Page 31 of Royals
“So,” Miles says as we make our way past a grouping of high tables littered with crystal champagne flutes, “this is An Reis. That’s Gaelic for ‘the Race,’ which is not exactly the most original of names, but—”
I stop, looking up at him from underneath the tentacles. “Dude.”
He glances down at me and pulls his arm back. “What?”
Some kind of trumpet-y fanfare is starting up in the distance, and I glance toward the royal box to see my sister and Alex waving as the crowd claps politely. At the high tables, I see a few women smirking behind gloved hands, their eyes darting up at Ellie, and I frown.
“I don’t need to know about the race,” I tell Miles now. “I’m sure it’s fascinating and historically thrilling, but that kind of information is not exactly useful. However...” I nod at the women who are now moving away from the table, taking some satisfaction in the way they wobble on their heels in the damp grass, too. “Knowing why people are smirking at my sister? That would be helpful.”
Miles sighs and, to my surprise, reaches up to loosen his tie. “Let’s go get something to drink,” he says.
He leads me to a yellow-and-white-striped tent and with a “wait here” ducks inside, leaving me to stand awkwardly beside the entrance. I should’ve brought my phone so that I could at least pretend to text someone, but instead I’m stuck with a fake smile on my face, trying not to notice that people are looking at me.
One woman in particular isreallylooking at me. Glaring, almost. She’s older, probably in her fifties, but she’s definitely been nipped and tucked here and there, her face seeming just a little tighter than faces should. She’s thin and reedy, dressed all in black except for a massive burst of yellow feathers on her head, and to my shock, she comes to stand right in front of me.
“So,” she says, her mouth curling around the word, “you’re the latest American invader? How unfortunate.”
I’d thought Miles was snobby, but this woman is next level. She looks at me like I’m something unpleasant she just stepped in, and I know that I should let it go, that I should smile politely and murmur something bland.
But I’m not Liam Winters’s daughter for nothing.
“Yup!” I say brightly. “Here to throw your tea in the harbor and marry up all your princes.”
Her lips purse even tighter, and I think she’d narrow her eyes at me if her face could actually move from the nose up. “Charming,” she says in a way that lets me know she finds me anything but. “And here I thought your sister was the worst embarrassment to happen to the Baird family in quite some time.”
My temper flames higher. I can admit that I’m not cut out for this thing, but Ellie? Ellie has been nothing but perfect as far as I can tell, and I’m not letting this slide.
“Your hat is lovely,” I tell the woman, giving her my sweetest smile. “I’m sure Big Bird’s sacrifice was worth it.”
I hear the soft murmuring of voices around us. A couple of gasps, some smothered chuckles, and a bunch of whispering. For the first time, I remember there are a lot of people around, and I mentally kick myself. This is clearly why I can’t be trusted around fancy types, because I have never been able to hold my tongue.
Just like Ellie said.
The woman just lifts her chin a fraction of an inch higher and swans off, practically leaving a trail of ice crystals in her wake.
“Here you go.”
Miles has returned, a drink in each hand. They’re filled to the brim with iced tea, pieces of fruit, and, I think, even cucumber jumbled up with the ice. He’s scanning the crowd, a little crease between his brows. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
“Someone was rude to me, so I caused an international incident,” I reply before taking the sweating glass from him gratefully.
And then I promptly choke.
Whatever is in the glass, it isnoticed tea. It’s sweet and bitter all at once with some kind of medicinal flavor happening. It’s not that strong, whatever it is, but for someone who’s only ever had half a lukewarm beer, it’s way too much, and my eyes water as Miles looks at me, his eyes wide.
“What,” I manage to gasp out, thrusting the glass back at him, “isthat?”
He takes the glass, nearly dropping both drinks in his haste, and now people are definitely watching us, probably because I look like I’m dying.
“Pimm’s Cup,” he tells me, and I wave my hands, indicating that he needs to keep going with that explanation.
When he just continues to stare at me blankly, I roll my eyes and say, “I have no idea what that is.”
You would think I just told him I’d never seen a dog or the color red or something. He seemsthatincredulous. “It’s a drink. Popular here in the summer, always at the races or regattas.”
I can breathe again now, and I dab at my watery eyes with one gloved finger, hoping I haven’t smeared my mascara beyond repair. “And what’s in it?”
“A lot of things.”
