May fumbled for the right words. “I realize that George might not make sense to you. He’s very…”
“Dull? Stolid? Tedious?”
May bristled. “I think I have a real chance with him.”
“A chance at what? Being the inconsequential wife of a second son who will be forgotten by history?”
“A chance at being happy!”
“Happy?” Agnes laughed sharply. “You said it yourself; there’s no such thing as happiness for a woman, just security and position. And you could have had the greatest position of all, that of a future queen. You couldstillhave it,” she added caustically, “if you can set aside your misgivings and see this thing through!”
That was when May heard the note of cruel avarice in Agnes’s voice.
“This isn’t about me at all, is it,” May said slowly. “You want me to be queen because it suits your own purposes.”
Agnes crossed her arms over her chest. “May, you’re too smart to be the wife of a man who doesn’t actually matter.Youshould be the one meeting diplomats and presidents, bestowing knighthoods, having your picture printed on stamps. You should wear the Crown Jewels and ride in parades and be famous throughout the world. Not some French slut whothrew away her reputation, sleeping with a commoner on hay bales!”
May flinched at her crudeness, and Agnes let out a breath.
“I just want what’s best for my friend,” she said heavily. “Is that so wrong? I was trying to help!”
My friend,she’d said. Except that May was starting to doubt that they were friends at all.
She thought back to the night they had met. Agnes had appeared out of nowhere, right after Eddy had been so dismissive of May, and had started making conversation with her—charmingher. Manipulating her, the way she tried to do with everyone else.
How had May failed to see it?
She’d thought their conversation began organically, but she realized now that Agnes had preselected May as the ideal tool for her purposes: highborn enough to be useful, but insecure and lonely enough to be easily played. At first Agnes had probably just wanted someone to introduce her around—a foothold into London society, a rung on the ladder of her social climb. But then, as May shared her hopes about Eddy and made inroads with Maud, Agnes’s quest had escalated.
It wasn’t enough for Agnes, just being friends with a Serene Highness. She wanted the access that came with knowing a future queen.
“AmI your friend?” May asked quietly. “Or am I just another stepping stone, someone you can use?”
Genuine hurt seemed to flash across Agnes’s features. “Of course you’re my friend. Arealfriend, not like those society women who claim to adore each other, but all they ever talk about is babies and hairstyles! You and I shared the ugly truthof our experiences. We both faced our own kind of adversity, and were frank enough to admit it—and ask for each other’s help. That’s why I wrote that letter to Princess Hélène for you,” Agnes insisted. “I’m a good enough friend to do what you aren’t brave enough to do yourself!”
May wanted so desperately to believe that Agnes had meant well, to fall back under the spell cast by Agnes’s wealth and determination and bold American conviction. She ran a hand over the fabric of her skirts and felt ill with a sudden realization.
All the beautiful things that Agnes had given her this past year? They weren’t gifts at all. They werebribes,each of them binding May tighter into Agnes’s debt. Their friendship was really just a transaction. Agnes had made a significant investment in May, and now she wanted a return on that investment.
May felt her spine straighten, almost of its own accord. She wasn’t as lonely as she’d been a year ago; she didn’t need Agnes, was better off without her.
She rapped on the carriage ceiling, prompting the driver to halt. “I’ll walk from here. And, Agnes? You and I are done.”
“Please, wait—” her former friend began, but May slammed the door on her words.
IT REALLY WAS A SPECTACULARwedding. May was accustomed to the Anglican service, with its predictable readings and bouquets of generic white lilies; she had never seen a ceremony like this one before, in all its Byzantine splendor. TheOrthodox priest’s vestment was even more ornate than Sophie’s wedding gown, woven with cloth of gold, and an enormous jeweled crucifix hung over his chest. Incense spilled out of censers, and a choir chanted from behind a gilded screen.
Not that May could really enjoy any of it, with her father’s anger looming over her like a thunderstorm.
She sensed that something was wrong the moment he entered the church. It was clear from Francis’s tense jaw, the flush stealing along his neck. He was probably livid that May had ridden to the cathedral without asking his permission: he hated when anything fell outside his control. Or perhapshe was upset with May’s mother. Mary Adelaide would normally have been effusive at a royal wedding, whispering about her various distant cousins and the convoluted way they were all related. Yet today she was subdued, her gaze fixed on the toes of her slippers rather than the bride.
When they reached the reception, Francis’s hand tightened over his daughter’s forearm. “May. I need a word with you,” he growled.
May cast one pleading glance around the palace ballroom. It was filled with white roses—they framed doorways, cascaded from golden epergnes set upon tables, their scent mingling with perfumes and tight-packed bodies as all the royal guests swanned about in their glittering finest. She wasn’t sure who she was looking for, because of course no one could really save her.
She had to face her father alone.
Somehow May pasted on a smile as she stumbled along in her father’s wake, letting him drag her toward the terrace. When they were far enough from the other guests, he let goof her arm. May resisted the urge to rub at the place where his fingers had dug into her skin.
