Chapter 15

We make our way through the sea of hats, and while I want to drop my hand from Miles’s elbow, I actually kind of need him for balance. My heels keep sinking into the grass, and I have horrifying visions of me on the front page of the paper, sprawled on the grass, skirt up over my head.

Holding on to Not-Hot Mr. Darcy isn’t as bad as that.

“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 is really looking 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 is not iced 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, “is that?”

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 seems that incredulous. “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.”

I look up at Miles, waiting, and he clears his throat. “Mostly gin.”

“Lovely.”

We stand there for a moment, and then Miles takes both glasses back into the tent. When he comes out again, this time he’s holding a goblet filled with ice and sparkling water. “Better?” he asks, handing it to me, and I nod.

“Thanks.”

For a second, there’s an awkward silence, and finally I clear my throat, turning the sweaty glass of water in my hands. “Now that we’ve gotten my attempted poisoning out of the way, spill the tea.”

Miles is still watching me with a slight frown, hair curling over his forehead, hands shoved in his pockets. “Spill . . . tea . . . ,” he says slowly, and I roll my eyes.

“Tell me why everyone is all sneery. I thought people here loved El.”

Understanding dawns on Miles’s face, and he rocks back on his heels a little. “Ah. Well.” He glances around us, and I notice the top hat he was holding seems to have disappeared. I hope it’s gone for good, because honestly, no one should be forced to wear that thing. “Let’s walk a bit, shall we?” he says, offering me his elbow again. I take it, and he leads me away from all the people, nearly to the fences lining the racetrack.

A cloud moves over the sun briefly, the light shifting, and Miles puts one shiny shoe up on the lower rail of the fence. “I’m trying to think of a way of saying this without sounding like a ponce,” he finally says, and I cut him a look from the corner of my eye.

“Point taken, too late for that,” he mutters, then looks up at the sky for a second before saying, “Regular people love your sister. Think she’s down-to-earth, kind, smart . . .”

“She is all those things,” I say, folding my arms on top of the fence, glass dangling from one hand, and Miles nods. “Right. But these people”—he tilts his head, gesturing to the crowd behind us—“would rather see one of their own as the future queen.”

“Would you?” I ask, lifting my drink to take another sip, and he turns his head, surprised. When he’s not looking down his nose at everything, it’s easier to remember he’s kind of cute, or at least aesthetically appealing, what with the good bone structure and pretty eyes.

“I like Ellie,” he says, which I notice isn’t really an answer, but I let it go for now, turning my attention back to the track in front of us.

“So how did you end up a Royal Wrecker?” I ask. “Because, honestly, you don’t seem all that wreckish.”

“Is that a compliment?” he asks, and I shrug.

Taking a deep breath, Miles rests his arms on the top fence rail as well. “I met Seb at school. Gregorstoun.”

“That scary boarding school up north where Alex went. Ellie’s mentioned it. Isn’t it all up at six a.m. and freezing showers and gruel?”

Miles grimaces just a little, reaching up to push his hair back. “That’s the place. Scottish princes have gone there since the 1800s. And,” he adds, giving the lower fence rail a kick with the tip of his shoe, “the Montgomery sons as well.”

When I just raise my eyebrows, waiting for Miles to go on, he says, “We’re like Sherbet. Courtiers, really. Titled, usually a big house or three somewhere in the family, some of us rich, some of us skint. And we all have families that have been tangled up with the royal family for generations. Sherbet’s dad? Nearly married Alex and Seb’s mum. Her parents ended up sending her off to Paris to get her away from him, in the hopes that she’d fall for someone more suitable to be a prince consort. Which she did. Not sure Sherbet’s dad’s ever gotten over it. He was looking forward to that crown.”

I wrinkle my nose. “So what, he was more upset about not getting to be a prince than he was about not marrying the woman he loved?”

It’s Miles’s turn to snort. “Not sure if he did love her, to be honest. Love is never a big part of royal matches.”

The silence that falls between us is definitely of the awkward variety, and Miles frowns, puzzled, until he suddenly remembers who he’s talking to, I guess.

“Not anymore, though, of course. Alex is absolutely mad about Eleanor; anyone can see that.”

They can, actually, so I don’t think he’s just trying to kiss up, but still, it’s another reminder that this world Ellie is stepping into is completely different from anything we know. What kind of family doesn’t have their first real marriage for love until the twenty-first century?

Clearing his throat, Miles moves back from the fence. “So,” he says, “was that the sort of ‘tea’ you were hoping for?”

“It was lukewarm at best, but better than learning about the history of horse racing,” I reply, and there it is again, that little moment when I think Miles might actually smile.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he nods toward the royal box. “The race is about to start. We should head up.”

I know I can’t put it off any longer, so I nod, too, but I don’t take his arm this time, just trail behind him as we reach the stands. I can feel eyes on me the whole way, but I try to pretend I’m Ellie, sailing through it all without a care.

There are only a few steps up to the box, and I use them to take deep breaths, preparing myself to be the picture of respectability.

And come face-to-face with Big Bird Head herself, standing right by Alex and Ellie, both of whom are wearing the expressions I’ve only seen in pictures where they’re visiting hospitals and cemeteries.

Oh no.

Oh nononononono.

Ellie turns. “Daisy,” she says, giving me a tight smile. “May I present you to the Duchess of Argyll?” Her smile hardens. “Alex’s aunt.”