Really, it’s not that different from what I’d expected. Like Seb, she can be a bit wild, but unlike Seb, her foibles have ended up in the tabloids. She also just got kicked out of school, so maybe that explains the attitude. There’s also a pretty hefty list of former boyfriends.

Then I get to the last line of Isa’s reconnaissance:

And just so you know, Dais, one of those exes? Miles.

She’s harder to track down than her famous brothers, but Princess Flora of Scotland, currently attending an elite all-girls school on the Isle of Skye, is no less talked about. According to sources, Flora is the real wild child of the family, a title she laughs off when I sit down with her in a coffee shop not far from the flat she keeps in Edinburgh. She’s home for a break before heading back to her (unnamed at the request of the palace) school and looking forward to a summer spent “with friends, probably. Somewhere quiet.” She tells me she’s gotten very used to the solitude there on Skye and that “it’s definitely been a tonic for the soul.”

Yes, the girl we’re used to seeing in front rows in Milan, New York, and Paris (and clubs in Monaco, Marrakesh, and Zurich) is becoming something of a homebody. “I’ve even taken up knitting!” she laughs, rolling those extraordinary light brown—dare we say gilded?—eyes she inherited from her famous grandfather.

One subject Flora is not keen to speak on, however, is the engagement of her eldest brother, Alexander, to Miss Eleanor Winters of Florida.

“There’s just not much to say,” she tells me when pressed. “I’ve only met Eleanor a handful of times. I’m sure she’ll be a beautiful bride.”

Kind words, but it makes one wonder if the rumours that Flora is less than pleased with her brother’s American (and commoner) bride-to-be are true.

In any case, it’s a kinder, gentler Princess Flora who departs from the café, bodyguards in tow, a gentle summer drizzle raining down on her—what else?—Baird family tartan brolly.

*Editor’s Note—Two weeks after this interview was conducted, Princess Flora abruptly withdrew from her boarding school on Skye at the insistence of school officials. Neither the school nor the palace have commented, save that this is a “private matter” and that gossip involving the princess, the headmaster’s son, and a fire at a local whiskey distillery is “scurrilous and baseless.”

(Prattle, “Princess Flora: An Intimate Chat,” May Issue)

Chapter 26

The morning of the ball is the first truly gross day we’ve had, weather-wise, since I arrived in Scotland. The sky churns with clouds, rain sheets down the windows, and it seems like there’s a rumble of thunder about every three seconds.

Honestly, it seems kind of portentous.

We’re all sitting in the dining room, having breakfast, and while Ellie said this is the smaller, informal dining room, it’s still massive, and the table seats at least fifty people. It’s heavy oak, scarred in places, and I can imagine Highland chiefs sitting here, stabbing their knives into the table to make a point. Dead stags stare down at us with glass eyes, and the eggs on my plate seem kind of unappealing.

Maybe because they’re next to a lump of what appears to be coal.

I poke at it, trying not to wrinkle my nose.

“Black pudding.”

Glancing up, I see Miles has taken a seat across the table from me, and as he spreads a napkin in his lap, I think about him and Flora again. I haven’t asked him about any of that—that’s a thing real girlfriends get to do, not fake ones—but I have to admit, I’m still . . . okay, maybe curious is a strong word, but I’d genuinely like to know what went on there.

Instead, I ask about the pudding.

“Do I even want to know what’s in it?”

“You really don’t,” he replies, and I sigh, pushing it all the way to the edge of my plate.

“Aw, come on, Monters,” Gilly says, cutting into his own black pudding. “Don’t scare her off the stuff. It’s good for you.” He winks. “Puts hair on your chest.”

“Exactly what I’ve always wanted,” I answer, and Gilly laughs. He’s sitting beside Sherbet. Spiffy and Dons haven’t appeared yet, and Alex and Ellie are sitting at the head of the table, heads close together as they talk and ignore the rest of us.

“So,” Gilly says once he’s cleared his plate of black pudding. “Flora.”

Across the table, Miles suddenly gets very interested in his toast. “Flora,” Sherbet confirms.

“Should liven things up at least,” Gilly says. “She usually does.”

Sherbet snorts. “The last time Flora livened up a gathering, a suit of armor ended up in the fountain.”

Gilly heaves a sigh, his gaze far away. “That was one of my ancestors’. Thought Mum and Dad were going to cry.”

Miles is still very industriously eating his breakfast, and I tear a bit of crust off my toast, looking at him.

“So the ball,” I say, and he sighs, not looking up from his mushrooms. Honestly, mushrooms for breakfast—who does that?

“The ball,” he confirms, and I look over at Gilly and Sherbet, who are still chatting to each other. I wonder if they know about me and Miles, that it’s not real, or if we’re even supposed to pretend for them.

Playing it safe, I ask, “Are you going to wear a kilt?”

Miles finally looks up then, putting his fork down. “I am, yeah.”

I nod, chewing my bit of toast. “Can I make fun of you for that?”

“Could I stop you?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound pissed off or irritated. He’s just . . . relaxed. Normal. Then he clears his throat, putting his fork down and linking his fingers together on the tablecloth.

“I had the chance to speak to your parents for a little while when they came in last night,” he starts, and my shoulders go up a little bit, all the vague sort of camaraderie I’d been feeling disappearing.

Mom and Dad had gotten in late yesterday, just in time for the ball, but I was already in my room when they’d arrived. They’d both come in to say hi, of course, but I hadn’t known they’d spent any time with Miles.

“They’re . . . really lovely,” Miles goes on, and now he’s looking at his plate again, fidgeting in his chair. “And funny,” he adds. “And . . .”

“Not people who would call the paparazzi on their daughter?” I finish for him, and finally he looks up.

“Not at all,” Miles confirms, which sort of surprises me. I thought for sure he’d give me some long-winded defense, making sure to point out how tacky we all are. So what was a landed gentleman such as himself supposed to think?

Instead, he just looks into my eyes and says, “I’m sorry. I was wrong. Colossally wrong, really.”

I blink at him, feeling like I did that night in the club when I was suddenly confronted with Hot Miles. This is Contrite Miles, which is every bit as discombobulating, and it takes me a second before I shake my head and mutter, “It’s okay.”

Sighing, Miles picks up his fork and resumes pushing eggs around his plate. “It’s not, really. It was one of Seb’s valets, a bloke who’s worked at the palace for years. They sacked him, obviously.

“Anyway, truly, I’m sorry,” Miles says again. “I was an unmitigated ass about the entire thing, especially when the call was coming from inside the house, as it were.”