Her Royal Highness (Royals #2)(44)

“An ambassador,” she says, lifting her nose slightly. And then her regal bearing falls away into those surprisingly dorky giggles she’s prone to. “Anyway, should be a good time, and even if it’s not, it’s better than this place.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” I murmur in reply, and okay, no, now I’m seriously going to start my homework.

But then Flora says, “But I so enjoy when you argue with me.”

I look up, not so much at the words, but at the tone of her voice as she says them. It’s . . . soft. Fond.

Affectionate, maybe.

But “soft, fond, and affectionate” describes puppies, not Princess Flora of Scotland, and maybe one of these days, I’ll actually start remembering that.

So rather than smile back, I pick up my pen and say, “Well, don’t worry. You’ll have probably ten million more opportunities to do that in the future.”

“Could this weekend be one of them?”

I am just . . . never getting this homework done, I see that now.

“What?” I ask, eyebrows somewhere near my hairline, and Flora crosses her feet the other way.

“Come with me to Skye. You’ve never been, have you?”

I flick my pen at her, and she raises her hands to defend herself, laughing.

“Okay, stupid question.” Stewpid. Her accent really is the best.

“I’m just saying, you came to school here to see more of Scotland, but so far, all you’ve seen is, what? A few airports? A train station? And Dungregor, which is just too depressing to contemplate. So come with me and see Skye. You’ll love it.”

I chew on my lower lip, shooting a glance at my desk. It’s practically groaning under the weight of my books. I’m behind on my reading for history, haven’t even started on my English essay, and my calculus grade is probably slipping as we speak.

On her bed, Flora flops over to her stomach, pushing herself closer to the edge. “Skyyyyyyye, Quint,” she wheedles. “There will be so many rooooocccckkkks.”

That shocks a laugh out of me. “There are lots of rocks here, too.”

Flora’s grinning again, that mischievous one with the glint that always spells trouble. “But not magic rocks.”

“Now Skye has magic rocks?”

She reaches over to her side and pulls out her phone, tossing it to me. “Look at my wallpaper.”

I do. It’s a picture of Flora, but a younger Flora, maybe fourteen or so. She’s standing between her two brothers. Seb isn’t quite as Magazine Handsome as he is now, but the other guy, their older brother, Alex, is definitely chiseled. He’s blonder, like Flora, and all three of them are decked out in what was probably very pricey athletic gear. Flora’s cheeks are red, her smile broad as she looks at the camera, and behind them is this massive rock, jutting out of the ground and into the sky. All around them is a mix of green grass and stony rubble, and with the mist surrounding the three of them, they could be on another planet.

“That’s us at the Old Man of Storr a few years ago. On Skye.”

I know she’s trying to tempt me with the rock formation, but it’s Flora’s face I’m looking at when I hear myself say, “Okay. I’ll go.”





While not as headline-grabbing as the Scottish Royals, the Beauchamp family of Skye is still one of the more interesting clans in the country. Lord Henry and Lady Ellis are known for their gracious hospitality as well as their gorgeous home on the northern tip of Skye. After the restoration of the “Lord of the Isles” titles, the family occupy a space somewhere between the royals and the nobility, although Lady Ellis herself was born a princess in the English royal family.

Princess Flora is especially fond of the family, having been close to Lord Henry’s youngest granddaughter, Lady Tamsin Campbell, daughter of the Duke of Montrose. There were hopes of a match between the duke’s daughter and Princess Flora’s brother, Prince Sebastian, but they seem to have been scuttled last year, and Flora and Tamsin’s friendship was rumoured to be a casualty of the breakup.


(“Scotland’s Poshest Families,” from Prattle)





CHAPTER 24





“So do I need to bow to these people like I do your mom?”

Flora shakes her head, pulling out that little mirror with the pink glittery back to check her makeup. “No. Well, yes, sort of, not as deeply. A tiny curtsy will do, and Lord Henry is not all that formal anyway, if I’m honest.”

We’re in a black SUV, making our way north to Skye. Flora told me that up until the ’70s, the only way to get to Skye was on a boat. Now, thank god, there’s a bridge. Me and boats do not mix well.

Of course, there’s a chance me and this entire weekend won’t work, anyway. It’s not like I forget Flora is a princess when we’re at Gregorstoun—I couldn’t if I tried—but this is my first taste of the actual royal life. I’ve felt weird in Darcy’s house for years, and she’s just Regular Person Rich. Not this kind of fancy.

Sighing, Flora stashes the compact again and settles deeper into her seat. “You’re nervous.”

I hold up my thumb and forefinger. “Little bit,” I admit. “But I know I call Lord Henry ‘my lord,’ and Lady Ellis ‘Your Royal Highness,’ because she was born a princess and got to keep that title. And that there are different glasses for water and wine, and there will be a whole bunch of forks to use.”