Royals
Page 16
I page through the folder, and despite the fact that I’m about to die from frostbite, I can’t help but grin and shake my head. No wonder El likes this Glynnis lady so much. This packet of material with its fancy font and little clip art of crowns is definitely Ellie’s style. No one has ever excelled at organization quite like my sister.
Glynnis has broken her guide down into sections, and while I’m tempted to skip to the part marked “Royal Residences,” I figure the bit I need most is “Aristocracy: Titles and Honorifics.”
Sherbet—sorry, Sherbourne—is the son of a duke, the first son, which means that if I’m talking to him, I need to say, “Lord Sherbourne” or “my lord,” but if I was writing to him, I’d say, “My Lord Marquess.” Also, I learn that a marquess is pretty high up on the list of fancy people, and that dukes are the fanciest people besides actual royalty, although some dukes are also royalty, like how Alexander is Prince of the Scots while also being the Duke of Rothesay, which, if you ask me, is a little greedy. No need to go snatching up all the—
There’s a knock on my door, and I look up, startled. Then I remember about the heating and wonder if someone heard me banging on the radiator. Or even better, maybe someone is bringing me food.
Scrambling off the bed, I don’t even bother throwing anything on over my pajamas since I’m wearing two layers and have a scarf wrapped around my head.
I fling open the door, hoping it’ll be Ellie with a tray, being all sisterly and good-hearted.
It is very much not Ellie.
Standing in my doorway, dressed in dark pants and a white button-down, jacket thrown over his shoulder like he’s about to walk down a runway, is Prince Sebastian.
Seb.
And he’s smiling at me.
Chapter 10
“Knock, knock,” he says with a smile, rapping his knuckles on my door, and I stand there, frozen.
I thought I’d gotten used to how good-looking he was early this afternoon, but apparently this kind of handsome just smacks you in the face every time you see it.
And then I remember I am currently standing in my doorway staring at him wearing pretty much everything in my suitcase.
“Hi,” I say too loudly, stepping back and trying to gesture for him to come in while also yanking at the scarf around my head, hopefully not looking like I’m strangling myself. I kind of want to strangle myself, but that’s not the point.
“We didn’t get much of a chance to talk. Thought I’d come say hello, apologize for that mess earlier, see how your first night here in the madhouse was going,” Seb says lightly, his hands in his pockets as he ambles into my room. The way he walks . . . look, I know this sounds stupid, but I have never in my life seen a boy move like that. Most of the guys at my school slouch forward like they’re carrying invisible turtle shells on their backs. But here’s Seb, with his shoulders back, all this easy grace, smooth motions, and when he leans against the high footboard of my bed to grin at me, I think I might actually swoon.
“This place doesn’t seem that bad,” I say. “It’s a little cold,” I acknowledge, gesturing at my layers, and Seb chuckles.
“Let’s see what I can do,” he murmurs, walking over to the radiator.
“I tried that,” I tell him as he crouches down and my face flames red even though I’m still freezing. I have never ogled a guy, but Seb is oddly ogle-able, and in that position, his pants are really tight across—
Okay, no, no, this is not happening, and I am getting ahold of myself starting now.
I half expect Seb to do some macho dude thing like slam a fist on the radiator, after which it will magically work, having been subdued by the force of his overwhelming masculinity.
Instead, he fiddles with some knobs at the bottom, and then there’s a soft hissing sound that I guess is heat actually coming back into the room.
“Sorted,” Seb says, standing up and turning back around.
His eyes slide down to the monkey socks I’m wearing, then make a leisurely journey back up to my face.
“You don’t look much like your sister,” he finally says, and I have no idea if that’s meant to be a criticism or a compliment. His handsome face isn’t giving anything away, and I fight the urge to fidget. Being around Seb this afternoon had been one thing; there were lots of other people around, plus pipers, plus the incomprehensible farmer and the kilts and the champagne and the swords . . . even a very hot prince couldn’t compete with all that excitement. But now he’s here in my room, and it’s nighttime, and the soft golden light from the lamp makes everything cozy and romantic, and I feel roughly 9,000 leagues out of my depth.
“You don’t look much like your brother,” I finally manage, and Seb winks at me.
“Thank god for small favors, eh?”
Then he turns and walks to the fancy desk in the corner of the room, the one with the cabinet over the top, and slides the cabinet open. “Ah, there you are, my beauty,” he says, his Scottish accent rolling.
I curl my toes into the thick carpet, holding on to the bedpost as he cradles a bottle of amber liquid. “You hid booze in your friend’s house?”
Seb yanks out the cork in the top of the bottle, lifting it to me in a little salute. “I did not actually hide this bottle, I’ll have you know,” he says. “That was Sherbet’s father’s doing.”
“So instead of hiding booze, you’re stealing it,” I say.
He walks closer, then stops to lean against the opposite bedpost as he lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a truly massive gulp of whatever is in there. My stomach rolls in sympathy.
“I cannot steal,” Seb informs me, “because, technically, anything in this house belongs to me, as I am a prince of the land.”
I’m just about to roll my eyes when that boyish grin flashes again. “Kidding, of course,” he assures me. “I am indeed stealing Sherbet’s father’s fine whiskey.”
I give a kind of breathless laugh that doesn’t sound anything like me, and honestly, I kind of want to punch myself in the face for how ridiculous I’m being, but this is some next-level swoony material happening here.
Then Seb tilts the bottle up, taking another one of those massive gulps, and I shudder. Drinking straight alcohol like that would probably result in me projectile vomiting. Is he . . . used to this kind of thing? Earlier today, he’d been all charm and decorum while his friends were the ones totally out of their minds. Well, most of his friends. The tall guy had seemed sober enough.
“So you’re to be my new sister-in-law,” Seb says once he’s done damaging his liver. “What do you think of the family so far?”
I can’t tell if he’s genuinely curious or just making small talk, but in either case, I kind of wish he’d leave already. I’m getting tired again, and I feel like talking with Seb might require more brainpower than I can currently access. There’s a light blanket on the end of the bed, and I pick it up, wrapping it around my shoulders.
“It’s great,” I say. “Alex is . . . great.”
Seb sucks in a deep breath through his nose. “Great,” he echoes. “He is indeed that.”
Silence falls between us then, and it is most definitely the awkward kind, but only on my end, I think. Seb appears to mostly be studying the patterns in the carpet.
Then up goes the bottle again, and I have the strangest urge to call Isabel, or at least take a quick phone video of Seb for her. This guy is not nearly as dreamy as you thought, I’d tell her, but then I look again at Seb, and okay, so he’s getting drunk and maybe not quite as polished as I’d imagined he’d be, but I’m not sure the visual would get that across. He actually looks pretty good right now with his loose collar and perfect pants.
Glynnis has broken her guide down into sections, and while I’m tempted to skip to the part marked “Royal Residences,” I figure the bit I need most is “Aristocracy: Titles and Honorifics.”
Sherbet—sorry, Sherbourne—is the son of a duke, the first son, which means that if I’m talking to him, I need to say, “Lord Sherbourne” or “my lord,” but if I was writing to him, I’d say, “My Lord Marquess.” Also, I learn that a marquess is pretty high up on the list of fancy people, and that dukes are the fanciest people besides actual royalty, although some dukes are also royalty, like how Alexander is Prince of the Scots while also being the Duke of Rothesay, which, if you ask me, is a little greedy. No need to go snatching up all the—
There’s a knock on my door, and I look up, startled. Then I remember about the heating and wonder if someone heard me banging on the radiator. Or even better, maybe someone is bringing me food.
Scrambling off the bed, I don’t even bother throwing anything on over my pajamas since I’m wearing two layers and have a scarf wrapped around my head.
I fling open the door, hoping it’ll be Ellie with a tray, being all sisterly and good-hearted.
It is very much not Ellie.
Standing in my doorway, dressed in dark pants and a white button-down, jacket thrown over his shoulder like he’s about to walk down a runway, is Prince Sebastian.
Seb.
And he’s smiling at me.
Chapter 10
“Knock, knock,” he says with a smile, rapping his knuckles on my door, and I stand there, frozen.
I thought I’d gotten used to how good-looking he was early this afternoon, but apparently this kind of handsome just smacks you in the face every time you see it.
And then I remember I am currently standing in my doorway staring at him wearing pretty much everything in my suitcase.
“Hi,” I say too loudly, stepping back and trying to gesture for him to come in while also yanking at the scarf around my head, hopefully not looking like I’m strangling myself. I kind of want to strangle myself, but that’s not the point.
“We didn’t get much of a chance to talk. Thought I’d come say hello, apologize for that mess earlier, see how your first night here in the madhouse was going,” Seb says lightly, his hands in his pockets as he ambles into my room. The way he walks . . . look, I know this sounds stupid, but I have never in my life seen a boy move like that. Most of the guys at my school slouch forward like they’re carrying invisible turtle shells on their backs. But here’s Seb, with his shoulders back, all this easy grace, smooth motions, and when he leans against the high footboard of my bed to grin at me, I think I might actually swoon.
“This place doesn’t seem that bad,” I say. “It’s a little cold,” I acknowledge, gesturing at my layers, and Seb chuckles.
“Let’s see what I can do,” he murmurs, walking over to the radiator.
“I tried that,” I tell him as he crouches down and my face flames red even though I’m still freezing. I have never ogled a guy, but Seb is oddly ogle-able, and in that position, his pants are really tight across—
Okay, no, no, this is not happening, and I am getting ahold of myself starting now.
I half expect Seb to do some macho dude thing like slam a fist on the radiator, after which it will magically work, having been subdued by the force of his overwhelming masculinity.
Instead, he fiddles with some knobs at the bottom, and then there’s a soft hissing sound that I guess is heat actually coming back into the room.
“Sorted,” Seb says, standing up and turning back around.
His eyes slide down to the monkey socks I’m wearing, then make a leisurely journey back up to my face.
“You don’t look much like your sister,” he finally says, and I have no idea if that’s meant to be a criticism or a compliment. His handsome face isn’t giving anything away, and I fight the urge to fidget. Being around Seb this afternoon had been one thing; there were lots of other people around, plus pipers, plus the incomprehensible farmer and the kilts and the champagne and the swords . . . even a very hot prince couldn’t compete with all that excitement. But now he’s here in my room, and it’s nighttime, and the soft golden light from the lamp makes everything cozy and romantic, and I feel roughly 9,000 leagues out of my depth.
“You don’t look much like your brother,” I finally manage, and Seb winks at me.
“Thank god for small favors, eh?”
Then he turns and walks to the fancy desk in the corner of the room, the one with the cabinet over the top, and slides the cabinet open. “Ah, there you are, my beauty,” he says, his Scottish accent rolling.
I curl my toes into the thick carpet, holding on to the bedpost as he cradles a bottle of amber liquid. “You hid booze in your friend’s house?”
Seb yanks out the cork in the top of the bottle, lifting it to me in a little salute. “I did not actually hide this bottle, I’ll have you know,” he says. “That was Sherbet’s father’s doing.”
“So instead of hiding booze, you’re stealing it,” I say.
He walks closer, then stops to lean against the opposite bedpost as he lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a truly massive gulp of whatever is in there. My stomach rolls in sympathy.
“I cannot steal,” Seb informs me, “because, technically, anything in this house belongs to me, as I am a prince of the land.”
I’m just about to roll my eyes when that boyish grin flashes again. “Kidding, of course,” he assures me. “I am indeed stealing Sherbet’s father’s fine whiskey.”
I give a kind of breathless laugh that doesn’t sound anything like me, and honestly, I kind of want to punch myself in the face for how ridiculous I’m being, but this is some next-level swoony material happening here.
Then Seb tilts the bottle up, taking another one of those massive gulps, and I shudder. Drinking straight alcohol like that would probably result in me projectile vomiting. Is he . . . used to this kind of thing? Earlier today, he’d been all charm and decorum while his friends were the ones totally out of their minds. Well, most of his friends. The tall guy had seemed sober enough.
“So you’re to be my new sister-in-law,” Seb says once he’s done damaging his liver. “What do you think of the family so far?”
I can’t tell if he’s genuinely curious or just making small talk, but in either case, I kind of wish he’d leave already. I’m getting tired again, and I feel like talking with Seb might require more brainpower than I can currently access. There’s a light blanket on the end of the bed, and I pick it up, wrapping it around my shoulders.
“It’s great,” I say. “Alex is . . . great.”
Seb sucks in a deep breath through his nose. “Great,” he echoes. “He is indeed that.”
Silence falls between us then, and it is most definitely the awkward kind, but only on my end, I think. Seb appears to mostly be studying the patterns in the carpet.
Then up goes the bottle again, and I have the strangest urge to call Isabel, or at least take a quick phone video of Seb for her. This guy is not nearly as dreamy as you thought, I’d tell her, but then I look again at Seb, and okay, so he’s getting drunk and maybe not quite as polished as I’d imagined he’d be, but I’m not sure the visual would get that across. He actually looks pretty good right now with his loose collar and perfect pants.
