Page 74 of Royals
Up in the stands, I can see the queen, standing beside Ellie, Alex, Seb, and Tamsin. The queen is all decked out in blue today, her auburn hair glossy in the sun, and as she chats with Alex, I see Tamsin glance behind her. Flora is there, talking to Fliss and Poppy, and I watch her meet Tamsin’s eyes, and see the little smile that passes between them.
Then Tamsin turns back and slips her hand into the crook of Seb’s elbow. Seb smiles down at her briefly but then turns his eyes back to Ellie, who is staring so hard at the queen that I know she’s purposely ignoring Seb’s gaze.
What a freaking mess.
“You’re looking a bit bolshy.”
I turn to see Miles at my side, his hands shoved in his pockets. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up, his dark tie loose at his throat, and suddenly all the anger goes out of me.
“Bolshy?” I thought I’d absorbed most of the Brit slang there was to learn in the past month or so, but clearly there are still a few things I need to learn.
“Like a Bolshevik,” Miles clarifies. “Someone about to start arevolution. I can see it in your face,” he tells me now, grinning. “Just like you colonists, coming over here and wanting to cut everyone’s head off.”
“I could go for a decapitation or two,” I confess, and he laughs, his teeth very white against his tan face. I think back to that night at the bothy and my face goes hot.
Maybe he’s thinking the same thing because he stops laughing, his eyes darkening a little bit.
Then he steps back a bit, straightening his shoulders. He’s tamed his hair with some kind of gel, but it still shines like an old coin, and the green stripes on his tie bring out his eyes.
“Do you know anyone playing today?” I ask, desperate for a safe topic of conversation, and the corners of Miles’s mouth turn up. He apparently likes the distraction, too.
“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 akiss?
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. Iget 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.
