Luckily, I’m saved from having to talk about “that boy” with Mom by Ellie swanning back into the room.
Smiling, El gestures for me to stand up. “Your turn!” she says brightly, and I blink at her.
“For my dress?” I ask, and there’s a flash of the old Ellie in her eyes as she smirks at me and says, “What do you think?”
Stupid question, okay, but I wish I’d been a little more prepared for this moment. I’d thought today was all about Ellie, not me.
“Oh, how exciting!” Mom says, clapping her hands a little, and I give her a wan smile as I rise to my feet, trying not to wring my hands or fiddle with the hem of my skirt. I look okay today—I’d known better than to wear jeans and a T-shirt to a fashion designer’s studio, and had picked out one of the “outfit pods” Glynnis had made for me, choosing a gray high-waisted skirt with a black sleeveless blouse and a gray-and-white cardigan. Bright colors would’ve been too conspicuous. And trust me, when I’d realized I was picking out an outfit for stealth, I’d had a moment of wondering just when something like that had become so second nature to me. I’ve only been here a month, after all.
“Angus,” Ellie says, pulling me toward the back of the room, behind a heavy velvet curtain. “She’s ready for you!”
“I’m not sure that’s actually true,” I say, but the man she ushers me to is grinning at me. He’s got bright red hair, brighter than mine was before I came here, and he’s shorter than I am. Wearing a black ruffled shirt and a kilt in neon colors, plus the sickest pair of black patent leather boots, he’s exactly what I’d expect a famous Scottish fashion designer to look like. He’s not, however, who I would have thought Ellie would pick. Still, his smile is contagious, and when he takes my hands and holds both my arms away from my body, looking me up and down, I don’t even feel self-conscious.
“Oh, this will be a dream,” he says, his brogue heavy, the r in “dream” rolling over my ears like a wave.
The space here in the back of the studio is open and bright. The hardwood floors are ancient and scuffed, and the walls are exposed brick. There’s a long table against the back wall, covered in heaps of fabric, and I spot a few sketchbooks. There are also a few dress dummies standing guard, one of which is swathed in the Baird tartan, and I wonder if that’s part of Ellie’s dress.
And I really wonder what my dress will look like.
Sadly, there’s none of that this time, not even a hint of what colors we might be working with. Angus just measures me. And not just one time, either. He runs that tape measure out at least five times, checking and rechecking, making notes in a little notebook at his side. Occasionally he mutters to himself, but between his accent and the music blaring out of hidden speakers, I can’t make out what he might be saying.
By the time he’s done, I feel like I might as well be one of those dress dummies, but then he turns that bright grin on me again. “Excited?” he asks, and I don’t know if he means about the dress or the wedding itself, so I just give him the good old American double thumbs-up. “Super psyched,” I tell him, and he laughs, then leans forward to place a smacking kiss on my cheek.
“A dream,” he pronounces again. “Just like your sister.”
I don’t know if anyone has ever called me just like Ellie, and I’m not sure if I think it’s a compliment or not, so I shrug it off and say, “Nah, she’s got better hair.”
Angus laughs uproariously at that, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and his assistant, the lady who brought me tea, also chortles.
Not sure what to do with any of that, I give another awkward smile, then go out to find Mom and Ellie in the sitting room.
Mom is chatting with one of the assistants, and Ellie is finishing up her tea, sitting on the couch opposite from the chair where I’d squirreled myself away. She looks pretty sitting there, all in white, her blond hair caught in a low ponytail and draped over one shoulder. Even the way she holds her teacup is perfect.
The three of us leave the studio amid a flurry of cheek kisses and head down to the car that’s waiting in the alley behind the studio.
The car is there, just where we left it, but we pull up short as we see who’s standing beside the car. Leaning on it, actually.
Seb.
“Sebastian!” Ellie says, moving her purse from one shoulder to the other. “What . . . what are you doing here?”
Seb gives the grin that launches a thousand knickers into the air, and he pushes off the car. “I was looking for Daisy,” he says, and I inwardly groan. I have no idea what Seb wanted with me the night of the ball, but I’ve managed to stay away from him since then, and now it seems like I’m caught.
He winks. “Had some secret best man–maid of honor plans to discuss with her.”
Ellie looks back and forth between me and Seb, and I fiddle with the ends of my hair. “Can’t we just talk at the palace?” I ask, but he shakes his head, gesturing down the alley.
“We’re close to my favorite pub, and it’ll only take a second. Don’t worry, they know me there. A perfectly photographer-free spot.”
That grin again, and I see now why he can get away with most anything. Trespassing, drunkenness, kidnapping . . .
“It’ll only take a minute,” he cajoles, and I sigh, letting my arms drop to my sides.
“Sure,” I say, then turn to Mom and Ellie. “I’ll see you back at the palace.”
Ellie tugs her lower lip between her teeth, but after a second, she nods, and then looks over at Sebastian.
She doesn’t say anything, but he raises his hands, all innocent expression and big blue eyes. “She’s perfectly safe in my care,” he promises, and I wrinkle my nose at that.
Definitely don’t want to be in Seb’s care.
But I follow him down the alley and toward a heavy wooden door set into the gray stone of a building. “The Prince’s Arms,” he says, opening the door for me. “Appropriate, no?”
I roll my eyes as I walk past him and into a shadowy interior that smells like smoke, beer, and carpet that’s probably three hundred years old.
We make our way to the bar, and the man standing there by the beer taps clearly recognizes Seb, and not just in the princely way. He puts out a hand to shake Seb’s. “Been a while, lad,” he says, and Seb shrugs.
“Too long. Usual for me, lemonade for my companion, please.”
I really don’t want lemonade—it doesn’t mean the same thing here as it does back home. No sugary tart goodness, it’s more like watered-down Sprite, and for some reason, it’s the drink everyone seems to be handing me lately. But I don’t say anything, and just take my glass from the bartender when he hands it to me.
Seb, of course, has a pint of some cloudy beer, and I wrinkle my nose at the smell of hops and yeast.
He chugs about half of it in one go, and when he sets the pint glass back on the bar, what’s left of the lager sloshes around. Seb’s eyes follow the motion moodily.
“This is super fun,” I tell him. “Is this our version of family bonding? That I watch you get drunk?”
Seb glances over at me then, his ruddy eyebrows drawn down over his blue, blue eyes. He really is stupid good-looking, but it’s like I hardly ever notice anymore. I’ve gotten so used to his face that it’s just . . . a face. A good one, sure, but once you know Seb, it’s hard not to see the mess behind all that pretty. That has the effect of killing the handsome, let me tell you.