Royals (Royals #1)(28)

“Soooo,” I start, and Ellie immediately spins away from the mirror, blue eyes wide.

“Oh god, what happened?” she asks, and I hold up both hands.

“How did you know I was going to tell you that something happened? Maybe I was just about to lead into how pretty that shade of pink looks on you. Because it does, by the way, look really nice with your skin tone, and—”

Now it’s Ellie’s turn to hold up her hands. “Daisy . . .” she says. “No. I have been your sister for your entire life, and whenever you start with the ‘soooo’ thing, it’s usually followed by ‘I did something catastrophic.’”

Okay, that’s just offensive, both that she knows my tells while hers are getting harder and harder to read, and that she thinks I do catastrophic things. Catastrophic things happen to me, but it’s not like I’m the cause. Last night was totally a case in point.

“Technically, the catastrophe was Seb’s,” I say now, and that pretty pink blush Ellie had been rocking thanks to her outfit drains right out of her face.

“Seb,” she repeats flatly, and I launch into the sordid tale of “Seb Drunk in My Bedroom,” hoping if I tell it quickly enough and with enough of a blasé attitude, she won’t freak out.

“Anyway,” I sum up, “then that Henry Higgins guy showed up and got him, and my brush with debauched royalty was over.”

Ellie’s perfect brow creases. “Henry Higgins?”

Sighing, I lean against the bedpost, crossing one foot in front of the other. “Honestly, El, we were just talking about My Fair Lady. That snooty dude. Miles.”

I don’t get into the part where he implied I was trying to trap Seb with my wily American girly parts and how I called him a snob before getting lost and learning about knife paintings. Or painting knives? And the whole confetti bowl thing. Does El know about confetti bowls? I’m just about to ask her when she shakes her head, sighing.

“Talk about baptism by fire,” she says, and I nod.

“I can see the tabloids now. Pics of Seb on my floor, me in all my pajamas, headlines like ‘Sleeping Beauty’ . . .”

El makes a noise that would be a snort if soon-to-be princesses did that sort of thing. Then she frowns, tilting her head at me. “All of your pajamas?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “You don’t want to know.”

There’s a discreet knock at the door—Glynnis, letting us know it’s time to head downstairs—and after giving myself a last look in the mirror, I tug at my tentacles and start following Ellie out of the room.

But before we open the door, she turns to me, one gloved hand resting on my arm. “You’re going to be fine,” she tells me, and then she delivers it: the patented Ellie Winters, soon to be Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Rothesay Smile.

In other words, the fakest smile known to man.

And suddenly, I’m thinking that wearing a monster on my head might not be my biggest problem today.





Chapter 14


The racetrack isn’t far from Sherbourne Castle, so I haven’t managed to get over my severe case of tummy butterflies by the time we arrive.

“You know,” I say to El as we get out of the car, “I don’t even like horses that much. What if they sense that and feel disrespected?”

Ellie stops, turning to look at me. There are two men in dark suits on either side of us, not David and Malcolm, the bodyguards I’m used to, but they have that same air of being more statues than people. They’re certainly working hard at both staying close to me and Ellie and ignoring everything we’re saying.

Impressive.

“It’s just a race,” she says, and I can see the reflection of my stupid hat in her expensive sunglasses. “And there are enough people here that we shouldn’t steal the focus.”

“From the horses or the other people here?” I ask, and Ellie grimaces.

“Daisy—”

“Is this the part where you tell me just to relax and be myself?”

Turning to me, Ellie fidgets with the lace on her hat. “Relax, yes,” she says. “Definitely don’t be yourself, though. Just . . .” She steps closer, laying one gloved hand on my arm. “I’m serious, Daisy. I know you come by that ability to say whatever comes into your head naturally, but remember you’re not Dad.”

I want to scoff at that, but she has a point.

A point she’s going to keep making, apparently. “Just smile, be polite, and don’t try to make jokes, okay?”

She gives my arm a squeeze, and as she turns to walk away, I fight the urge to call after her, “Thanks for the pep talk!”

Instead, I just follow, my knees shaky and my face kind of numb. This is the first time I’ll really be out among these people, and it’s like I’m seeing every tabloid cover, every headline that’s featured Ellie over the past year, and suddenly imagining my face, my name in them. The few brushes with that life I’ve had have been more than enough.

But Ellie is right—as we make our way from the car to the actual track, there’s no deluge of photographers or people shouting Ellie’s name. There’s just . . . a lot of posh people.

And I mean a lot.

This may still be the most horrible hat in all of creation, but at least I blend in. I’ve never seen such an assortment of headgear. There’s one girl wearing a concoction of blue, red, and green feathers on her head that makes me wonder if a parrot crash-landed in her hair. I turn and see another girl with long dark hair and a truly gorgeous black-and-white suit rocking a pink hat with so many frills and furls that it looks like something out of an anatomy textbook.