Royals (Royals #1)(21)
“Oh, just that if the king or queen were visiting your house, they might see something they wanted, and they’d take it. So it behooved hosts to fill their house with extra knickknacks or objets d’art, so they could give away something less valuable or sentimental.”
I try to imagine someone visiting my house and just . . . taking whatever they wanted.
“But what if you didn’t want them to have it? What if they didn’t fall for the extra junk and wanted, like, a book your dead grandmother gave you?”
Sherbet shrugs. “Then you gave it to them,” he says. “They’re royal.”
Like that explains everything. And heck, for these types of people, maybe it does. Seb did just try to commandeer someone’s farm, after all.
“I hope you enjoy your stay here, Daisy,” Sherbet goes on. “I know today was a bit mad, but tomorrow is the race, and that should be a good deal calmer.”
Oh, right. The race, aka An Reis, a fancy, Ascot-like thing we’ll be attending that’s probably in that folder Glynnis prepared for me. I know nothing about horses or races, but how hard can it be?
We make our way farther down the hall until Sherbet stops at a door and opens it with a flourish, giving a little bow. “If anything is not to your satisfaction, please let me know,” he says, and then he’s off down the hall, back toward the stairs and, I’m sure, more drinks.
The room is smaller than I’d expected, but maybe that’s just because the bed is so massive, it takes up most of the space. It’s covered in a floral bedspread, and there’s a tiny canopy that I like, but other than that, it mostly feels . . . weird. Other than my bag—resting on an ancient-looking luggage rack at the foot of the bed—it’s all deeply unfamiliar and even a little unwelcoming. The walls are stone, and while there are two windows looking out toward the stream that cuts across the property, the glass is so warped and distorted that it makes it seem like I’m looking outside through water.
It’s also cold in the room, and while there’s a radiator under the window, no matter how I twist and pull at the knobs, nothing seems to happen.
Defeated, I flop down on the bed, pull the musty-smelling bedspread up around me, and am asleep in minutes.
* * *
? ? ?
When I wake, it’s dark outside, which means it’s late. Really late. Past ten, at least, and I sit up, groggy. I’d fallen asleep in my dress and cardigan, both of which are now hopelessly wrinkled, and hopelessly ineffective against the chill in the room.
I’ve probably missed dinner, but even the rumbling in my stomach doesn’t make me want to face what’s downstairs, so instead, I open my bag and start pulling out clothes. I settle on a pair of pajama pants (plaid, very fitting), a tank top, an old long-sleeved T-shirt on top of that, a sweater, and, for extra measure, a scarf wrapped around my head. Even in all those layers, though, I’m still not warm.
Shivering, I rub my upper arms. How the heck is this place so cold in June? Back home, we were running the air conditioner nonstop by this point. It’s not like I’d expected Scotland to be balmy or anything, but when we’d been here before, it was in the fall and winter. I expected cold then, but this was ridiculous.
I go back to the radiator lurking under the nearest window, but twisting the knob on the bottom only results in a bunch of loud thumps and a rushing-water sound that is, to be honest, pretty freaking alarming.
I twist the knob again and the noises stop, but the room is still freezing, and with a sigh, I get back in the bed, being sure to pull out the folder Glynnis put together for me as I do.
Settling against the lumpy mattress, I decide that if I’m not going to go downstairs tonight, at least I can get prepared for tomorrow.
I page through the folder, and despite the fact that I’m about to die from frostbite, I can’t help but grin and shake my head. No wonder El likes this Glynnis lady so much. This packet of material with its fancy font and little clip art of crowns is definitely Ellie’s style. No one has ever excelled at organization quite like my sister.
Glynnis has broken her guide down into sections, and while I’m tempted to skip to the part marked “Royal Residences,” I figure the bit I need most is “Aristocracy: Titles and Honorifics.”
Sherbet—sorry, Sherbourne—is the son of a duke, the first son, which means that if I’m talking to him, I need to say, “Lord Sherbourne” or “my lord,” but if I was writing to him, I’d say, “My Lord Marquess.” Also, I learn that a marquess is pretty high up on the list of fancy people, and that dukes are the fanciest people besides actual royalty, although some dukes are also royalty, like how Alexander is Prince of the Scots while also being the Duke of Rothesay, which, if you ask me, is a little greedy. No need to go snatching up all the—
There’s a knock on my door, and I look up, startled. Then I remember about the heating and wonder if someone heard me banging on the radiator. Or even better, maybe someone is bringing me food.
Scrambling off the bed, I don’t even bother throwing anything on over my pajamas since I’m wearing two layers and have a scarf wrapped around my head.
I fling open the door, hoping it’ll be Ellie with a tray, being all sisterly and good-hearted.
It is very much not Ellie.
Standing in my doorway, dressed in dark pants and a white button-down, jacket thrown over his shoulder like he’s about to walk down a runway, is Prince Sebastian.