“Please.”
“Around the back of the tent. Stay close to the ice buckets. It’s out of view.”
“Thank you, Damon.” I’m aware Matilda is hot on my heels after my silly little rant, wanting to nail me down and squeeze all of my sins out of me, but Damon intercepts her. I need to be on my own for a few moments to calm down and talk some sense into myself.
Locating the ice buckets, I sit on a champagne crate next to them and light a cigarette, pulling in the longest draw. “You are a first-class idiot, Adeline,” I say on an exhaled plume of smoke. I let my guard crumble for the first time in my life and look what happens. I’m hurting in places I never thought I could hurt. I’ve been strung along, and I feel utterly humiliated. And angry. So very, very angry. And I’m angry for being angry. I shouldn’t care.
A cough sounds from behind me. It’s an over-the-top cough, a cough to suggest that my little vice is killing someone in close proximity. I’m about to turn around and tell whoever is invading my quiet time to find somewhere else to choke, but they speak before I can send them on their way.
“You told me you had given up.” Haydon rounds me, and I look at him looming over me, feeling like a naughty child caught misbehaving. “Now, now, Adeline, you know it is bad for you.” He reaches down and plucks the half-smoked cigarette from my fingers, looking at it in disgust.
“Maybe I like things that are bad for me, Haydon,” I mutter indignantly as I push myself up off the champagne crate and collect a whole bottle, working the foil. “Are you not playing today?” He’s wearing linen trousers and a dress shirt, no polo kit in sight.
“I thought it bad taste given my grandfather’s passing.”
“Oh, Haydon. Yes, of course. I’m so sorry for being so insensitive.” Now I feel terrible for him. Shit.
“We have a special guest playing. I volunteered to sit out.”
“Oh, the Argentine.” I pop the cork and catch the overflow with my mouth. Maybe I will devote a little attention to Mr. Garcia, if Matilda hasn’t pounced already, which I highly doubt. The woman dilly-dallies somewhat awful when it comes to men. “I hear he is a bit of a polo whizz.” I hold the bottle up on a smirk before tipping it to my mouth and swigging as much as I can before having to come up for air.
“Whatever has gotten into you, Adeline?” Haydon asks, obviously disgusted by my behavior.
I huff on a sarcastic laugh. “An American,” I whisper under my breath, tipping the bottle to my mouth again, somewhat determined to wash away my hurt with alcohol.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing,” I sigh, forcing my face into something resembling a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling myself today.” That is entirely untrue. I haven’t been myself since I first set eyes on Josh Jameson.
“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.”
Aunt Victoria coos her sympathy. “I suffered terribly with Matilda.”
“I did with John and Adeline,” Mother says, looking off into the distance, a little glazed. “But I breezed right through it with Edward.” I look to where Mother is staring, finding her looking fondly at Eddie.
“It’s frightfully inconvenient,” Helen grumbles, circling her tummy. “How is one supposed to get on with everyday life?”
Everyday life? She hardly does a thing. “I’m sure one will find a way,” Uncle Stephan’s wife, the mousey Sarah, says, which surprises me. She never speaks up in social situations. “I’m sure the blessing of a baby supersedes the temporary inconvenience of nausea.” She smiles, and it is sincere. The poor woman is married to a secretly gay man, and there’s nothing she can do about it. She has no children, and at forty-six, she isn’t likely to now, especially with Uncle Stephan, not only because he’s gay. He’s eight years her senior, so his clock is ticking faster than Sarah’s. She would probably do anything to go back in time and know what she knows now. I can guarantee she wouldn’t marry Uncle Stephan, if she even had a choice. Not because he’s a horrible man. He’s not. He’s wonderful; he just isn’t supposed to be married to a woman. I smile sadly at Sarah, reaching for her arm and touching it gently. She returns my small gesture, patting the back of my hand.
“I can’t think past how ghastly I feel at the moment,” Helen scoffs, her attention on Sarah. “Not that I could expect you to relate.”
I gawk at my sister-in-law in disbelief, and Sarah squeezes my hand lightly as if to reassure me that it’s nothing. It is not nothing. Helen is an insensitive, snotty, self-important cow. I’ve never thought her maternal. This baby is simply to secure the throne for John’s line.
“Oh, the match is starting,” Mother declares, taking my arm and leading me away, purposely stopping me from saying anything to upset the apple cart. She links arms with me and leans in, whispering, “Morning sickness really is dreadful. Maybe one day you will see for yourself.”
I roll my eyes at her less-than subtle hint. “How does it feel to have a self-important, entitled bitch for a daughter-in-law?” I ask sardonically.
“That is no way for a princess to talk.” She gives me a light nudge in my shoulder. “Helen’s emotions are all askew,” Mother says quietly, as if Helen isn’t always an insensitive arsehole. “Let us go easy on her.”
“Yes, because God forbid we upset her when she is carrying the King’s first grandchild and heir.”
“Now, now, Adeline. You’ll make yourself ill with all that bitterness.”
“It’s not bitterness, Mother. It’s principle.” We approach the field, where the players are now on horseback, waiting for the umpire to start the first chukka. “I’m merely pointing out that she should be a little more sensitive.”
“Okay, darling.” Mother releases my arm and joins the rest of the crowd in clapping the players onto the field. “What a wonderful day for it.”
And that signals the end of our conversation. I exhale dramatically and look at my orange juice despondently, before casting my eyes back to Damon. He taps the face of his watch, meaning I have not had sufficient time on the non-alcoholic beverages just yet. His gesture doesn’t only prompt me to think about the lack of champagne in my grasp and when I might get it. It also makes me think of the day at the palace for my thirtieth, when Josh Jameson was tapping the face of his watch, reminding me of my appointment with him in the maze. The skin of my bottom heats with the thought, and I glance around the crowds, searching for him. There is no sign.
“Really, are you ill?” Matilda whispers in my ear, completely serious as she joins me on the field side.
“No, I’m thoroughly irritated.” The words are out before I can stop them.
“Dare I ask why?”
“No.”
“Thought not.” The game begins, and Eddie launches the ball with spectacular precision to John, but as John swings, a player from the opposing team hooks his mallet and Eddie shouts his frustration at our older brother for losing possession. I smile at Eddie’s competitiveness, and smile harder when John snarls at our brother. Eddie is a superstar player, and would have gone professional had he not chosen to serve in the military. John, however, is average, and he positively hates the fact that his younger brother is better at something than he is.
“Poor show, John,” I call, delighting in the glare I receive. “Gee up, boy.”
“Adeline, behave,” Mother says, scolding me, closing her eyes to gather patience. “Why can’t my children all get along?”
“I love my brothers, Mother,” I assure her, kissing her cheek sweetly. I’m not lying. I love them both. I just don’t like John. “It’s simply silly sibling rivalry.”
“Adeline, look.” Matilda jars my shoulder roughly, nearly knocking me onto the field. “It’s him.”
“Who?” I ask stupidly. The appearance of only one man would warrant such physical contact to alert me. So I ask, “Where?” instead.
“Over there.” Matilda points her champagne glass across the field, and I spot him in an instant, staring at me. I divert my gaze immediately, heart racing. Was he smiling at me? Smiling like he was pleased to see me, like I would have no clue about a damning and explosive story that will be dropped like a bomb tomorrow? Of him indulging in women, drink, and drugs? I shake my head, muddled. “I think I need a drink,” I say to myself, taking the opportunity of the cheering crowd as a result of a goal to break away.
I weave through the people in my way, nodding and smiling as best I can to everyone who greets me. “Okay, ma’am?” Damon asks from close behind, tailing me.
“I don’t know.” My eyes are on my feet now, my painted smile fading. I don’t have the strength or inclination to force it back into place. I peek up to gauge the distance to the tent.
And collide with someone.
I’m caught from behind by Damon, and in front by Josh.
“Hey, are you avoiding me?” Josh asks, looking genuinely perplexed.
I have no words for him, only a blank stare. “Ma’am?” Damon asks, still holding on to me, as is Josh in front of me. I’m sandwiched between both of them, relying on them to hold me up.
I quickly engage the muscles in my legs and wriggle my way free from between them. “Excuse me,” I murmur, scuttling away while scanning the vicinity for anyone who might have caught that awkward moment.
“Whoa, wait a minute there,” Josh says on a laugh. It’s nervous and laced with confusion. He catches my wrist and pulls me to a stop, and I swing around, finding Damon within touching distance. “What’s going on?” Josh asks him, keeping a firm hold of me.
Rather than answering Josh, Damon looks to me, his thumb hovering in no man’s land.
“Thumb down,” I grate.
“No,” Josh seethes. “You do not get to give me a fuckin’ thumbs down, woman. Not without me knowing why.” He turns back toward Damon. “Thumbs up. Turn the goddam thumb up.”
“Down,” I counter, barely able to talk through my panic.
Josh looks on the verge of explosion. “Up!”
Damon glares at us like he wants to tear our heads off, then motions around us, as if to remind us that we’re in full public view. “Move it somewhere private, perhaps, ma’am?” He levels me with a serious stare. “If you want to talk.” He’s asking me, and I hate that he has to. Because he must see how conflicted I feel. He must see the hurt. And my lack of an answer gives him his.
I suppose that must be why he doesn’t stop Josh when he gr
owls and yanks me across the way toward the portable toilets. Toilets? Okay, so they are the most unrivaled portable toilets in existence, the poshest out there, but still. It’s a toilet. And small.
“Nice night at the after-party?” I spit, being dragged along behind Josh.
“Yes, and I spoke to you, remember? What the fuck has changed since then?”
“Sex, drugs, and rock and roll,” I retort, trying to win my wrist back. I lose.
Josh drags me up the steps to the toilets, shoves me into one of the luxury cubicles, and slams the door. There is roughly two feet between our chests with our backs pressed to opposite sides of the box. Very cozy. If I was talking to him, which, of course, I am not.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he barks.
I divert my stare from his angry blue eyes, but with limited space comes limited options. I resort to focusing on his shiny tan shoes, a safe bet. Until they move, telling me he has taken the one and only step available to bring him closer.
I can’t breathe with him so near, can’t think. “Your wild party at The Dorchester. That’s what I am talking about. The women you entertained, the fact that the place was trashed.”
“What?”
His ignorance ramps up my anger, and I brave facing him. I immediately regret it. His handsome face is like a sucker punch to my gut, reminding me of one of the things I love about Josh Jameson. Just one. The attraction. And with the vision of the face that has scrambled my entire existence comes every other amazing thing about him, all things I love. His way with me, his lack of veneration for my title, his softness mixed with his hardness, his ability to take me to faraway places where only we exist. My eyes begin to burn with the onset of an emotion I have no idea how to deal with.
Josh must see the glaze wash over my eyes, because he frowns, withdrawing a little. “Talk to me, Adeline.”
“The head of communications at Kellington advised me of a story that is running in tomorrow’s paper.”
Josh’s body locks up, and he reverses his step, his back meeting the opposite wall. “What story?”