Page 60 of Royals
Dad goes back inside, and I smile as I watch him go. I’ve missed having my parents around, which is a sentiment that might get me kicked out of teendom, but it’s the truth. No matter how embarrassing my dad might be, how distracted my mom always is, they love us. They’re easy to be around, and they’ve only ever wanted us to be healthy and happy. In that way, we’re a lot luckier than the royals.
Sighing, I turn back to the balcony. It’s still not dark—it won’t be until nearly 11 p.m.—but the light is so pretty, all soft and golden, edged in lavender, and the nearby hills are dark green against the sky. It’s also chilly, enough that I wish I’d brought a wrap or something.
“There you are,” I hear, and I turn around to see Miles coming out of the patio doors toward me, and he’s just... it’s very...
“Wow,” I finally say.
He is indeed wearing a kilt, but I don’t much feel like making fun of it. It’s the same tartan as my dress, the purple and green and black, and he’s wearing it with a matching bow tie, a white shirt, and a gorgeous black jacket. Even those socks the men wear with their kilts don’t look silly on him, and when I glance down, I notice—
“Is that a knife?” I ask, gesturing to the leather hilt in the cuff of his sock, and Miles looks down.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, it’s part of the whole look. It’s called asgian-dubh, and it’s—”
I hold up a hand. “No. No history tonight,” I tell him, and to my surprise, he grins, a dimple flashing in his cheek. His curly hair has been tamed tonight, but it still curls around his earlobes, and he looks... nice.
Better than nice, but I’m not quite willing to admit that right now.
“No history,” he agrees, and then holds out his hand. “But how about dancing?”
Chapter 27
The ballroom is crowded when we walk in, my hand tucked into the crook of Miles’s arm, and for a moment, I stare at all the whirling skirts.
“That is just... so much plaid,” I mutter, and Miles does that huffing sound that, for him, almost passes for a laugh.
“How do you not get migraines looking at so many clashing patterns all the time?” I ask him. There’s an older lady glittering with emeralds, her skirt a riot of bright orange, green, and black, and she’s standing right next to a woman decked out in diamonds and a yellow-and-blue tartan dress. And that’s not even taking into account the kilts on every guy.
“Guess we’re used to it,” Miles replies.
Then he steps back a little bit, looking down at my dress. I remember the way Seb had looked at me in my bedroom, his eyes sliding from the top of my head to my toes, and how that had made me want to pull a blanket over my head.
Miles’s gaze doesn’t do that, which makes absolutely nosense. But maybe it’s that he’s looking at me sort of... admiringly as opposed to just assessing.
“The plaid suits you,” he finally says, and I squint at the two spots of color high up on his cheekbones.
“Are you complimenting me?” I ask, and I think those pink patches grow a little bit, which is funny because that implies Miles’s blood is notactuallyblue, but red, just like us commoners.
“It’s called manners,” he says, and then shakes his head, leading me farther into the ballroom but not quite to the dance floor yet.
I’m fine with that, as the current dance is some kind of folk deal involving people standing in a line, switching partners, swinging... it all looks a little dangerous to me, but I spot Ellie in the crowd, her golden hair bright and a smile on her face as she switches from Alex to Seb, her skirt billowing as she twirls.
I’m still smiling at El when I glance up and my eyes meet the queen’s.
She’s standing on the other side of the ballroom, talking to some ancient-looking man in the same bright red tartan the queen is wearing, but she’s looking at me, and, seeing my arm in Miles’s, she nods slightly and purses her lips in what I think is meant to be approval.
Out on the dance floor, Ellie swings back to someone else, a tall man I’ve never seen before, and Seb takes Tamsin’s hands. He’s grinning down at her, and she smiles back, her dark hair flying as he spins her into the next part of the dance, but she keeps looking around, her gaze sliding to the edge of the dance floor.
“Do you know her very well?” I ask Miles, pressing closer to speak into his ear. “Lady Tamsin?”
Miles has been clapping along with the rhythm of the music like most of the other people watching the dancers, and he pauses, his hands still pressed together. He has pretty hands, long-fingered and elegant, probably perfect for pointing imperiously at things.
“Not really,” he says, “but the queen has been set on her and Seb for ages.”
“Why?” I ask, and he gives another one of those shrugs.
“The Duke of Montrose is one of the richest men in Scotland, so maybe that. They also have a really excellent hunting lodge not far from here, and the queen does like her stag hunting.”
Twisting around, I stare at him. “So in this, the year of our lord 2018, she’d marry off her son to get access tohunting grounds?”
