an instinctive judge of people she could use.
Daphne knew she should go over there, flash her perfect smile, and charm yet another person into being on Team Daphne. She glanced back at Jefferson—and froze.
He was talking to Nina.
It was impossible to hear them over the low roar of the party, but that didn’t matter; she could see the pained, pleading look in the prince’s eyes. Was he asking Nina to forgive him for the way he’d treated her…or for a second chance?
What if Nina decided to give him one?
Daphne tore her gaze away before anyone caught her staring. She strode blindly into the cool shade of the tent, past delicate tables topped with pyramids of flowers, all the way to the ladies’ room at the back.
She braced her hands on either side of the sink, forcing herself to take slow, shaky breaths. She was curiously unsurprised when, moments later, a pair of footsteps sounded behind her.
“Hello, Mother,” she said heavily.
Daphne watched as Rebecca prowled through the restroom, making sure the row of stalls was completely empty before she turned back to her daughter. “Well?” Rebecca snapped. “He’s talking to that girl again. How could you let that happen?”
“I was with him, but—”
“Do you realize how much it cost to be here this afternoon?” her mother cut in. At times like this, when she got upset, the old Nebraska twang slipped back into her voice. As if she’d forgotten that she was Rebecca Deighton, Lady Margrave, and had slipped back into her old persona—Becky Sharpe, lingerie model.
Daphne knew her parents had gained access to the Royal Enclosure the tacky way, by underwriting the regatta itself. And while the higher-ranking, wealthier aristocrats probably hadn’t flinched at the amount, the Deightons felt every penny they spent. Acutely.
“I’m aware how much it cost,” Daphne said quietly, and she wasn’t just talking about the check her family had written. Not even her parents knew everything Daphne had done in her attempts to win Jefferson—and to keep him.
For a moment the two women just stared at each other in the mirror. There was a guarded wariness to their expressions that made them look more like enemies than mother and daughter.
Daphne could almost hear the gears of her mother’s mind turning. Rebecca was never hampered by obstacles for long; she didn’t think about what was, but what could be. Everyone else lived in reality, but Rebecca Deighton occupied a shifting shadow-world of infinite possibility.
“You’ll have to get rid of her,” her mother concluded, and Daphne nodded reluctantly.
Nina had loved Jefferson, really loved him, and that made her a more dangerous opponent than any of the aristocratic girls at court, with their sterile, cookie-cutter beauty. Daphne could outwit and outshine those girls any day. But someone who genuinely didn’t care about Jefferson’s position—who, in fact, loved him in spite of it—that was a real threat.