American Royals by Katharine McGee Read Free Book Online Page B

that she should lead Teddy to his seat—but she didn’t want to. She wasn’t done with him. She wanted his warm golden energy to be focused on her for just a moment longer.
    She grabbed Teddy’s hand and dragged him down the hall, then threw open a nondescript door and pulled it closed behind them.
    The cloakroom smelled of fur and cedarwood and Samantha’s Vol de Nuit perfume. A thin light crept in through the doorframe.
    Sam was still clutching her beer bottle. She lifted it to her lips, well aware of the juxtaposition she posed: wearing a couture gown and priceless Crown Jewels, chugging a beer. Teddy raised one eyebrow, evidently amused, but he didn’t try to leave.
    She set the empty bottle on the floor and turned to face him, the sequined fabric of her dress contorting around her.
    “You might be aware that I outrank you,” she whispered, teasing.
    “It’s been mentioned once or twice.”
    She reached her hands up to his shoulders to pull at the stray end of his bow tie, which fell uselessly to the floor. “I outrank you,” Sam repeated, “and as your princess, I command that you kiss me.”
    Teddy hesitated, and for a moment Sam worried that she had misread him. But then his face relaxed into a smile.
    “I don’t think monarchs get to make autocratic demands like that anymore,” he said softly.
    “I’m not a monarch,” she reminded him. “So, do you refuse?”
    “In this instance, I’m happy to oblige. But don’t assume this means I’m going to obey all your commands.”
    “Fine with me.” Sam grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him forward.
    Teddy’s mouth was warm on hers. He kissed her back eagerly, almost hungrily. Samantha closed her eyes and leaned back into the darkness, falling onto someone’s mink. Her blood bubbled, as light and fizzy as champagne.
    On the other side of the door, she heard the bleating pack of courtiers marching toward the throne room. As if by unspoken agreement, she and Teddy held themselves absolutely still, falling ever deeper into the kiss.
    It didn’t matter whether Samantha showed up to the ceremony. No one would notice if she wasn’t there. She was only the Sparrow, after all.

    BEATRICE
    Beatrice kept her eyes shut, reminding herself to breathe.
    Once, during the fitting for the flower-girl dress she’d worn at her uncle’s wedding, she had fidgeted so much that her mom had snapped at her not to move a single muscle. So she hadn’t—not even her lungs. Seven-year-old Beatrice had held her breath with such determination that she actually passed out.
    “Would you look up, Your Royal Highness?” the makeup artist murmured. Beatrice reluctantly lifted her gaze, trying to ignore the eyeliner pencil prodding at her lower lid. It had been easier to keep her anxiety at bay when her eyes were closed.
    She stood at the center of the Brides’ Room, a downstairs sitting room across the hall from the ballroom, named for the generations of royal brides who had used it to change into their wedding gowns. Beatrice had gotten ready here on countless occasions; she often needed to do this sort of quick costume change in the middle of an event. But the room’s name had never before caused her such disquiet.
    If everything went according to her parents’ plan, she would be getting ready here again all too soon.
    The Brides’ Room was the epitome of girliness, its peach wallpaper hand-painted with delicate white flowers. There was very little furniture: just a small love seat and a side table with a bowl of potpourri made from old bridal bouquets. The space was purposefully empty, to leave room for gowns with thirty-foot ceremonial trains.
    A massive trifold mirror stood before her, though Beatrice was doing her best not to look. She remembered how she and Samantha used to sneak in here when they were little, mesmerized by the sight of themselves reflected into infinity. “Look, there are a thousand Beatrices,” Sam would whisper, and Beatrice always