The Controversial Princess (The Smoke & Mirrors Duology #1)(82)
“Oh, are you unwell? Would you like me to call Dr. Goodridge?” Now Haydon looks genuinely concerned, and I brace myself for the fuss I’m about to endure. His palm lands on my forehead, his eyes scanning my face. “You do feel a little hot.”
That would be my blood burning with rage. I take his hand and pull it away. “I’ll be fine.” Time to change the subject. “How is Sabina?” I ask, letting my true concern for his grandmother show. I know she lost her husband, but she hasn’t been herself lately, and those conversations I overheard are leading me to believe there is more to it.
Haydon’s soft expression adopts a sharp edge. “She would be better if my father would display a little grief and sensitivity.”
The spite in his tone, as well as his words, makes me recall David’s lack of reaction when I heard the news in my father’s office. Having just lost his father, you would think the trivial issues of my antics would not be top of his priority list, yet there he was, joining in on the Adeline Slamming Party. “Maybe he is in denial.” It’s the only explanation I can think of. “People express their grief in very different ways.” But then again, I also remember the strong words he and his mother were having when I saw them at the stables.
“Well, I wouldn’t know how he’s displaying his guilt right now because we haven’t seen him for days.”
“Oh, where is he?”
“We don’t know.”
I reflect on the other morning and my brief breakfast with John, Eddie, and my father. Davenport couldn’t get hold of David. “I’m sure he has taken a timeout,” I suggest, though he doesn’t seem concerned, more irritated.
“That’s what I’ve told Grandmother.”
My hand reaches for his arm in an instinctive display of comfort and gives it a little rub. “Probably just trying to come to terms with it.”
Haydon nods, a flicker of something passing through his eyes that I know I am not mistaking as hope. His hand rests on mine. His illusion that my display of compassion is anything more has me pulling away. “Have a lovely afternoon, Haydon,” I say, turning on my sandals and heading back to the crowds.
“We’ll stomp some divots together,” he calls, the hope in his tone matching that of what I saw in his eyes.
I force a smile over my shoulder. “Sure.” What can I say? No? That would be cruel when he’s having family troubles. Yet it is also cruel to give him hope when there is none. Not for Haydon and me, anyway. And now not for Josh and me, either. The resentment that has been missing for the past few minutes while being distracted by Haydon returns full force, the images of a trashed suite at The Dorchester spinning like a camera reel through my mind. And the word women punches at my nerves repeatedly. There were several pairs of lacy knickers on that bedroom floor.
I look at the bottle of champagne in my grasp, seeing it as my only form of escape from the agonizing let-down. Yet I wonder what I expected from him. A fairy-tale romance? The man warned me that he gets bored easily. I laugh curtly and swig from the bottle as I round the corner, but it’s swiped from my curled lip.
Damon tosses it in a nearby bin. “Don’t show yourself up on his account,” he says quietly, not looking at me. “Head high before that fucking crown falls off.” He’s speaking hypothetically, of course, but I appreciate the meaning and the gesture.
He’s right, as usual. I don’t need Josh to help me fall from grace. According to my father’s condescending aides, I plummeted from my pedestal long ago. “Thank you, Damon.”
“Don’t thank me, ma’am. Just do as I damn well say.”
I smile as I nudge him in the shoulder, feeling like I hit a brick wall. He doesn’t budge, but his lip quirks at one corner. “Am I allowed to drink at all?”
“In moderation. You’ve had a whole bottle in the thirty minutes since you arrived, so may I suggest orange juice for a while?”
“You may.” Only a few seconds with my level-headed bodyguard is making me see sense. “Damon?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Very good, ma’am,” he says, simple as that.
“I’ll be off to get some orange juice.”
“I’ll be here if you need me.” He widens his stance and gets comfortable, ready for a long day of watching polo. Or watching me.
Collecting an orange juice, I go to find Matilda and curse her to death in my head when I locate her with every direct female member of my family, all gathered in a cozy little circle. God, they’re all here. I’m welcomed into the group by the usual glares of condemnation from the lovely Helen, as well as Matilda’s mother, my delightful Aunt Victoria. But my mother, as always, regards me with warm eyes full of love, oblivious to the other’s display of disdain for me. Or ignoring it. As much as I wish she had more backbone and would openly support me, I’m glad her indifference isn’t because of disgust.
“Orange juice?” Helen questions, shocked by the non-alcoholic drink gracing my hand. “Did you get ill?” She chuckles, Aunt Victoria joining in. Matilda smirks at me, and Mother remains in her usual state of Switzerland, ever the placid one.
“Ha ha,” I screech, folding at the belly in an over-the-top bout of feigned laughter. “Yar yar, very good, yar?” Both Helen and Aunt Victoria pipe down quickly, shocked, and Mother astounds me with a mild smirk. Matilda, however, dares not express a hint of amusement and risk the sting of her mother’s tail, though I can see my cousin has a fight on her hands to stop her face splitting with a smile. I sniff and sip my orange juice. “John said it is you who has been ill, in fact,” I say, indicating to Helen’s stomach. “Morning sickness sounds utterly miserable.”