Page 49 of The Thing About My Prince
More people kick off shoes, take off coats, and trot to the edge of the bog.
“Get set?—”
There are a few whoops and hollers.
“Go!” he declares with a dramatic swoop of his cloak.
I get to my feet to join in the clapping for those wading into the mud and the others hurtling toward it.
Some of the spectators give me a hard glare. Others mutter, nudge each other, and tip their heads toward me. And did a woman over there roll her eyes?
What have I done wrong now?
“Too good for it,” I catch one non-whispering person say.
“American,”another mutters, with a disapproving curl of their mouth.
Is this my first micro-taste of what it must be like for Oliver? To be judged by people who’ve never met you. And to have to try to not give a damn.
If this is what it’s like in my one brief venture into the world associated with him, then I can totally see how a lifetime of it would make you want to write a book to share your side of the story.
And if I’ve heard a couple of comments about me, it must mean there are many others I haven’t.
Screw this. I’m not having them think Oliver’s dating some stuck-up Yank who’s afraid of some wet dirt.
So maybe it’s their judgment that compels me, or maybe I’m overcome by the fresh air and being surrounded by the pure innocent joy of the event—both of which are in short supply in New York—that makes this whole bonkers scenario totally infectious, or maybe I’m convincing myself it’ll be good research for the book, but I find myself standing up and kicking off Sofia’s wellies.
Also, screw Giles and his whole thing about it beingunbecomingto get into the mud. That prick wouldn’t be able to spot a fun time even if it ran up his kilt and bit him on the protocols.
I’m pulling off my second boot when there’s a large and heavy hand on my shoulder.
“I can’t allow that, ma’am,” Dane says.
“I believe I’m allowed to do whatever I like,” I reply.
“Oliver wouldn’t approve,” he says.
“I’m pretty sure that Oliver would very much approve of me doing whatever the hell I want. Particularly if it’s in the face of an authority telling me not to do it.”
I take off Sofia’s Barbour—a dark green waxed jacket that makes me feel like a very posh outdoorsy British person—and leave it on my chair. “So I’m going to see if I can find the hairy coo.”
Which I assume means cow but, at this point of the madness, who the hell knows. Perhaps Fergus’s giggles were a suggestion that it is, in fact, a euphemism for lady bits and I’m heading off to hunt for a muddy knitted vulva.
“Yay,” Moira cries next to me.
“And we have a member, or almost-member, of the royal household joinin’ in,” Bogmeister says into the microphone.
Anyone who hadn’t spotted me before certainly has now.
I pick my way through the crowd, my socks and the bottoms of my jeans already wet, cold, and muddy.
When I get to the edge of the bog, I pause for a second, taking in the laughter and fun that those who’re already up to their knees in the goop are having. Most are bent at the waist, feeling their way around in the murky water.
A little way along, all by himself, is the kid who’d asked if I was famous.
Stepping carefully in, I gasp as soon as my feet hit the cold sludgy bottom. The mud seeping through my jeans isn’t exactly the most pleasant sensation I’ve ever experienced, but it is somehow freeing and nothing I’d ever contemplate doing back in New York.
Wading toward the boy feels like…well, exactly like I’d imagine wading through thick, cold, muddy water would feel.
