Royals (Royals #1)(31)

“So,” she says, her mouth curling around the word, “you’re the latest American invader? How unfortunate.”

I’d thought Miles was snobby, but this woman is next level. She looks at me like I’m something unpleasant she just stepped in, and I know that I should let it go, that I should smile politely and murmur something bland.

But I’m not Liam Winters’s daughter for nothing.

“Yup!” I say brightly. “Here to throw your tea in the harbor and marry up all your princes.”

Her lips purse even tighter, and I think she’d narrow her eyes at me if her face could actually move from the nose up. “Charming,” she says in a way that lets me know she finds me anything but. “And here I thought your sister was the worst embarrassment to happen to the Baird family in quite some time.”

My temper flames higher. I can admit that I’m not cut out for this thing, but Ellie? Ellie has been nothing but perfect as far as I can tell, and I’m not letting this slide.

“Your hat is lovely,” I tell the woman, giving her my sweetest smile. “I’m sure Big Bird’s sacrifice was worth it.”

I hear the soft murmuring of voices around us. A couple of gasps, some smothered chuckles, and a bunch of whispering. For the first time, I remember there are a lot of people around, and I mentally kick myself. This is clearly why I can’t be trusted around fancy types, because I have never been able to hold my tongue.

Just like Ellie said.

The woman just lifts her chin a fraction of an inch higher and swans off, practically leaving a trail of ice crystals in her wake.

“Here you go.”

Miles has returned, a drink in each hand. They’re filled to the brim with iced tea, pieces of fruit, and, I think, even cucumber jumbled up with the ice. He’s scanning the crowd, a little crease between his brows. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

“Someone was rude to me, so I caused an international incident,” I reply before taking the sweating glass from him gratefully.

And then I promptly choke.

Whatever is in the glass, it is not iced tea. It’s sweet and bitter all at once with some kind of medicinal flavor happening. It’s not that strong, whatever it is, but for someone who’s only ever had half a lukewarm beer, it’s way too much, and my eyes water as Miles looks at me, his eyes wide.

“What,” I manage to gasp out, thrusting the glass back at him, “is that?”

He takes the glass, nearly dropping both drinks in his haste, and now people are definitely watching us, probably because I look like I’m dying.

“Pimm’s Cup,” he tells me, and I wave my hands, indicating that he needs to keep going with that explanation.

When he just continues to stare at me blankly, I roll my eyes and say, “I have no idea what that is.”

You would think I just told him I’d never seen a dog or the color red or something. He seems that incredulous. “It’s a drink. Popular here in the summer, always at the races or regattas.”

I can breathe again now, and I dab at my watery eyes with one gloved finger, hoping I haven’t smeared my mascara beyond repair. “And what’s in it?”

“A lot of things.”

I look up at Miles, waiting, and he clears his throat. “Mostly gin.”

“Lovely.”

We stand there for a moment, and then Miles takes both glasses back into the tent. When he comes out again, this time he’s holding a goblet filled with ice and sparkling water. “Better?” he asks, handing it to me, and I nod.

“Thanks.”

For a second, there’s an awkward silence, and finally I clear my throat, turning the sweaty glass of water in my hands. “Now that we’ve gotten my attempted poisoning out of the way, spill the tea.”

Miles is still watching me with a slight frown, hair curling over his forehead, hands shoved in his pockets. “Spill . . . tea . . . ,” he says slowly, and I roll my eyes.

“Tell me why everyone is all sneery. I thought people here loved El.”

Understanding dawns on Miles’s face, and he rocks back on his heels a little. “Ah. Well.” He glances around us, and I notice the top hat he was holding seems to have disappeared. I hope it’s gone for good, because honestly, no one should be forced to wear that thing. “Let’s walk a bit, shall we?” he says, offering me his elbow again. I take it, and he leads me away from all the people, nearly to the fences lining the racetrack.

A cloud moves over the sun briefly, the light shifting, and Miles puts one shiny shoe up on the lower rail of the fence. “I’m trying to think of a way of saying this without sounding like a ponce,” he finally says, and I cut him a look from the corner of my eye.

“Point taken, too late for that,” he mutters, then looks up at the sky for a second before saying, “Regular people love your sister. Think she’s down-to-earth, kind, smart . . .”

“She is all those things,” I say, folding my arms on top of the fence, glass dangling from one hand, and Miles nods. “Right. But these people”—he tilts his head, gesturing to the crowd behind us—“would rather see one of their own as the future queen.”

“Would you?” I ask, lifting my drink to take another sip, and he turns his head, surprised. When he’s not looking down his nose at everything, it’s easier to remember he’s kind of cute, or at least aesthetically appealing, what with the good bone structure and pretty eyes.