I laugh at that, tilting my head up to look into his face.

And that’s when someone calls out, “Give ’im a kiss, love!”

I turn to see a photographer there, camera at the ready, and everything inside me freezes.

We’ve faked a date, smiled into each other’s eyes at the ball, walked down the street like a couple, but a kiss?

But to my surprise, Miles is already inching his head just the littlest bit toward mine, his face coming closer, his lips—

I slam my hand against his chest, pushing him back, and for a second, I see his eyes widen.

“I’m—I can’t—” I start to say, and then with a muttered “Sorry,” I turn away.

Only to smack right into a waiter bearing a tray loaded with champagne glasses.

I hear a few gasps (and more than a few giggles) as probably hundreds of dollars of champagne splashes onto the ground. I get at least fifty bucks’ worth on my pretty yellow dress, and I scrub my hand over the growing wet spot down the front of my skirt even as a torrent of apologies spills from my lips.

Leaning down, I attempt to help the waiter pick up the glasses, but then there are more clicks, and then I remember I’m in a dress, it’s a windy day, and I’ve probably just given everyone a clear look at my pink polka-dot underwear.

Great.

So I right myself in a hurry, stepping past the waiter and all those glasses, and catching a brief glimpse of Miles out of the corner of my eye as I practically sprint away.

Where am I going?

I have no idea. Just away from here, away from all those eyes and lenses, and definitely away from Miles.

There’s a barn at the far edge of the field, and even though everything involving me and horses has been a total nightmare on this trip, I march toward it, putting as much space between me and the polo field as I can, as quickly as I can.

When I step into the barn, I realize that it’s not actually a barn at all, but a fancy garage. There are cars parked in here, gorgeous, sleek, expensive cars, and I walk between two of them, letting my fingers drag over the cool surface of a Rolls-Royce as I take a deep breath.

That was certainly a freak-out for the books, and I wait to hear Glynnis or Ellie come in after me, chiding me to get back out there and smile for the cameras.

But it’s not Glynnis or Ellie suddenly casting a shadow from the doorway.

It’s Miles.

He’s just . . . standing there. His hands are loosely clenched at his sides, his chin is tilted down a little, and he’s breathing hard, like he ran to catch up with me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I am surprised to hear how shaky I sound. I’m surprised at how shaky I feel. Miles opened the door wide when he walked in, and now in the sunlight I can see dust motes floating in the air between us. “I couldn’t do it.”

Crossing my arms, I cradle my elbows in my palms and go on even as Miles moves closer to me. “I get that that’s part of this whole fake dating thing, but a kiss is . . . a kiss is special. Maybe not to you, but it is to me, and I didn’t want—”

And then whatever I might have said next is cut off by Miles’s mouth on mine.

He kisses me, his hands coming up to hold my face, and for a second, I’m so surprised that I don’t kiss him back. I just stand there with my arms still crossed, my eyes open.

But then he tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his hands warm on my cheeks, fingertips slightly calloused, and my eyes are drifting shut, my arms coming to drop first to my sides, then lifting up to clutch at his shirt there at his waist.

For a boy I’d once thought was made mostly of tweed, Miles can kiss.

We stand there in the barn, wrapped up in each other, and I go up on tiptoes, wanting to get even closer to him. Wanting to press every part of my body against his as I finally, finally, give into everything I’ve been trying not to feel since that night in the bothy.

When we finally pull apart, I sink back on my heels, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Wow,” I say softly, and he smiles. It’s the smile I saw that night at Seb’s club, the one that first clued me into the fact that Miles might be more appealing than I’d thought.

“A kiss is special to me, too,” he says, his voice so low and rough that I swear I can actually feel it moving over my skin, and I shiver.

“You’re special to me,” he adds, and my fingers flex on his shirt.

He’s Seb’s best friend, as much a part of this world as the horse races and the tiaras and the plaid.

But he’s also funny and kind once you get past the stuffiness, and cute, and he kisses like it’s his job.

“So what do we do now?” I ask him, the words surprisingly loud in the empty barn.

“You smile!” a bright voice says, and we turn to see Glynnis in the doorway, the photographer right behind her.

Chapter 33

“This is even better than a kiss near the field,” Glynnis is saying, moving toward us with her hands spread open wide, like she’s framing a shot. “We’ll have Fitzy here shoot from behind one of the cars so the entire thing will feel a little sneaky, a little private.”

I don’t point out the irony in purposely posing for “private” pictures, but then my brain is still too scrambled from the kiss to say much.

Miles, however, doesn’t seem to have that problem. As Glynnis goes on, talking about angles and how many pictures and “hand placement,” he steps forward, one arm still around my waist.

“No.”

Glynnis pauses, her fingers opening and closing in the air like Miles saying no has just caused some kind of system shutdown.

Then she gives a little laugh. “Oh, Miles,” she says, waving him off, “I know it’s a bit embarrassing to be caught like this, but I promise, it won’t take but a moment, and then—”

“No,” Miles says again. “I don’t want pictures of this. This”—he gestures between the two of us—“isn’t for the papers.”

My chest aches with a mixture of pride and swooniness as he stands there, chin lifted, jaw clenched. All the things that used to make Miles seem so annoying and snobby are actually really appealing when they’re being employed to protect my honor.

Glynnis’s eyes are wide now, and she makes a disbelieving sound. “Of course it’s for the papers,” she says. “That’s the entire reason the two of you were spending time together.”

Gaze hardening, she props a fist on her hip. “And given that the Sun has pictures of Sebastian and Daisy leaving a pub together through a back door earlier this week, we really have no choice here.”

Ugh. I should’ve known we weren’t as stealth as Seb thought we were.

I open my mouth to explain to Miles that there was nothing illicit about that pub visit—well, there kind of was, but it wasn’t between me and Seb—but he’s still looking at Glynnis.

“Don’t care,” he says, and then he slips his hand in mine, squeezing.

“I covered the arses of a lot of members of this family,” Miles goes on, “and I haven’t minded it. But not this time. Not with Daisy.”

And then he walks past Glynnis, tugging me after him.

As we walk back out into the sunshine, hand in hand, I practically gawp at him. “Did you just tell the royal family to get screwed?”

That muscle in his jaw ticks, but I think it’s because he’s holding back a smile this time.