Page 81 of The Unlikely Heir
I love learning new things, but I never expected to learn African history as I’m jolting along in a carriage pulled by four horses as part of the royal procession.
As we enter the racetrack, the band bursts into “God Save the Queen.”
Nicholas takes off his top hat, giving me a pointed look, and I scramble to follow suit. The crowds lining the raceway cheer loudly as we come past. Gran gives her usual regal wave.
I’ve never given much thought to the art of waving, but in my initial instructions from Raymond, I learned there is a royal standard on waving to avoid wrist issues. I don’t think I’ve completely nailed it, so I send a sideways look at Nicholas to see his technique, my face heating when he catches me. Shit. I feel like I’ve just been caught cheating on an exam.
We dismount the carriages, greet some dignitaries, and are ushered into the Royal Box.
The room is the epitome of class. Ivory tablecloths on large dining tables laden with delicate china and crystal glassware. A casual observer might just see the elegance of the setup, but my brain clocks how many things I could potentially break.
The hum of polite conversation fills the room, punctuated by the occasional tinkle of laughter.
Wide-open glass doors lead outside to seats overlooking the racecourse.
I abruptly stop when I see one of the guests moving forward to greet my grandmother.
Oliver. Here.
Oliver, in a top hat and dark suit, looking more handsome than I’ve ever seen him.
Who knew that a top hat was a magnifier of the attractiveness of the person wearing it?
My heart relocates to my throat.
“Your Majesty.” Oliver greets Gran with a bow.
“Welcome, Oliver. It’s so nice you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he says smoothly.
He greets Nicholas and Amelia with the same smooth smile before turning to me. For a second, his smooth smile falters, but then it returns.
“Your Royal Highness.” He nods his head and then offers his hand to shake.
My pounding heart only increases when I register Oliver’s smooth, warm hand in mine. I want to do something, give his hand a small squeeze, trail my fingertips along the inside of his wrist, just dosomethingto make this not a normal handshake. But my courage fails me.
As he drops my hand, I scramble for something to say, something to hold his attention.
“Did you know that the handshake evolved from an ancient custom of showing open hands to prove you don’t have a weapon?” I ask. Because, you know, reminding Oliver of my weirdness is a great way to make him want to talk to me again.
“I promise I’m not armed or dangerous,” Oliver replies.
That’s a pity. Because I’d really like to see what kind of weapon you’re packing.
I blush as the comment enters my mind. Luckily, my brain-to-mouth filter, which isn’t always the most reliable contraption in the world, mercifully holds up on this occasion.
“I invited Oliver because I know how much he likes his racing,” Gran says.
“I didn’t know that,” I say. Then my cheeks heat again because why would I know that? No one knows how well Oliver and I know each other.
Fortunately, Oliver doesn’t leave my comment hanging around for scrutiny for very long.
“My grandad’s best friend used to take me to the Walthamstow dog races. I’d hunt around all the discarded stubs of tickets because you could almost guarantee someone would have discarded a winning ticket. It was how I saved up for my first bicycle.”
Oliver’s telling the group the story, but his eyes linger on me.
I tuck this fact away in my internal Oliver file because it’s another small glimpse into what makes this man tick. I want to know all the Oliver facts. I want to collect them like you collect baseball cards, pore over them like they’re treasures to be savored.
