Royals

The whole thing with Isa seems like it happened a thousand years ago, so it’s hard to remember that it was only a few weeks ago. Still, he was indeed a wanker, so I nod. “Totally.”

Sighing, Seb continues to make a circuit with his glass. “I am working on being less of one, I swear.”

He sounds so defeated that I almost feel sorry for him, and I reach out tentatively, patting his knee. “You’ll get there,” I promise. “And one way to do that is to never, ever tell anyone how you feel about Ellie, okay?”

Seb’s hair is falling over his forehead in that attractive way that all the Royal Wreckers seem to have cultivated, and he watches me with those very blue eyes that are just like Alex’s. “I won’t,” he says.

“Are we going to be friends now?” he asks, and I roll my eyes as I take a sip of my lemonade.

“We’re about to be family,” I remind him, and he brightens a little at that.

“Family,” he repeats. “I’d like that.” Then he shrugs, tossing back the rest of his drink. “Never thought I’d have regular people in my family.”

“Okay, see, saying things like that really tips you back toward that whole ‘wanker’ thing you were trying to avoid.”

Grinning, Seb reaches out and smacks my knee. “See, that’s what I need you around for. Remind me of wanker-like behavior.”

He pays for our drinks, which surprises me since I wasn’t even sure he had money on him, and as we make our way to the door, I ask, “Is it really weird paying for things with your mom?”

Queen Clara’s face is stamped on all the ten-pound notes, and her father, King James, is on the twenties. One day, Alex could end up on money. Or his kids. It’s another reminder that while Ellie may be my sister, everything that comes after this marriage is going to change my family forever.

Seb just laughs, though. “Barely notice it, to be honest.”

We step back into the alley, and I take a deep breath. Everything smells like rain and old stone and the exhaust from buses, plus the faintest hint of lemonade still wafting from Seb’s shirt.

Seb is in love with Ellie, but Ellie is in love with Alex.

Seb is supposed to fall in love with Tamsin, who is actually fooling around with Flora.

Flora pretended to date Miles, who is now pretending to date me.

And it is pretend.

Totally, totally pretend, no matter what happened in the bothy.

“This is so messed up,” I mutter to myself, and Seb surprises me by clapping me on the shoulder.

“Nah, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Chapter 32

I had thought the horse race was the fanciest, most pretentious thing I’d do in Scotland. Maybe the shooting day with all that tweed and the Land Rovers. Or the balls. Balls, super fancy, obvs.

But polo? Polo puts all of those things to shame.

The match is held just outside Edinburgh on one of those magical sunny summer days here in Scotland, the kind that will probably turn to rain by the afternoon, but for now, everything is gorgeous. Striped tents, tables groaning with flutes of champagne and all kinds of tiny finger foods, people wandering around in the brightest, prettiest of outfits . . .

And I hate all of it.

I’m in one of the dresses Glynnis picked out for me, yellow instead of the green she usually puts me in, and all scalloped skirt and fluttery sleeves. No hat today but a fascinator that, thank god, contains exactly zero feathers and only one little piece of netting.

My heels are sinking into the grass, and all I want to do is find a place to sit down. I glance back at the stands and see a beautiful woman in a large black hat striding toward one of the striped tents. She looks like all the women I’ve seen here: extremely well put-together but also kind of like a purebred Afghan hound.

As I watch, she hails a friend, and then, slowly, almost inevitably, tips over, sinking into the wet grass, one hand still raised in greeting.

The man next to her doesn’t even pause, just continues on his way, and I shake my head.

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 a revolution. 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.”