“Gilly’s riding,” he says, turning to gesture at the field. “Spiffy and Dons were going to, but Spiffy fell down some stairs on the Mile last night and twisted his ankle, so Dons decided he’d sit it out, too. They’re over there, either charming or horrifying the Earl of Hatton’s daughters.”
He nods toward a striped tent where, sure enough, Spiffy sits, ankle propped up on some pillows, Dons at his side, two very blond girls standing near them, hands over their mouths either to hide their laughs or to hold back vomit.
Always hard to tell.
“Where’s Sherbet?” I ask, letting Miles lead me back to the refreshment area, my hand resting very lightly in the crook of his arm. Even that little touch is enough to have my nerves vibrating, and I hear a few muted clicks as photographers get their pictures.
“Sherbet is off to Greece with Galen for the rest of the summer,” he says. “Lucky bugger.”
“Because Greece or just because he’s not here, staring at ponies?” I ask, and Miles glances down at me.
“Because he’s with someone he loves,” he says, and my heart does a weird flipping thing in my chest. I know Miles isn’t saying he loves me—that would be stupid—but it was clear at the ball that he envied what Galen and Sherbet had. Maybe because he always has to be free in case the palace needs him to pretend to date somebody.
“And also Greece,” he acknowledges. “Bloody love Greece. Plus, if I were in Greece, I wouldn’t have had to carry Spiffy halfway down the Mile last night, so.”
I laugh at that, tilting my head up to look into his face.
And that’s when someone calls out, “Give ’im a kiss, love!”
I turn to see a photographer there, camera at the ready, and everything inside me freezes.
We’ve faked a date, smiled into each other’s eyes at the ball, walked down the street like a couple, but a kiss?
But to my surprise, Miles is already inching his head just the littlest bit toward mine, his face coming closer, his lips—
I slam my hand against his chest, pushing him back, and for a second, I see his eyes widen.
“I’m—I can’t—” I start to say, and then with a muttered “Sorry,” I turn away.
Only to smack right into a waiter bearing a tray loaded with champagne glasses.
I hear a few gasps (and more than a few giggles) as probably hundreds of dollars of champagne splashes onto the ground. I get at least fifty bucks’ worth on my pretty yellow dress, and I scrub my hand over the growing wet spot down the front of my skirt even as a torrent of apologies spills from my lips.
Leaning down, I attempt to help the waiter pick up the glasses, but then there are more clicks, and then I remember I’m in a dress, it’s a windy day, and I’ve probably just given everyone a clear look at my pink polka-dot underwear.
Great.
So I right myself in a hurry, stepping past the waiter and all those glasses, and catching a brief glimpse of Miles out of the corner of my eye as I practically sprint away.
Where am I going?
I have no idea. Just away from here, away from all those eyes and lenses, and definitely away from Miles.
There’s a barn at the far edge of the field, and even though everything involving me and horses has been a total nightmare on this trip, I march toward it, putting as much space between me and the polo field as I can, as quickly as I can.
When I step into the barn, I realize that it’s not actually a barn at all, but a fancy garage. There are cars parked in here, gorgeous, sleek, expensive cars, and I walk between two of them, letting my fingers drag over the cool surface of a Rolls-Royce as I take a deep breath.
That was certainly a freak-out for the books, and I wait to hear Glynnis or Ellie come in after me, chiding me to get back out there and smile for the cameras.
But it’s not Glynnis or Ellie suddenly casting a shadow from the doorway.
It’s Miles.
He’s just . . . standing there. His hands are loosely clenched at his sides, his chin is tilted down a little, and he’s breathing hard, like he ran to catch up with me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I am surprised to hear how shaky I sound. I’m surprised at how shaky I feel. Miles opened the door wide when he walked in, and now in the sunlight I can see dust motes floating in the air between us. “I couldn’t do it.”
Crossing my arms, I cradle my elbows in my palms and go on even as Miles moves closer to me. “I get that that’s part of this whole fake dating thing, but a kiss is . . . a kiss is special. Maybe not to you, but it is to me, and I didn’t want—”
And then whatever I might have said next is cut off by Miles’s mouth on mine.
He kisses me, his hands coming up to hold my face, and for a second, I’m so surprised that I don’t kiss him back. I just stand there with my arms still crossed, my eyes open.
But then he tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his hands warm on my cheeks, fingertips slightly calloused, and my eyes are drifting shut, my arms coming to drop first to my sides, then lifting up to clutch at his shirt there at his waist.
For a boy I’d once thought was made mostly of tweed, Miles can kiss.
We stand there in the barn, wrapped up in each other, and I go up on tiptoes, wanting to get even closer to him. Wanting to press every part of my body against his as I finally, finally, give into everything I’ve been trying not to feel since that night in the bothy.
When we finally pull apart, I sink back on my heels, staring at him with wide eyes.
“Wow,” I say softly, and he smiles. It’s the smile I saw that night at Seb’s club, the one that first clued me into the fact that Miles might be more appealing than I’d thought.
“A kiss is special to me, too,” he says, his voice so low and rough that I swear I can actually feel it moving over my skin, and I shiver.
“You’re special to me,” he adds, and my fingers flex on his shirt.
He’s Seb’s best friend, as much a part of this world as the horse races and the tiaras and the plaid.
But he’s also funny and kind once you get past the stuffiness, and cute, and he kisses like it’s his job.
“So what do we do now?” I ask him, the words surprisingly loud in the empty barn.
“You smile!” a bright voice says, and we turn to see Glynnis in the doorway, the photographer right behind her.
Chapter 33
“This is even better than a kiss near the field,” Glynnis is saying, moving toward us with her hands spread open wide, like she’s framing a shot. “We’ll have Fitzy here shoot from behind one of the cars so the entire thing will feel a little sneaky, a little private.”
I don’t point out the irony in purposely posing for “private” pictures, but then my brain is still too scrambled from the kiss to say much.
Miles, however, doesn’t seem to have that problem. As Glynnis goes on, talking about angles and how many pictures and “hand placement,” he steps forward, one arm still around my waist.
“No.”
Glynnis pauses, her fingers opening and closing in the air like Miles saying no has just caused some kind of system shutdown.
Then she gives a little laugh. “Oh, Miles,” she says, waving him off, “I know it’s a bit embarrassing to be caught like this, but I promise, it won’t take but a moment, and then—”
“No,” Miles says again. “I don’t want pictures of this. This”—he gestures between the two of us—“isn’t for the papers.”
My chest aches with a mixture of pride and swooniness as he stands there, chin lifted, jaw clenched. All the things that used to make Miles seem so annoying and snobby are actually really appealing when they’re being employed to protect my honor.
Glynnis’s eyes are wide now, and she makes a disbelieving sound. “Of course it’s for the papers,” she says. “That’s the entire reason the two of you wer
e spending time together.”
Gaze hardening, she props a fist on her hip. “And given that the Sun has pictures of Sebastian and Daisy leaving a pub together through a back door earlier this week, we really have no choice here.”
Ugh. I should’ve known we weren’t as stealth as Seb thought we were.
I open my mouth to explain to Miles that there was nothing illicit about that pub visit—well, there kind of was, but it wasn’t between me and Seb—but he’s still looking at Glynnis.
“Don’t care,” he says, and then he slips his hand in mine, squeezing.
“I covered the arses of a lot of members of this family,” Miles goes on, “and I haven’t minded it. But not this time. Not with Daisy.”
And then he walks past Glynnis, tugging me after him.
As we walk back out into the sunshine, hand in hand, I practically gawp at him. “Did you just tell the royal family to get screwed?”
That muscle in his jaw ticks, but I think it’s because he’s holding back a smile this time.
“I think I did?” he asks, and, yup, definitely a smile.
One that is immediately captured by a camera as a series of clicks go off, and I lift our joined hands between us, shaking them slightly.
“It was a little bit for naught, though,” I say. “Definitely a grand gesture, and I was very impressed and kind of turned on, but . . .” I shake my head and laugh.
Tilting his chin, Miles looks down at me, and his fingers flex in mine. “It’s still different,” he says. “We can’t keep people from taking pictures, but we can not pose for them. Not fake anything, not use this”—he tugs at our hands—“for anyone else’s benefit.”
I nod, but even as I do, I’m thinking of those prom pics that nearly made it onto TMZ, the way I’d started getting hyperaware of someone taking my picture. How I’d thought Ellie could keep her life here separate from mine in Florida, and that people would eventually forget about me.
They won’t if I’m dating one of the Royal Wreckers, even if he is the least wreckish.
Miles frowns. “What is it?” he asks, but before I can reply, Seb is there, his jacket flapping open, his hair windblown yet weirdly perfect, his eyes shining, and his breath . . .
Stepping back, I place a hand over my mouth. “Oh my god, did you fall into a vat of whiskey?” I ask him, then glance around. I know Seb can be a mess, and Miles knows Seb can be a mess, but the general public has been spared a lot of his messitude.
“Did you know that Tamsin and Flora were shagging?” he asks me bluntly, raking a hand through his hair.
“What, no!” Miles says, startled, and sadly my “No, I didn’t” is just delayed enough to sound pretty weak.
Miles looks down at me, pulling back. “Wait, do you know something about that?”
“Not the shagging part,” I admit, tucking my hair behind my ear. “But just the general, you know, them-ness of them.”
I turn and look at Seb, acutely aware that there are photographers nearby and that he is super, super drunk. In public.
“But why is that a big deal?” I whisper. “You don’t even like Tamsin.”
“I might, though,” he fires back. “I might decide to like her, who can say?”
Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “And this is the most eligible bachelor in Scotland. Be still my beating heart.”
I can see Dons approaching, also three sheets to the wind, listing slightly, and I tug on Seb’s arm. “Hey,” I say softly. “Why don’t we go somewhere quiet and talk about this? Somewhere not quite so public and . . . exposed.”
But Seb shakes me off. “No,” he says, and Miles steps forward, putting his hands on Seb’s shoulders. “Mate,” he starts, but Seb steps back from him.
“Don’t ‘mate’ me,” he says, and I wrinkle my nose.
“Word choice,” I mutter, but Seb—who has managed to keep his disastrous life private for all this time—is now on a roll.
“It just doesn’t make any bloody sense,” he says plaintively. Throwing one hand out at me, he all but cries, “You didn’t want me, and you picked Monters of all people.”
I open my mouth, but Seb just waves off anything I was about to say. “Oh, don’t give me that ‘it’s just for show’ thing. The two of you have been making sex eyes at each other since day one.”
My face flames hot, and I make a startled noise. “Have not!” I reply, and Miles is spluttering, too.
“Daisy and I only . . . recently realized th-that we—”
“Oh, stuff it, Monters,” Seb says, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m not blind. But then Daisy’s friend calls me a wanker, now Tamsin prefers Flora, and am I not the good-looking one? Am I not on a million bleeding bedroom walls all over this country? I just . . .” He shakes his head, and I look over at Dons, who is giggling into his cider.
“Who let him get this drunk?” I ask.
Dons shrugs. “Sherbet’s not here, Spiffy’s laid up with his ankle, Gilly’s on the field, Monters has been too wrapped up in you to notice what Seb is up to, sooooo . . .” He pokes at his own chest and grins brightly. “Me! I did!”
Laughing, he slaps Seb on the back. “But it’s good! Man deserves to let his hair down.”
I don’t point out that Seb is not so much letting his hair down as letting his feelings spew out his mouth, but then I don’t have to because Seb keeps going.
“And Ellie,” he says darkly, and now I step forward, grabbing his jacket and not caring who might be taking pictures.
“Seb, no.”
“Ellie loves Alex. Boring, stupid Alex. I!” He lifts one hand, nearly smacking me in the face. “I am the interesting brother. I b-bought her a house.”
“You tried to steal a house from a farmer, and also you’re seventeen,” I remind him.
“But I love her,” he replies, and then from behind us, I hear, “What?”
Great. Greatgreatgreat. Exactly what this moment needs.
Alex and Ellie stand there, clearly worried and confused. They’re holding hands, and I think for a second of the tableau we must all make standing there. Me clutching Seb’s jacket, Miles right beside me, Dons giggling his stupid drunk ass off.
Seb’s chest rises and falls underneath my hands as he takes a deep breath, and I hope—I pray—that he’s not—
“I’m in love with Eleanor,” he announces, and we all freeze for just a second.
And then Alex—sweet, noble, quiet Alex—rears back and punches Seb right in the face.
Which is when things go crazy.
A ROYAL BRAWL!
Shocking pictures out of Scotland today as Prince Alexander and Prince Sebastian took sibling rivalry to a new—and physical!—level. While the younger Prince Sebastian’s crowd has certainly had run-ins with the press and they’re no stranger to throwing punches, the prince himself has always stayed above the fray, and his older brother is usually a model of restraint. However, it appears something sparked off a row during the McGregor Charity Polo Match. Rumor has it the two were fighting over a relationship between Prince Sebastian and Daisy Winters, younger sister of Alexander’s fiancée, Eleanor. Daisy was said to be dating Sebastian’s friend, Miles Montgomery, seen in these photos just to the right of Miss Winters, but sources tell us tension has been building between the friends for some time now.
(People, “Royal Watch”)
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!
DID YOU GUYS.
EVER THINK.
WE’D SEE PRINCE ALEXANDER THE BORING.
THROW A PUNCH.
AT HIS BROTHER????
I did not, Crown Heads. I did not see this coming, and god bless us, every one. God bless YOU, Daisy Winters, because from what I hear, this whole thing was over her. She’s apparently caught in an honest-to-god love triangle with Seb and Miles Montgomery, and it finally erupted into an ACTUAL BRAWL!
Look at that right hook Alex threw! Seb is IN THE DIRT! Poor Ellie is totally traumatized, looks like, can’t see Daisy’s face, but I bet she’s LOVING IT because hot, royal guys throwing punches over you is THE DREEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM. In any case, this is the best day of my life. Please forward all my mail to me in heaven, thank you.
(Crown Town, “BEST DAY EVER”)
Chapter 34
I had thought the meeting after Seb’s club had been rough, but it’s nothing—nothing—compared to the post–polo debacle conference.
This time we’re not in a sitting room but at an actual table, this long slab of polished mahogany that’s been cleared of everything. Dozens of Alex’s ancestors glare down at us from the wall, and I remind myself that I could always cut them out of their frames with those special knives.
Like you guys never did anything super embarrassing and scandalous, I think as I look at a painting of a guy in a poufy white wig. At least no one ended up decapitated.
I look at Queen Clara’s face where she sits at the head of the table.
Yet.
“I don’t think I have to tell everyone what a disaster this is,” she starts, and Seb, still holding an ice pack to his jaw, mutters a series of pretty filthy words.
Alex is still flexing his fingers, his knuckles a little swollen, but his other hand is clutching El’s firmly as she sits at his side, and that makes me happy to see. No matter what went wrong today, they’re still good.
Which is kind of a miracle, really.
Miles sits across from me, and every once in a while, he gives me a little smile, but mostly he studies the table, his fingers drumming, his brow wrinkled. He’s the one with the most to lose here, though, so I can’t blame him.
I’m sorry, I mouth when he looks up at me again. Glynnis is still going on about “optics” and “getting ahead of the story,” and I already know where that kind of talk leads. At this rate, I’ll probably have to marry Miles on the top of the Scott Monument to make people forget about this story.
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