The Controversial Princess (Smoke & Mirrors Duet #1)(10)
I, however, do not.
“Thank you.” I act as graciously as I can muster, which is so very hard. This poor man refuses to give up hope, the backing and encouragement of our fathers keeping him annoyingly optimistic.
“Here, let me hold your purse.” Haydon takes it from my grasp before I can protest. “Can I get you anything? A drink? Something to eat?”
“I’m fine, Haydon.” I strain another smile, once again catching the eye of Josh Jameson, who is looking over with interest as Haydon fusses over me. Josh extends his arm and looks down at the watch decorating his wrist, and then back up at me as he taps the face.
I breathe in, being attacked by tingles of the most wonderful kind, cocking my head in silent acknowledgment. He then starts clenching and unclenching his fist, smiling a devilish smile. Good Lord, the man is sex on legs. I clear my throat and return my attention to Haydon, ready to thank him for coming, but I’m stopped in my tracks by a small, leather box held out to me in the center of his palm. Unconsciously, I step back, wary. The box is small. Like engagement ring size small, and though it might sound preposterous, given that I haven’t even kissed him or agreed to go on a date with him, I would not put a proposal past Haydon. I bet my father put him up to this. After all, I’m thirty today. My eligibility lessens with every year that passes and each year I refuse to play royal ball.
“I hope you love it,” Haydon says, hopeful and smiley. I feel so sorry for him. He has been hanging on forever for me to finally see supposed sense. To me, the King and Haydon’s father are plain cruel, making him endure rejection for all these years. He is a wonderful man, he really is, and there are queues of women out there who would eagerly seize a ring from him and prance down the aisle to declare their undying love before God. But I am not one of them. I wasn’t when I was sixteen, and I’m even less so now. And deep down, I know Haydon knows that. I’ve told him in the nicest possible way on a few occasions over the years, have even tried to encourage him to date the women who have shown an interest. He’s too blindsided.
“Haydon, I—”
“It’s not what you think it is.” He cuts me off quickly but shyly. “Though . . . one day . . .”
I smile and graciously accept the box, despite my instincts telling me not to build up his hopes. I am aware that our fathers are watching. I don’t want to cause a scene, or embarrass him. Opening it up, I am confronted with an antique ring. I look at him, confused.
“It’s a friendship ring. One I hope will eventually be replaced with a ring that represents my love.”
I shrink, feeling the walls of suppression closing me in from all directions. Forcing myself not to scowl at Matilda when she sighs dreamily drains what remaining energy I have left, leaving me with no fight to stop Haydon from removing the ring from the box and sliding it onto the middle finger of my left hand. I can barely look at the ring without showing my displeasure, and Haydon does not deserve that kind of disrespect. Oh, Haydon. He hears me, but he doesn’t listen to me. Other voices are louder than mine. I take a moment to find the poise expected of me and raise my eyes toward the many people watching. And, of course, my father’s face is awash with satisfaction. I could happily slap it off. “It really is beautiful,” I murmur, searching out a footman for more champagne. “Thank you, Haydon.”
“Always welcome.” He snaps the box shut and slips it into his jacket pocket as I reach for another flute of my savior. It has never escaped my notice that my father’s footmen are always lingering close by with the goods to save them the constant back and forth delivery of my medicine of choice.
“And now time for His Majesty to make a fuss of you,” Haydon says, making my glass pause midway to my red lips. Make a fuss of me? Or berate me? I look across to the King, seeing Major Davenport talking closely in my father’s ear. The King nods sharply, and then focuses his full attention on me, motioning for me to go to him, which, of course, I do. Because he is the King.
“Happy birthday, Adeline,” my father says sincerely, swooping his arm out toward the path that leads to the front courtyard.
I gasp, my palm meeting the black satin that’s half concealing my chest. “Father?” I question, watching as Sabina, the royal stable manager, walks a black stallion through the crowds of people.
“He’s a champion,” Father declares proudly, guiding me to the beautiful beast. “He comes from one of the most dominant sire lines in thoroughbred history.”
“He’s beautiful.” I run my palm down the glossy coat of his neck as he stands, still and obedient. “And he’s mine?”
“All yours, my darling girl.”
To say I am overwhelmed would be the biggest understatement in royal history. I’ve always kept horses; they’re my only true passion, but the King has always deemed it inappropriate for me to dabble in the world of racing. And this is a racehorse. What on earth has changed? “And I can race him?” I ask tentatively.
“When he’s ready, you can race him. He will need vigorous training to get him to champion level.” The King gives my birthday present a solid smack on his neck. “We’ll have your racing colors officiated as soon as you decide what they should be.”
“I don’t know what to say.” This is a monumental gesture by my father. “What is he called?”