Page 26 of American Royals

She stopped herself before she could finish that sentence, but Connor probably knew it anyway. These days, the entire country seemed to have an opinion on Beatrice’s virginity.

“I’ve never been in love,” she said at last. “Given the circumstances, I never really had a chance to.”

Then, for some reason she couldn’t explain, she let her eyes lift to Connor’s. “Have you?”

It was as personal a question as she had ever dared ask. Connor kept his gaze on hers. “I have.”

Beatrice was surprised at the resentment that twisted through her at his words. “Well then,” she said coldly, “I’m happy for you.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

She recoiled a step. Whatever he was talking about, whatever past love affair of his had gone wrong, she didn’t want to hear about it. “This is really none of your business. You may go.”

Never in all their time together had Beatrice dismissed him like that. She saw him flinch at her words, and opened her mouth to take them back—

A roar sounded through the palace. An explosion, maybe, or a blast.

Connor leapt forward, fast as a liquid shadow, before Beatrice had even fully registered the sound.

He pulled her back toward the wall, then whirled around, keeping her safely behind him. In the same fluid motion he slid a gun from its holster.

His eyes darted from the door, to the hallway, back toward the windows, assessing the likelihood of a threat from any direction. He had run to her with impossible speed, and now he stood before her with preternatural stillness, the sort of bone-deep stillness that clearly resulted from years of training.

Beatrice’s heart raced. She was hyperaware of every place their bodies touched, from her legs up to her chest, which was pressed against Connor’s back. His uniform was scratchy against her cheek. She could feel the rapid rise and fall of his breath, smell the spiciness of his soap. The warmth of his body seemed to burn through her dress, to scorch her very skin.

The oath of the Revere Guard echoed in her mind. I am the lantern of honor and truth, the light against the darkness. In life and limb, to live or die, I swear to guard this realm and its Crown.

To live or die. Connor had literally sworn to protect her with his very breath. Beatrice had known this, but it was another thing entirely to see him fling his body in front of hers as a living shield. To know that he would fight for her, if it came to it. She felt oddly humbled.

It felt like an eternity passed before a voice crackled over the palace’s intercom system. “False alarm, everyone! One of the fireworks accidentally went off on the South Portico!”

Connor turned, placing his hands on Beatrice’s bare shoulders to steady her. They were the hard palms of a man used to physical exertion, a man who lifted weights and held a rifle and was no stranger to the boxing ring. His face was alight with something—alertness, and concern, and something else that radiated from him like heat.

“Bee, are you okay?”

Her throat felt very dry. She managed a nod.

Seemingly satisfied, Connor stepped away, holstering his weapon. In all the excitement, the collar of his suit had shifted, and there it was again: the edge of that tattoo. It hinted at the real Connor, the private body that he kept hidden beneath weapons and uniforms.

The palace was probably full of voices and running footsteps—it should have been, after a security scare like that. Beatrice heard none of it. The rest of the world seemed to have receded to nothing.

She stepped forward and lifted her mouth to his.

Her good sense must have momentarily fled her body, because she acted entirely without thinking; but all her senses came rushing back as their lips touched. The utter rightness of that kiss struck her, deep in her core.

Connor broke away and stumbled back. Something, maybe his lantern pin, had snagged on her ivory sash, ripping it from her shoulder as he stepped away. It fluttered to the floor like a white flag of surrender.

Oh god. What had she done?

Connor’s breath was as shallow and uneven as hers. Neither of them spoke. She imagined them frozen in time like cartoon people in a comic strip, little speech bubbles floating out of their mouths, but empty of any text.

A knock sounded at the entrance to her suite. “Beatrice!”

Just like he always did, her father pushed open the door before she could even say come in.

Nothing about their position was compromising; they were standing in her sitting room, Beatrice still dressed in her full ball gown and heels. She just hoped that her expression didn’t give them away.

“Are you all right?” the king exclaimed. “Sorry about the firework. I’m not quite sure how that happened.”