Her Royal Highness (Royals #2)(49)

I snort at that, glancing up the table to where Flora sits, having a fairly animated conversation with Lord Henry, who’s smiling at her, clearly charmed.

“I will be competing in the amateurs for the rest of time, I’m pretty sure,” I reply, and Nicola grins back at me, turning to her own sad, dead fish.

“I wish I could get back in the amateur division, believe me.”

There are multiple wineglasses around me, but I pick up the one that seems like water and take a cautious sip. Yes, water, okay, good. “How long are you staying here for?” I ask, then wave a hand to amend, “I mean in Scotland in general, not here at the castle.”

Nicola heaves out a sigh that ruffles her glossy bangs. “I leave after the wedding. Mum needs an extra hand, or, let’s be real, an extra pair of eyes.”

I raise my eyebrows at that, but Nicola just waves me off. “It’s boring shop talk. So you’re from Texas, right?”

We chat a little bit about back home—me about Houston, Nicola about San Diego—both of us agreeing that Scotland is gorgeous, but awfully cold for girls used to a sunnier locale. And before I know it, the plates are being cleared, and I’ve done it—survived my first royal dinner.

From there, we move into the ballroom just off the main dining room, and as a string quartet starts up, my stomach sinks. I’d been relieved to get through dinner unscathed, but dancing, too?

I watch the couples moving across the ballroom floor. Lord Henry and Lady Ellis are elegant, and even Nicola acquits herself well, dancing with Sherbet.

And then I scan the people gathered at the edges of the ballroom, looking for a girl who might be Tamsin. I’m not sure why I feel this deep need to see Flora’s ex, but I do. Maybe I’m just curious as to what kind of girl could dump Flora. Is she a goddess, too?

I keep looking. The tall brunette in purple? Maybe her? Or—

I feel an elbow at my side, and turn to see Flora smiling at me. “Well?” she asks. “Are you ready to take a turn around the room? There are several blokes looking for a partner, it seems like.”

There are a few guys hanging back, but the idea of trying to dance has me shaking my head and nearly backing up into a potted plant. “Oh, no, I don’t . . .”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t dance,” I finish, feeling sweaty and a little sick at the very thought. “I’m, like, catastrophically bad at it.”

A glint comes into Flora’s eye, and I know I’m in trouble.

Then her hand lands in mine. “We’ll just have to remedy that, then, won’t we?”





CHAPTER 27





Flora doesn’t drop my hand as she leads me down one hallway, then another. We pass tall windows that look out onto the gardens, but I can’t see anything except our own reflections, and I’m struck by how wide-eyed I look, and how very un-me I am in my dress. But maybe this is me? Just another version of me I didn’t know was in there.



We come to a pair of glass doors with ornate golden handles, and Flora tugs at one, opening the door. A wave of warm air and the smell of green, growing things washes over me.

“What is this?” I ask, and she pulls me into the room, shutting the door firmly behind us.

“An orangery,” she replies, and I glance over at her. She’s dropped my hand by now, and I chafe my palms up and down my bare arms, even though I’m definitely not cold. In fact, if we stay in here much longer, I might start sweating.

“I like when you say things like that as though they’re actually words,” I tell her, and Flora laughs, walking over to a nearby potted tree that, yes, has a few oranges on it.

“An orangery,” she says, placing one gloved hand under the fruit and modeling it like she’s a game show hostess. “Those of us from colder climes had to have special places to grow certain things, and oranges were once considered a luxury item.”

“Ahhhh,” I say, walking over to another tree. “So if you were really, really fancy, you had a special room in your house just for growing oranges.”

Flora inclines her head with a gracious nod. “Ergo,” she starts, and we both finish with, “an orangery.”

I laugh a little, shaking my head, and wander deeper into the room, which is all glass walls and potted orange trees. The floor under my feet isn’t the usual flagstone and marble I’ve seen in the castle, but a cream-colored tile, and in the center, there’s a mosaic of a giant orange with a few white blossoms attached. Overhead, the ceiling is painted to look like a bright blue Mediterranean sky.

“This is a very weird room to have all the way up here in the wilds of Skye,” I murmur.

Suddenly I realize Flora is right next to me, her own head back to study the ceiling, and I don’t know if it’s all the plants or her perfume, but something smells sweet and delicate.

“Lady Ellis had it built when she moved up here,” Flora says, still studying the ceiling. “When I was a little girl, and we played hide-and-seek, I always hid in here.”

I look over at her, my arms still folded tight across my middle. It’s dim in this warm, scented room, the only light coming from sconces placed at intervals around the hexagonal room, and it strikes me that this is kind of . . . romantic.

Clearing my throat (and tearing my eyes away from Flora’s sharp jaw), I look back at the ceiling.