Was it me who forced that kiss by asking him to hold me tighter? I don’t have enough life experience to know whether a man like him would fall for a provocation. Rodrick seems so powerful and experienced. But . . .what about everything he said afterward?
While we were kissing, he seemed to be enjoying it just as much as I was, but right after, he acted like he regretted it.
I sigh, confused. I need to talk to Josephine tomorrow. She’ll help me figure out this puzzle.
I’m about to get up when I hear two women talking.
“Do you think she’s the duke’s fiancée?”
Rodrick. They’re talking about Rodrick.
“Of course not! She’s a foreigner. Probably just a fling.”
My face burns, not just because she called me afling, but because of what she said before. He’s engaged to someone?
The idea that I kissed another woman’s fiancé horrifies me.
“He would never mix his pure Scottish blood with a foreigner. The girl barely speaks our language. Her accent is terrible.”
Liar.
My English teacher always said my pronunciation was very clear. Sure, I get confused sometimes when people speak too fast, but I speak slowly and I’ve always been able to make myself understood.
“I’m certain she’s not the future duchess. I heard from a reliable source that MacQuoid is choosing between Elizabeth Boyd and Davina Gordon. He needs a wife before he turns thirty-seven, or he’ll lose his title.”
So he’s not officially engaged yet but about to be, which to me is basically the same thing. My decision to leave tomorrow is now sealed.
I step out of the stall and wash my hands without looking at them, even though I can see their awkward smiles in the mirror, probably realizing I heard their gossip. Hypocrites.
I leave without saying goodbye. Princess or not, I can’t swallow fake politeness, so to hell with manners.
I wander through the house, but after a while I can’t stand another shrill laugh and decide to move somewhere calmer.
“Your dress is beautiful,” a voice says behind me.
I’m wearing a simple black dress, spaghetti straps, knee-length. Even before moving to Europe permanently, I never wore Rheadur’s traditional clothing on these trips.
I turn around and see a girl who must be about fifteen. Red hair, very pretty, though a bit disheveled.
“Thank you very much.”
“It’s my mom’s dream that I dress like that. You look so perfect.”
“The cliché is true. Nobody’s perfect. Clothes don’t define you.”
“Tell that to Scottish high society. My name is Isla Murray.”
“Mine is—”
“Princess Jazmina Faheem. I Googled you.”
I freeze, unsure of what to say, now that my suspicion is confirmed that they could find out who I am instantly.
“I hope you’re not offended, but I thought your name was so pretty that when the duke introduced you, I memorized it and searched it online.”
“I’m not offended, just a little surprised you looked me up.”
She glances behind me. “Here comes your duke.”