Royals

Miles’s hands catch mine as I’m still laughing, his fingers squeezing, his skin warm, and our eyes meet as we spin.

He’s grinning, too, his face shiny with sweat, his hair escaping whatever gel he used to slick it down this evening, and this flutter starts up in my chest that has nothing to do with the dance.

It’s so startling that I let go of his hands, which is a bad idea because momentum nearly sends me crashing into the people near us. Luckily the dance is so wild that no one really notices, but Miles frowns a little, a trio of wrinkles popping up between his brows.

“Are you all right?” he asks, and I nod, pressing a hand to my chest.

“Yeah, just . . . you know. A stripped willow, I guess.”

He goes to lead me off the dance floor, but I shake my head, lifting my hand to hold it out at him.

“I’m fine!” I call over the music. “Gonna go get some air!”

I pretty much flee the ballroom, Cinderella-style, but at least I manage not to lose a shoe.

Instead of heading for the balcony where Miles might catch up with me, and then we might be alone in the moonlight, which is too much to contemplate right now, I turn down a dim hallway, pressing one hand against the wall and taking a deep breath.

Okay.

Okay.

I did not just have chest flutters for Miles. Those were heart palpitations caused by the crazy dance and nothing more.

Or this place is finally getting to me. There’s a chair against the wall, a kind of spindly little thing embroidered with a nature scene. Shepherdess with her flock, soft-purple mountains, that kind of thing. I sink down onto it, bracing my hands on my knees, the silk and taffeta of my skirt rustling, the tiara on my head suddenly very heavy again.

Running from a ballroom, wearing a freaking tiara. Could I be a bigger cliché at this point?

“That chair belonged to Queen Margaret I,” a voice says, and my head shoots up.

Queen Clara is standing in the hallway, hands clasped in front of her, posture as regal and terrifying as ever. She’s wearing a much bigger tiara than mine, and I bet it never hurts her head. I bet she can’t even feel it.

“It’s nice,” I finally say, because what else do you say to something like that?

“No one is allowed to sit in it,” she continues, and I bite back a sigh.

Great. Of all the chairs, I accidentally plopped my ass onto the fancy special one.

Rising to my feet, I give a quick curtsy like Glynnis taught me. “Sorry, but there wasn’t a . . . sign. Or a rope around it.”

“That’s because anyone who visits this house should already know about that chair,” the queen says, and, wow, consider me dressed down.

There are about a hundred smart-ass retorts fighting to fly out of my mouth, but I keep every one of them in. Antagonizing the queen is not going to help me or Ellie, and while it would feel very satisfying, it would not be worth it.

Maybe.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, and she watches me for such a long moment that I almost squirm beneath that hard blue gaze.

Finally, she asks, “Have you seen my son?”

“Seb?”

Her nostrils flare. “Prince Sebastian, yes.”

I shake my head, fluffing out my skirt. “No. I mean, I did, earlier, dancing with Lady Tamsin, but not since then.”

The queen keeps looking at me, hands clenched, her nostrils flaring a bit, but apparently she decides to believe me, giving a crisp nod. “Very well. I haven’t seen Tamsin, either, so perhaps they’re somewhere getting to know each other better.”

With that, she turns and heads back for the ballroom, and I blow out a long breath, ruffling my bangs. If the queen is headed in that direction, I am heading in the opposite.

I turn and move farther down the hallway, turning a corner, and groan when I see who’s standing at the other end.

“Daisy,” Seb says, walking toward me.

Excellent. Just what I need right now.

“Aren’t you supposed to be wooing your fair lady?” I say, and he rolls his shoulders, flicking his auburn hair off his forehead in what has to be a trademarked move at this point.

“Can’t find her,” he says, glancing around like Tamsin might suddenly leap out of the wallpaper or something. And then he turns those very blue eyes on me.

“Actually, this is good timing. I was hoping I might talk to you,” he says, walking a little closer. “Alone.”

Groaning, I hold up a hand. “No. Your mother is here, and the last thing I need is for her to find us having a little tête-à-tête in a dark hallway.”

Seb shoves his hand in his pocket, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was genuinely anxious about something.

“Later, then,” he presses. “Once Mummy isn’t around, do you think we might—”

“No,” I say again. “I don’t.” Not only do I not want the queen coming for my head again, but I can’t imagine there’s anything me and Seb need to talk about. And if it’s about Isabel, I really don’t want to hear it.

Patting him on the shoulder, I start to move past him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have . . . girl things to take care of.”

I’m hoping that might terrify him into bolting, but instead he just sighs and gestures toward the curve of the hallway. “There’s a powder room to the left.”

“Thanks,” I reply, heading in that direction and feeling very relieved when I hear Seb’s footsteps going the other way.

Since I don’t actually need the ladies’ room, I just wander for a bit, finally spotting a door slightly ajar, soft golden light spilling out onto the carpet. That’ll do for a nice hidey-hole, I think, moving toward it and pushing open the door.

Only to come up short as I see that I have found Lady Tamsin. She’s standing in the middle of the room, wrapped around another person, the sounds of heavy breathing and lips meeting soft in the quiet room. For just a second, my confused brain wonders how Seb got back to this part of the house without me seeing him.

And then I really look.

It’s very much not Seb she’s kissing.

It’s Flora.

Chapter 28

A fun thing about me that I learn on this trip: I really, really hate shooting.

Alex kept his promise—we’re not shooting any living creatures, thank god, but we are shooting clay pigeons, and it turns out it’s not just the killing that bugs me about shooting.

It’s the noise.

When I shriek for the third time as my gun goes off, Gilly, my shooting partner for this outing, gives me a look.

“Every time?” he asks, and I scowl, adjusting my cap lower on my head. Oh yes, I have a cap. I have a whole outfit made out of tweed, and there are sturdy boots and leather gloves, and honestly, if anyone takes a picture of me like this, I am going to die.

“Sorry, I’m not used to gunfire going off right by my head,” I tell him, and Gilly looks at me, puzzled.

“But you’re American,” he says, and then, before I can reply, he shouts, “Pull!”

A clay pigeon soars through the air.

Gilly pulls the trigger and the pigeon shatters.

I shriek.

Sighing, Gilly lowers the gun, fixing me with his dark eyes. “Lady Daze,” he says, “why don’t you go see if there’s something to drink back at the cars?”

I can’t blame him for wanting to get rid of me, but I stick my tongue out at him anyway before gratefully skedaddling over to the cars. There are a bunch of them, old Land Rovers, some jeeps, all of which have seen better days. It must be more of that thing Miles told me about, posh people not needing to show off all the time.