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missameliep · 1 year

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Second Chances - Chapter Twenty Three: Racing Hearts

Book: Desire and Decorum – Modern AU Pairing: Prince Hamid x Elizabeth (OC) Rating: Teen and Up (there are some swearing) Word count: ~10K

Summary: Hearts are racing faster than the horses at Edgewater. The new day begins and is more eventful than Elizabeth and her friends could have anticipated.

Characters: Elizabeth Foredale (OC); Prince Hamid; Briar Daly; Edmund Marlcaster, Annabelle Parsons; Luke Harper; Vincent Foredale; Theresa Sutton.

Notes: * All characters belong to Pixelberry, except OC. * I want to thank @princess-geek and @noesapphic for being my betas in this chapter. Thank you, girls, you're awesome! * Non-English words at the notes in the end. * Your eyes do not deceive you, after a year without updates, a new chapter dropped. Sorry about the lack of updates, I hope to finish editing the next chapter in the next days. * This is my submission to @choicesjanuarychallenge day 8: Clear | Stormy | Travel.

“Are you telling Hamid?” Briar asked, glancing at Elizabeth lying beside her and staring unblinking at the ceiling.

“I guess that’s not something you just... say...”

“What then? Will you text him?”

“How would I even start a conversation like that through text?”

“Nudes proved to be extremely effective icebreakers.”

Nervously, Elizabeth giggled; not entirely sure her friend was joking.

“I don’t know... If it feels... right, I’ll try to be more assertive next time we’re together...”

“Assertive?” Briar laughed and rolled over to her side, throwing her black hair back and propping her cheek in one hand. “You must flirt back. Be seductive.”

“I have no idea how to do any of that. I’ll embarrass myself if I try.”

“I can teach you.”

“Believe me. I’m unteachable when it comes to these sorts of things,” Elizabeth laughed, remembering her friend Renata’s attempts to get her out of her shell and make a move on one of her first crushes.

“Trust me. My techniques are infallible!” she nudged her friend.

“You sound like a cartoon villain!” she giggled.

“I didn’t hear a no.”

“It’s late. Time to sleep.”

“Can I stay?" Briar curled like a cat nestling over the duvet with her arms around her torso. "I’m so comfortable right now...”

“Sure. But my alarm clock will ring in –” Elizabeth reached the mobile over the nightstand and squinted her eyes to see the time. “– 4 hours.”

“Why?”

“I have to check the horses and the preparations for our picnic before breakfast.”

“Nope... I’m heading out –” Briar rolled out of the bed, put on the slippers and walked to the door. “– But good luck with all of that. Sleep tight.”

“You too.” Elizabeth smiled, going under the duvet while the other closed the door quietly.

As the antique pendulum floor clock at the foyer chimed when the small hand reaches eleven, the soles of the riding boots clicked sharply against the wood when Elizabeth ran down the stairs two steps at a time. Luckily, Lady Dominique was nowhere around to chastise her for such an improper behaviour and remind the rules inside the manor.

The apparent misbehave has a reason: the weather forecast changed, and rainstorms are expected sooner than previous announcements. They must hurry and leave now if they want to go out for a horse ride, have a picnic like planned and be back safely and dry at the manor.

Nevertheless, getting everybody ready is a nearly impossible task. The schedule got delayed by an hour because her friends would not get up at the agreed hour or stop debating in the group chat whether they should or should not go to the pub at Moorfield this evening; even Edmund joined their discussions. Only Hamid remained silent; nobody heard from him since they retreated to their rooms the night before and he vanished from his room early in the morning.

“He will be back in time. Don’t worry, Lizzy,” Briar texted her back, but she can’t help it but worrying.

She wished he had told anyone where he went by himself. The property has many paths through the woods, which can be confusing to those not used to them, and Hamid is the impulsive kind of guy to get too far and lost. Not to mention the boars. If he’s hurt nobody would even know where to start looking for him...

Why am I thinking of all these horrible scenarios?

“That’s ridiculous,” she tells herself. “The universe is not working against me. Right?”

Another message from the group: no news from Hamid, but they are talking about second-breakfast and elevenses now. She deletes the angry cat emoji she was about to send; they are probably messing with her, and she won’t give them the satisfaction.

Finally, she understands why Lady Dominique is so strict about punctuality and is on the verge of forgetting manners and leaving behind whomever is not ready in fifteen minutes… Evidently, she would never be that rude, but the thought crosses her mind anyway.

Dashing into the ground floor while texting Edmund about Hamid’s whereabouts, she collided with a side table on the hallway. Nimbly, she lounged forward; her hands balanced it, and she thanked heavens the white statuette didn’t collapse to the ground. Her grandmother’s wrath is the last thing she needs right now.

“Why so many side tables, grandma? Those are a menace!” she muttered under her breath, tucking the mobile on the coat pocket. Judging by the familiar chuckle, the scene must have been amusing.

“There is a reason your grandmother forbids running inside.”

Whirling around, she met her father standing a few metres away on the hallway coming from the library, a wide teasing grin on his face.

To her surprise, right beside him was Hamid. The sight of him and his ridiculously beautiful face stole her breath and words for a second. Averting her gaze, she focused on her father and what she was supposed to say.

“Would you tell her?” she asked, tilting her head a little bit, and forcing an offended expression.

“It will be our secret,” Vincent stage-whispered. “Mother is yet to forget the incident with the Cordonian crystal apple... It was an irreplaceable gift from late Queen Eleanor.”

“That was not my fault!”

Her father tsked. “Harry used to say the same...”

Smiling, the trio met half-way and she hugged her father, who kissed the top of her head and complimented her elegance sporting the riding attire in navy blue and hair manhandled in one long braid. He looked proud at the sight of Edgewater’s gold crest on her jacket.

Without meeting Hamid’s gaze, she returned his wishes of a good morning and admitted in an almost inaudible tone, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I didn’t know,” he said entirely too pleased.

“You would, if you’ve read my texts...”

Right hand over his chest, he apologised, “Sorry, Liz. The battery died and I didn’t bring the charger...”

“Why didn’t you say so?” she said, taking the mobile from the pocket. “I could’ve lent you my spare one. I’ll text Melinda and ask her to take it to your room.”

Vincent looked amused between them and joined the conversation.

“Do not be mad at him. It is entirely my fault, Eliza. We met by chance, and I insisted he joined me for breakfast. There were some matters I wanted Hamid’s opinions about.”

Her gaze darted from the mobile to her father’s face. “Were you working?”

Hamid laughed at her reproving tone, or possibly at the absurd notion of him working in his free time. “For two seconds. Nothing related to work can compete with more interesting topics of conversation.”

“Poetry and love,” Vincent added, with a grin, trying to appease the curiosity in her eyes. “I wanted to show Hamid a particular book from our collection. It belonged to his namesake.”

“A very interesting tome. I wouldn’t mind taking another look some other time.”

“You are always welcome in our library.”

Observing the exchanges between them and their smiling faces, a warm feeling spread inside of her chest. Her father is always gentle mannered and friendly, mostly due to his personality than his upbringing and lessons to fulfil his duties as the Earl of Edgewater, but there is an undeniable sense of pleasure when he is around Hamid.

“I am glad you were enjoying yourselves...”

“How anyone could not? It’s a privilege to have your father sharing his wise words...”

“Likewise. Our conversations are delightful,” Vincent said and patted Hamid on the shoulder. The other returned the compliment with a sincere smile. “However, I believe I kept you away from your young peers far too long. I am certain Eliza misses your company and will show you a far better time...”

Her cheeks reddened at the words and the knowing smile he directed at her; however, Hamid chose not to acknowledge either with a look or cheeky comment, keeping his attention at the lord, which she was truly grateful for.

“Will you not join us, sir?”

“The last thing you need is some old folk like me following you around and ruining the fun…”

“You would not bother us, dad.”

“You are too kind, my dear. But I have a busy day ahead.”

“It’s Saturday! You promised you’d rest.”

He chuckled at her remark, and it reminded him of when she was much younger and pouted whenever he needed to work during their time together.

“Later,” he said patting her arm. “Now, I am expected at Ledford Park. Enjoy your day and be careful about the rain. The paths become too slippery for the horses.”

“We’ll return before the rain.’’

Using both hands, he cupped her cheek affectionately and kissed the top of her head again.

As soon as the taps of shoe soles faded in the distance, and it was only the two of them, Hamid stepped closer.

“You look gorgeous,” he purred while his hand reached the side of her face, gently curling a long lose curl around his fingers, before tucking it behind her ear. The backs of his fingers softly brushed her skin, causing a hundred butterflies to flutter in her stomach, and moved away. “I told myself you would never look more beautiful than yesterday and yet... You outdid yourself.”

Unnecessary to see her own reflection to know redness was blooming in her face. How she wished to keep her emotions to herself! But a mere touch or a sweet word of his and the rosy of her cheeks give away her emotions, and she hates that about herself. Hamid on the other hand admires exactly that about her: her tongue may not say the words, but the truth emerges each time she blushes. And he dared assume it was not sheer embarrassment of being complimented that pinks her cheeks, but something else entirely.

“Were you actually running after me?” he asked softly, lips stretched in a grin that showed his perfectly lined teeth, expectation glinting in his eyes. “In spite of your grandmother’s prohibition?”

“Actually, I was on my way to check on the others.”

He pouted and his entire face fell in mocking disappointment, and she stuttered.

“Did – Did I say something wrong?”

Smiling, he clicked his tongue and raised his chin in negative, like she learned from the series they watched together is customary in his country and not simply a cute thing he does.

“Your honesty keeps me humble.”

“Oh!” Averting her gaze, she looked downward at her fingers fidgeting with one golden button of her jacket. Before the moment seemed completely over, she forced herself to mumble a simple question, “What if I were?”

“That would heal my wounded ego, and I might say that among many other things, I’d happily take the blame for any bibelot you break. Or, better yet, hide any evidence of its previous existence... Which knowing your grandmother is probably a safer choice.”

She chuckled and looked back at him and how cute he looked with a silly little smile. Perhaps she should’ve let Briar give her a few pointers on being flirty.

“Can you spare a few minutes?” he asked in his most appealing tone, “I was hoping we –”

Before he finished his sentence, voices of their friends echoed from the other hallway and in the blink of an eye they were surrounded by them. Everyone talking at the same time and over each other, inquiring about the picnic and if Briar could ride wearing those high hell boots or not.

“It’s not safe!” Edmund and Annabelle said at once.

“The horse will do the walking, not me,” she insisted.

“Maybe after the picnic?” Hamid whispered into Elizabeth’s ear, one of his warm smiles illuminating his features when she faced him.

“Sure,” she sighed, knowing that between their friends and her family, there wouldn’t be many free moments during the day. Hooking her arm with his, she pleaded, “Now, come and help me. I need to borrow your skills to get everybody out of the house.”

Through the narrowest part of the unpaved path, hooves clopped rhythmically while the horses carried the group onward. With every gust of wind blowing through the crowds of the trees, rained leaves that danced in the air for a beautiful moment before sinking to join the crunchy sunset-coloured blanket covering the ground.

The further they were from the manor, the more the conversations were punctuated by the chirping of birds and more often than not by Briar’s worried remarks.

What started as a little distress at being around horses turned into a quarrel against the animals. Narrowing her eyes at the brown mare Annabelle was riding, Briar’s arms wrapped tightly around Edmund’s waist, clinging to him as if he were her lifeline.

“Look at that evil eye!” Briar’s nasal voice resounded from the back of the line, and two of the horses snorted in sequence, swishing their tails. “That beast hates me already… and is telling the others about it!”

Hamid’s silvery voice followed, insisting on explaining the amiable nature of the majestic creatures to no avail.

Smiling, Elizabeth considered how sympathetic he has been with their friend and her fear of horses, despite Briar’s previous threats to kick him in the chin or in a more painful place if a horse bites her.

“I have been around horses long enough to know they can’t talk or plot against you,” Annabelle added, her voice ringing with laughter.

“Wouldn't it be amazing if they could talk?” Hamid mused a recurrent desire of his: since he was a boy, he wished animals could talk to humans, or at least could communicate with him particularly. “I wonder what they would say…”

“Probably they’d complain about ungrateful humans they must carry around on their backs...” Annabelle picked on Briar and this remark earned a formidable string of complaints about her insensitivity...

Luke held a chuckle and gazed at the woman riding by his side on the back of a tan coated thoroughbred mare called Clover, that became her trusted companion in many summer days since she started her equitation lessons at the age of 8, like she told him earlier at the stables.

Today, Elizabeth was quieter than usual, not displeased by the company or the ongoing conversation rather than enraptured by the activity and by seeing the countryside after five long years; besides, like many introverts, she greatly prefers to be surrounded by talkative people who do most of the talking, sparing her the obligation of preventing awkward silences.

“Horses were always my favourites,” he spoke loud enough to be heard by Elizabeth, drawing her attention, “I feel I can understand them...”

She contemplated him for a second and the wide smile curling his full lips, and asked with the most serious tone she could muster, “Luke, are you going to confirm the horses are secretly scheming against Briar?”

Her joke prompted him to chuckle, a soft sound rambling from his chest, and she smiled.

“Hey! Not so loud,” he whispered, failing to keep a serious face. “I sworn secrecy!”

They let out wholehearted laughs, and Elizabeth complimented his riding skills, curious of how a boy raised in a very urban city in the United States could be such an expert around horses.

“Once you spend so much time around horses, you learn a thing or two…”

“How much time are we talking about?”

The question was the cue to Luke tell her about his training in equitation growing up and the prizes earned when he participated in competitions as a teenager that helped him earn a place at the polo team at university.

“Impressive!” she observed. “Maybe we should put your skills to test one of these days… Edgewater breeds some of the finest racehorses in the country.”

He beamed one of those shiny open smiles that crinkle the corners of his green eyes. The suggestion of riding together some other time and of a friendly race was promptly acquiesced, and he was clearly happy.

“A race?” Hamid asked already galloping to approach the two at the front of the group. “That sounds fun!”

“FUN?” Briar cried. “Only if your idea of fun is getting trampled to death by these awful beasts!”

“Don’t worry! Nobody is racing today,” Elizabeth reassured her to no avail. “But we can take the longer path to the ruins and enjoy just a little longer…” She described the track that crossed the meadows in which she used to ride with her brothers and their friends.

The proposition was eagerly accepted by everyone other than Briar. To please her, Edmund suggested they followed the plan and take the shorter route through the woods.

Briar raised a finger to Edmund and said seriously, “Promise me you will not let it dash like a maniac and trample over me!”

The blonde nodded, promising he’d take care of her, and it was enough to appease her. A barely perceptible smirk curled his thin lips when Briar buried her head on his back, hiding her face.

The group eventually parted and after a few minutes, a clearing provided the first glimpse of the ruins standing beyond the meadows peppered by wildflowers.

Hamid’s enthusiastic remarks stole Elizabeth’s attention for a moment. Even though he often says everything is the most beautiful and most extraordinary he’s ever seen, his words were not far from the truth. Despite the grey clouds looming, the countryside could not be more idyllic, and the ruins were impressive. Even considering all the missing parts, like the long-gone stained glasses and fallen tower, their imaginations could rebuild the greatness of the ancient stone building when it was standing tall centuries ago. And for a long moment, that's what they did, while conjecturing about the former inhabitants.

“Some say it’s a magical place...” Annabelle confided, and Hamid couldn’t contain his excitement to learn more about the place while she shared details of an old tale Earl Vincent has told his children countless times.

When a resumed version of the tale reached its end, the horses galloped towards the ruins meandering a field peppered by tiny yellow and white flowers. The hooves clapped against the dirt path, the gentle clip-clop punctuating their conversations, while Elizabeth led the way and Luke remained close, both sharing their tales on equitation classes. Annabelle fell behind, eyes lost in contemplation; and Hamid’s were suddenly inundated by mischief.

The tranquillity of the ride didn’t last long. The sharp sound of hooves resonated when Hamid’s horse trotted increasingly faster past them. The horse’s mane and tail undulated with the wind while they distanced. A flock of birds flew away not without sharp piercing noises that sounded like reprimands against the rude behaviour of the four-legged beast and the noisy human on its back, disturbing the peace in their haven.

Dark hair tousled by the wind and grinning, he announced he’d be the first to arrive at the ruins and defied his friends to join him.

“Come on!” he cried over his shoulders, “It’s fun!”

Annabelle was quick in following his invitation and trotted past Luke and Elizabeth, who smiled at their merriment. When she considered joining them, a loud gasp escaped her mouth. In shock, she watched the scene unfolding. Less experienced and unfamiliar with the route, Hamid misled the horse, missing a curve many metres ahead. His body swayed in the saddle, almost slipping, and her heart skipped a beat. At full speed, the horse galloped, crossing the tall grass, and reaching another path at the opposite direction that would take them back to the woods.

All the previous feelings that troubled her mind came racing back. At that speed, either Hamid, the horse or both would get injured due to the many obstacles, like roots and ditches.

Swiftly, Luke guided his horse to the same direction, quickly gaining speed; and a moment after Elizabeth and Annabelle followed his lead.

Horse and its rider disappeared for a moment, and the next time Elizabeth had a glimpse of them, Luke was getting closer. Despite the adrenaline, his words to Hamid seemed calm. Parts of the instructions to slow the horse echoed in the field.

Thrill running through her veins, Elizabeth’s heart raced at the same rhythm of Clover’s hooves hitting the ground while she followed them. The horses left a cloud of dusty in their awake and Elizabeth bowed and squinted her eyes, trusting Clover would find the way to Hamid.

When her eyes opened again, Luke had managed to slow Hamid’s horse before reaching too deep into the woods. Anxiously, she dismounted Clover. Adrenaline high in her system, she ran the remaining metres to where the horses had stopped, and Luke was helping Hamid dismount.

“Is he...?” Elizabeth breathlessly asked Luke, and he nodded.

“He’s fine.”

Her eyes inspected Hamid from the top of his head to his feet, as if still trying to convince herself he was perfectly fine. She inhaled deeply and tried to calm herself.

Growing up, she got used to the thrill of races through this fields and woods and all sorts of shenanigans with her brothers and their friends, pretending to be part of the group of heroes that fought the Shadow Court; somehow, this right now felt completely different. Maybe she was way more out of practice than she thought, considering the last time she rode a horse. Maybe the years made her fearful and cured her of the past recklessness. Maybe she has grown into one of those nagging adults that spoiled everybody’s fun.

“This time you can’t deny it!” Hamid grinned and said out of breath, “You were running after me!”

“You joke?!”

“I see you are alright!” Annabelle laughed behind Elizabeth, having dismounted the horse, and joined the group of riders, under an immense oak tree.

“Have you seen how fast I was?” he directed his question to her, too excited.

“I certainly did. And I imagine how sore you’ll be later.”

“It’s not as... comfortable as my Suzuki... I admit. But it was so fast! This horse is... extraordinary!” he panted. His enthusiasm cut by loud exhales and breathed laughs.

Relief had washed over her companions at the sight of the unharmed Hamid, however, Elizabeth’s jaw tightened and her whole body shivered.

“If you haven’t noticed, we were running to prevent you from hurting yourself! There’s nothing funny about it!”

“My heroes.”

The smile he flashed, didn’t ease her frown.

How could he not take his own safety seriously?

“You said you knew how to ride...”

“I may have overestimated my skills... it seems... and perhaps my expertise with a different kind of horsepower was not immediately transferred…” he said, and this could be a reference to any of the vehicles and dangerous activities he enjoys in his free time. Leaning against the trunk of the oak tree, he tried to catch his breath, and failed to plaster a more relaxed expression. “But I’m a fast learner. Give me one more minute, and I’m ready to try again. I challenge you all to another race to the ruins.”

Heart thumping in her ears and knees risking buckling, Elizabeth crossed the remaining distance to him, who steadied himself against the trunk with an arm, pretending it was just to look cooler, which nobody would buy by now, not even her.

“Seriously?” she fumed. “You could get seriously hurt!”

“I didn’t.”

His unconcerned manners remained undeterred by reason, and she let out an exasperated sigh.

In a voice as sweet as possible considering his current shortness of breath, he called her name, and leaned forward.

Raising one index finger, she stopped the predictable move of his hand before it touched her inflamed cheek.

“Dude, you couldn’t control the horse... if not for Luke...” Elizabeth trailed off, not daring say the alternatives out loud. All at once, it dawned on her the warnings the adults uttered back when she was a kid. That same uneasiness stormed, and her stomach was churning at the thought of any of those horrible things happening to Hamid.

Judging by the quizzical look in Hamid’s face, he couldn’t understand the distress in her voice nor why she was taking the incident this seriously. Nothing happened after all, which he regretted telling her once her eyes were alight like his mother’s whenever he does the opposite of what she expects from him – but he refrained from saying that.

“Liz,” he asked softly, trying his best to sound less confused than he was, “was it any different from the stories you and Edmund shared? You seemed amused sharing your shenanigans...”

“Yes, it’s completely different! First, we were kids and... –” didn’t know any better what this kind of absence felt like! “– Second, we knew these paths like the backs of our hands. Third, we had advanced lessons! Unlike you!” The emotions bubbling inside caused her voice to raise to a higher pitch and waver like the crowns of the trees dancing with the breeze. “Your self-confidence can get you hurt. Or killed. Just look what this kind of stuff does to people much more skilled than you! You must be responsible for your safety! What if Luke couldn’t reach you? Think about the people you’ll hurt... God!” She let out an exasperated sigh and covered her face with her hands; bowing his head, Hamid stepped back, trying to collect his thoughts after her outburst.

Annabelle’s footsteps on the dirty were loud enough not to be ignored. When she approached and stood between them, her presence interrupted whatever would follow this exchange.

“Fortunately, nobody got hurt, and we’re halfway to the ruins. So, can we get going? I’m starving!”

“Of course.” Elizabeth dusted off her clothes and adjusted the jacket, returning to the composed self everybody is used to, at least in the outside.

Walking away with Annabelle, she didn’t look back, but she felt Hamid's stare following her.

With a sympathetic smile, Luke patted Hamid on the back and asked if he was sure he could go on, and he nodded, still looking confused by Elizabeth’s reaction. Apparently the only one who didn't anticipate the coming storm.

When the group reached the ruins, the cloud in Elizabeth’s eyes had dissipated, but she couldn’t shy away the dreadful thoughts racing in her mind. Therefore, she welcomed the interruption when a middle-aged man with a pristine white uniform and the emblem of Edgewater walked in her direction, addressing her with the due ceremony and respect reserved to noblewomen like herself. For once, she felt too tired to oppose the ritual and kindly asked him to lead the way to the picnic setting.

In a clearing beside the ruins, four large picnic blankets had been settled over the grass with at least a dozen matching throw pillows; from two picnic baskets peeked bottles of lemonade and other colourful beverages, and exquisite food had been arranged all over the blankets, ranging from apple pie to different kinds of pastries, fresh fruits, jam, and sandwiches. The sight made her mouth water.

With the conformation everything was perfectly assembled, and settled the time of their return to disassemble the setting, the man left, making his way to a black van where another employee was waiting.

The four friends gathered around the food – and inevitably talked about the absent two.

“Should we text them?” Elizabeth asked, “See if they are alright?”

“They’re probably more than alright, and that’s the matter,” Annabelle muttered under her breath, and started typing in her mobile. “I’m texting we’ll start eating without them. That will get Briar’s attention.”

No reply came to this or any of the texts and pictures of the picnic, and the group comfortably settled down. Elizabeth watched Hamid stretching before easing into one of the large pillows on her left; she averted her eyes when he noticed the attention, focused on cleaning her hand with a wet wipe.

Several minutes later, a clip-clop announced the last horse’s arrival. Something that looked too much like disappointment was evident in Briar’s face. One hour ago, not a soul would expect her to wish to extend any stroll that involved the company of horses.

Annabelle and Elizabeth shared a knowing look, and no words were necessary to convey what they thought of that.

Edmund’s hands wrapped around Briar’s waist tentatively, and with a swift motion he brought her to the ground safe and sound; she thanked him with a lingering kiss on his cheek, that turned his skin as red as the colour of her lipstick, and reluctantly they parted. Edmund clucked his tongue and guided the horse to a tree next to the others, while Briar walked in the opposite direction, throwing glances over her shoulder.

Once the party was complete, it was time to truly enjoy the picnic. The sight of the food and setting was enough to rekindle Briar's cheerfulness.

“I remember this place from the series,” Briar pointed out. “The duel was shot right there, wasn’t it?”

Beside her, Edmund confirmed, indicating a small totem like the ones seen at museums, that contains the story of the building, and pointed at the place where the Ottoman Prince was shot.

“So romantic!” she sighed, lying on her side over a few cushions. “That scene left me breathless. Can you imagine having someone loving you that much? Risking their own life for you?” Theatrically, the back of one hand pressed against her forehead and she let out a dramatic sigh.

“Aside the fact the duel was based on misogynistic premises and claims over a fully-grown and rational human being, I won’t deny that it must have been exciting to see it all unfold!”

“It would’ve been perfect if the prince didn’t miss the shot.”

“Don’t forget the pistol had been tampered,” Edmund said, a little bit too enthusiastic to share his knowledge about the matter. “He didn’t stand a chance and was truly lucky the duke was such a bad shot and let him walk out with such a minor injury.”

“A duel is such a stupid stupid idea,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath and shoved the remaining of the sandwich inside her mouth.

The others looked at her with a mix of amusement and surprise.

“Don’t you find the idea of going to a secluded place with your nemesis and shooting them dead at dawn appealing?” Annabelle teased, “Of all people, I thought you would have the longest list of candidates...”

“God, no! Violence is not the answer to everything!”

“Sometimes it’s necessary,” Annabelle retorted. “Nonviolent resistance is poetic, but pointless when your enemy is determined to crush you or has a literal gun pointed at you... for instance, you don’t fight fascists with flowers or hugs.”

“I can see your point... But in their case, the entire thing was pointless! The prince was shot for nothing! The engagement went on for weeks after the duel and he could have died,” Elizabeth stressed the last word. “There were no antibiotics back then! If he died... she’d be alone... and Clara had just lost her mother and father... Can you imagine how scared and lonely she must have felt? The uncertainty?” her last words were barely audible, strained by the tightness in her throat and chest.

Breaking the silence, Luke remarked, “I thought you never watched the series.”

“I got curious...”

“I told you it was amazing!” Briar cried, pulling herself back to a sitting position. “We should watch together!”

“I agree violence rarely solves anything and usually brings more trouble,” Hamid mused, possibly referring to his own line of work. “But human nature is complex and even the best of us can make bad decisions moved by less than noble feelings.”

“Can you imagine how absolutely mad at that wanker the prince should’ve been at that point?” Annabelle asked, “The man was known for being a pacifist –”

“Not very pacifist, considering he was cool with putting a bullet through that other guy’s head,” Luke added.

“As if you wouldn’t!” Briar taunted.

“I don’t think I would! That’s not one of the cases violence would be justified...”

“I think you all would,” Briar pointed at each of her friends, “if you were in the prince’s shoes... even you, Lizzy, if that meant you could save someone you loved.”

“There are other options... More civilized.”

“Maybe there weren’t!”

“They could have eloped. Or left together to the Ottoman Empire or anywhere else...”

“Fleeing?” Briar grimaced. “Countess Clara was a strong woman; she would never run away without fighting!”

“That’s true. And you need to remember it was a different world back then,” Edmund re-joined the conversation, “they didn’t have games to settle their differences by blowing each other’s heads off safely... which is much healthier in my opinion. However, if you read Countess Clara’s journal, you’ll understand their reasons and the importance of the duel and how it sealed their bond...”

“That sounds romantic!” Briar clapped her hands and scooted closer. “Tell me more!”

Soon, the conversation changed and new topics more and less controversial followed.

At some point, Annabelle had grabbed a pencil and her sketchbook from her bag and sat over a boulder, looking pensive at the group and their simultaneous conversations.

Noticing it, Elizabeth excused herself and sat beside her.

“What are you drawing?”

“Just sketching...” Annabelle handed the sketchbook to her, who examined the various partial sketches of faces of their group, including herself.

A wistful smile replaced the blank expression in Annabelle’s face, and she sighed.

“I used to come here with Harry all the time... and the twins. That tree was Juliette’s balcony. Harry fell on his bottoms trying to climb it after me and got furious because I couldn’t stop laughing... He blamed me for not taking my role seriously and that Juliette would never laugh at Romeo – which made me laugh even harder.”

“That sounds just like him...”

A strained laugh that turned into a sob escaped Annabelle's mouth, and she used the back of her hands to wipe some tears pooling in her hazel eyes.

“Sorry... If I knew what this place meant to you, I’d have picked some place else…” Elizabeth apologised, but the other smiled.

“Hey! Don’t you worry. I need new happy memories. And I can always use some practice.”

They sat in silence, while Annabelle resumed sketching the tower.

“I wish I could draw like that...”

“I can teach you, if you like,” Annabelle nudged her.

“I’ll take you up on that someday...” Elizabeth smiled, looking at the way she focused on the architectural details. “How long does it take you to paint someone’s portrait?”

“It depends on size, complexity of pose and background, things like that...” Excitedly, she practically bounced in place. “Do you wish me to paint yours? I already have so many ideas! Two words: flower crown!”

“Actually, I had someone else’s portrait in mind...”

Judging by the way she smiled, Annabelle already knew the answer to the question, but she asked anyway, “Whose portrait?”

Elizabeth fidgeted with one gold button of her jacket, and said softly, “Hamid’s birthday is in December… I was thinking he would enjoy an original Parsons...”

“It’s perfectly doable.”

“Do you think it’s too much to gift a friend?”

Annabelle shook her head, her ponytail moving from side to side. “There’s no such a thing. Art is a thoughtful gift, and you are a thoughtful person.” She paused and looked back at her friend. “And you care about him. That’s why you were so worked up before, right?”

Elizabeth crossed her arms in front of her chest and bit the inside of her cheek, and sighed, “Why is he such a… frigging reckless idiot?”

Annabelle laughed, “I think the polite word is ‘spontaneous’.”

“You know what I mean. It’s stupid to put himself in danger like that…”

“Where you see danger, some people see exciting opportunities to experience life. This kind of thrill can be good to the soul.”

“Do you think I’m being unreasonable?” the pitch of her voice raised slightly in the last word, conveying the outrage at the self-accusation.

“What if you were? Is that a bad thing? Nobody can be reasonable all the time. That’s how feelings work, isn’t it?” Annabelle nudged her side, and she caved, “I guess…”

Looking away at the horizon where leaden-coloured clouds in their endless swirls engulfed the hills, she fidgeted with one golden button. “Do you think I messed things up?”

“I’m not the one you should ask that question.” Annabelle tilted her head and raised her eyebrows indicating where Hamid and Luke were standing and engaged in an animated conversation.

For the first time in hours, she didn’t avert her gaze when Hamid noticed it, which seemed to encourage him to walk in their direction followed by Luke, both still talking enthusiastically. Their voices growing closer. When they arrived, Elizabeth’s shoulders tensed, and she only listened while Annabelle and Hamid talked about art.

Inspired by the light and wind, Annabelle asked Luke to pose mounting one of the horses, and she took many pictures with the mobile.

“For reference,” she explained to Hamid, who was curious about the concept.

A few moments later, the employees from Edgewater returned and Elizabeth exchanged a few words with them. With everyone minding their own businesses, Briar and Edmund took the opportunity to slip together to explore the ruins and Elizabeth decided to take a walk by herself, working on the lines of a possible dialogue with Hamid later.

A gentle tap on her shoulder caught her attention. A familiar presence standing behind her.

“Can we talk or are you still mad at me?” Hamid asked when she turned around to face him.

“I was not mad!”

Tilting his head, he simply smiled and gave her a knowing look. That look she’s so familiar by now and means he’s not buying it.

Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she didn’t back down, “I was reasonably explaining why you can’t do this sort of risky thing!”

“Then if you’re not mad, why are you still making that face every time you look at me?” He mockingly imitated her expression, narrowing his deep brown eyes and pressing his lips together in a thin line that curled downward in the edges.

“I don’t look like that!” she huffed, trying to keep a serious expression, too self-conscious of the way lines had definitely been creasing the area between her eyebrows.

“Of course not. Yours is angrier, but cuter. Like the angriest tiny kitten that you should fear but want to cuddle...”

She huffed again, “I don’t like when you do that.”

“Compliment your cuteness?”

“Say I’m tiny...” she snorted, “It’s rude!”

“Seriously? That’s what you’ve chosen to pick on what I said, Liz?” he asked getting cautiously closer. “Am I upsetting you? Do you want me to leave?”

“No...” she mumbled and dared look him in the eye. Biting the inside of one cheek, she was feeling too embarrassed and uncomfortable with this exchange. It was the opposite of what she had been rehearsing in her mind.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Or overstep. You’re a grown man and you can do whatever... risky and stupid thing you want… But... as your friend… I needed to warn you and –”

“You worry about me,” Hamid interrupted, saying the words she couldn’t. Welcomed by the way he smiled so openly, not a hint of judgement in his eyes, she nodded.

“I get it, and I appreciate it. I’m not used to people outside my family worrying about me.”

“Are we... okay?”

“Always.”

Smiling, he bent the arm closer to her, and with a flourish offered the crook of his elbow. “May I join your walk, my lady?”

“Are you back to your prince’s character?”

Gazing at her eyes, he said softly, “Today, I prefer that we simply be Hamid and Elizabeth, if you don’t mind.”

The butterflies in her stomach fluttered and tried to escape through her mouth, and she could barely answer him with a soft “Not at all.”

She linked her arm with his, and he took her hand and adjusted it in the crook of his elbow. Even after it was right in place, his hand remained over hers. Elizabeth had no intention in addressing the matter or ask him to remove it, on the contrary. The warmness of his hand spread and reached her chest and cheeks. It was always wonderful to enjoy the feeling of his soft and warm skin against hers, and his face transpired a similar enjoyment.

In comfortable silence they walked down a path framed by ancient oaks, distancing from the ruins and the place everyone else was. It was easy to forget the world in moments like these.

The wind blowing more insistently kept sweeping his hair until his hair products gave up, and she smiled at how messy and cute it became.

“Look at that!” he laughed, pointing at a flock of magpies in one of the trees.

Slowing their pace, they recited the nursery rhyme together pointing at each bird on the branches.

“And seven for a secret, never to be told,” she said looking at him, the lilt of her laughter and a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.

“Nine! There’s definitely nine!”

“Really?”

“You missed two that flew away.” Hamid pointed at the grey skies and recited the remaining verses like she taught him in the park, “Eight for a wish and nine for a kiss. How fortunate!”

“So, there will be a kiss in your future...”

“Our future,” he stressed the word.

“You saw nine,” she corrected with humour, “I did not...”

“Oh! In this case I must share my good fortune with you.”

He winked for good measure and red bloomed in her cheeks.

“Oh! How kind of you!” she teased but looked away, when he chuckled. Her heart thumping louder and faster against its cage. Forcing herself to look back at him and meet his gaze and amused grin, she saw an opportunity; her next words slipped from her lips in a lower but steady voice, “I wonder why you would be so kind to me...”

His lips uncurled and there was no laughter this time. Positioning himself in front of her, Hamid took both her hands in his, not minding how cold and moist they were.

“Do I really need to explain myself?” Bowing his head, he smiled; and she looked up. His dark brown eyes sparkled despite the sunlight barely succeeding in breaking through a sea of dark clouds. “I wanted to kiss you since we met. The only question is: do you want me to or not?”

To be honest, she has wanted to kiss him for most of the time they have known each other, and not in a friendly way.

With anticipation, her lips rolled inside her mouth and her tongue moistened them, like it did other times. His hooded eyes stared at her lips, making her heart race. However, her doubts glued her in place, preventing her from closing that gap that decreased with each short intake of breath.

Her throat became as dry as when she walked through the Atacama that vacation long ago. She could drink an entire bottle now, or maybe it was time to simply get drunk of him, ignoring that little voice inside of her head that sounds too much like her grandmother these days and let her future self worry about everything else.

Alas that was a thing she could do...

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and focused on the soothing motion of his thumbs stroking the backs of her hands.

“After what you said... at your flat... I... I was under the impression you would rather kiss someone else...”

His lips parted while he tried to recall the conversation she mentioned. “Someone else?” Hamid asked, his confusion frowning his brow. “I wonder what I could’ve possibly said that has led you to this conclusion, Liz...”

While she collected her thoughts, a sharp cry cut the air and a noisy flock of birds flew away, startling them. A wail impossible to ignore irrupted from the ruins.

They looked at each other and mumbled at the same time, “Briar.”

This was the cue for them to run. Holding hands, they sprinted to the entrance of the collapsed building just as a wide-eyed Edmund exited carrying Briar bride-style.

“What happened?”

“She fell. I – I think she sprained an ankle,” Edmund cried, and Luke examined the bare foot.

“It hurts.” Briar moaned and pressed the black heeled boot she was holding tight against her chest.

“I’ll take her home and call Dr. Collins.”

“The van,” Elizabeth cried and pointed at the vehicle, “It’s faster.”

Edmund nodded and changed direction, dashing to the vehicle in a surprising speed.

“What if she broke a bone?” Annabelle asked.

“Maybe she should go to the hospital...” Hamid pondered, and they all agreed.

“There’s not enough room for everyone...” Luke inspected the back of the van filled with items from the picnic and no seats available.

“Who will go with her?” Hamid said, looking between Briar and Elizabeth for directions, but the first wasn’t looking at him and the latter didn’t answer. Elizabeth’s entire body stiffened, the hospital was the last place she could go now, and she hoped Annabelle or Luke would offer to go instead.

While easing Briar into the passenger seat, Edmund didn’t wait for the deliberation and said he’d go. “As soon as we have news, I’ll call you.”

Leaning against the passenger window, Annabelle looked seriously at Briar. “I will refrain from telling you now heels were a terrible decision until we know how serious your injury is!”

Despite the pain, Briar snorted and hugged Annabelle.

“Don’t have too much fun while I’m gone!”

Edmund took a seat beside her and, immediately, her head leaned on his shoulder, and he encircled her with one arm.

As the man in white closed the door and started the engine, Elizabeth stared at the van moving away, wondering if she should’ve suggested that someone else accompanied Briar instead of Edmund. Moorfield is a small city and a visit to the hospital from a member of one of the most illustrious families in the region with a woman who is not his fianceé might cause a fuss.

“Don’t worry, Liz.” Hamid placed a comforting hand on her back, meeting her eyes with an encouraging smile. “Briar will be alright.”

“Will she really?” Elizabeth murmured still observing the van disappearing beside the trees.

“What do you mean?”

“Sorry, I'm just thinking out loud...”

He leaned closer and whispered, “He likes her.”

Of course, he knows. It shouldn’t surprise her. Besides, Briar and Edmund were not discreet or concerned in hiding their mutual interest this weekend.

“It’s easy to recognize the look on the face of a man in love...”

“Love?” Elizabeth echoed with a grimace, her eyes darting to his face. “They've seen each other a handful of times!”

“Don’t give me that look!” He chuckled and one of his fingers gently tapped the tip of her nose. Her nose and eyes scrunched, and she made one of the adorable faces he never gets tired.

“There’s no rule. Some people need time, others simply know...”

“Oh, please! It’s not always about love,” she protested, knowing that there are several other feelings that could be involved.

His shoulders raised almost to his ears, and he let them drop with a wistful smile. “What can I say, canım benim[1]? I’m a romantic.”

“You and Briar are the same,” she snorted, “Throwing the L-word around… saying people who barely know each other are in love…”

“Who else Briar thinks is in love and barely know each other?”

She gasped, “I never said that!”

Turning around, Elizabeth fished her mobile inside her pocket and pretended to read some “urgent notification”, like she told him, staring at the screen for a long moment until the faint smell of the first drops quenching the soil somewhere near the horizon reached her nostrils and reminded her of the incoming rainstorm.

A quarter after 3pm, the five horses and the four riders arrived safe and dry at the stables. The animals were left at the care of Mr. Walton and his industrious hands, and the four friends walked out cheering but were beaten by the storm in their race back to the manor.

The wind slammed a door, threatened to flip inside out the umbrellas Elizabeth and Luke carried and roused the crowns of trees at the main pathway, inviting them to an eerie dance.

The grey skies tumbled, afternoon turning into night. Cascading cold water washed over and the temperature dropped several degrees, or so it felt after every gush of wind.

The cold, however, didn’t deter the two who declined the umbrellas offered. Laughing and kicking and splashing the water running like a river at their feet, tilting their faces up and sticking their tongues out, they welcomed the drops as the most precious gift of nature.

Elizabeth will never question the benefits of rain. However, given the option she’ll always pick warm sunny days over rainy ones whenever she’s outside and the umbrella cannot protect her against the lashing cold drops.

The longer they stay outside, the more her pants got drenched and her lips quivered; fortunately, the terrace’s steps came to view. Just a few more metres. When she got to dry land with Luke, she dared looking back at the others.

In the pouring rain, arms stretched to the fullest, Hamid and Annabelle held each other’s hands swirling and laughing like it was the first time they were seeing rain.

Her ponytail was stuck to the neck, while locks of his black hair were glued to the forehead and sides of his face.

“I can’t remember the last time I played in the rain!” Annabelle cried, speaking louder than the pitter-patter of the rain against the roof, when they came running to the terrace laughing.

Elizabeth cannot remember either. The last she voluntarily stayed outside in the rain must have been when she was a kid and definitely before her mother got sick. After that, she became increasingly cautious about her own health: eating fruits and vegetables, taking vitamins, avoiding rain and dangerous activities and, most important, she’d do everything possible not to get sick, because she couldn’t afford being unwell and burden her mother. Later, whenever her mother’s health decreased and she needed to be cared, Elizabeth couldn’t bare the idea of doing something stupid and selfish and letting her down... That was the main reason she rarely travelled by herself for longer than a few days; or why she avoided drinking entirely. Except for that one time at seventeen when the prognostic was bad and her mother stayed over a month at the hospital, and she got so utterly sloshed with cheap wine with her friend Renata, she barely remembers anything that happened that weekend and how they came back home from the clubs; even the hangover that lasted an entire day and caused her to miss school at Monday was welcomed. It was good to feel something other than despondent for a change, even if it were the queasiness in her stomach and the obnoxious headache that pounded like a tambourine inside of her head.

Hamid asked something, interrupting her thoughts.

Her brain barely processed the question, and she looked at his eyes closer than anticipated, trying to find out if she missed a long bit of a conversation. Luke and Annabelle were not around anymore.

How long was she silently staring at the rain?

“Are you alright?” The neutral tone didn’t match the concern in his eyes.

How long was she silently staring at the rain?

“Just cold.” To be more convincing, she hugged herself tighter to keep warm, and a tight-lipped smile curled the corners of her lips without reaching her eyes.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? The rain makes everything more poetic.”

“Does it?” she asked. “I can think of a million ways the rain makes everything worse: traffic gets slower, drives us out of the beach during summer, turns everything sad and grey and wet and cold… and makes people sick. And I have a tight schedule. I can’t get sick! So, no, I don’t think it’s poetic.”

“Again, you are being too pragmatic.”

“Or are you being too much of a romantic?”

“I can’t deny that.”

A bright smile in his face, he leaned closer, making sure the wet coat hanging from his arm didn’t drip all over her. Despite the coat being impermeable, the rain had seeped through the collar and darkened his blue jumper, and her eyes followed the droplets still dripping from his hair, running down his face and soaking the fabric.

“But what about how beautiful the world looks? The way puddles reflect the light and façades of buildings? Or the thrill of dancing in the rain?”

“Dancing?” She shook her head. “It only works in movies...”

Slinging his arm over Elizabeth’s shoulders, droplets of water from his hair dripped and ran down his face and peppered her jacket. Too close to her ear, Hamid said, “If you’d give it a try, it’d change your mind. It’s the kind of refreshing experience that reminds how amazing it is to be alive! I’ll happily join you if you wish to try...”

“You know what would truly make me feel amazing right now?” she asked looking up at his face and meeting his eyes.

“Please do tell,” he purred, “especially if it’s something I can provide.”

“Dry clothes and warm chocolate.”

Briar returned from the hospital in time to have one mug of hot chocolate before the two-thermos bottles were completely emptied. A minor injury that resulted in zero broken bones, she told them, but ruined her plans to go out tonight.

“The bad news is I can’t go out with you, guys tonight…” she lamented, “It’s so unfair! I brought the cutest costume to wear tonight.”

To make her feel better, Edmund was catering to her every need, which included an icebag for her ankle, pain medication, a raspberry scone, and the first volume of the published journals of Countess Clara.

“We should stay in, anyway,” Annabelle suggested, “Anything we would do there, we can do here.”

“And in better company,” Hamid added with a charming smile.

While Elizabeth, Annabelle, Hamid, and Luke played another round of Just Dance, Briar had skipped most of the entries of the journal and went straight to the ones about the duel. Reading the most interesting parts aloud, she often stole the competitors' concentration... and was influencing the scores – whether it was on purpose or not, one could only suppose.

“Oh, my God!” Briar gasped. “This is sooo good!”

When nobody asked a follow-up question, she teased some more in a louder sing-a-song voice.

“I know why Lady Clara was so fond of the ruins!”

“You got to that part?” Edmund asked without raising his eyes, too focused on the task of rubbing anti-inflammatory gel on her injured foot.

“Which part?” Elizabeth asked, missing precious points while Hamid nailed all the moves.

“The saucy part!” Briar giggled. “The prince was smooth! Using that last night on earth line on her… Girl dropped her panties like that!” Briar snapped her fingers, then flipped a page. “Listen to this: ‘The moonlight illuminated Hamid’s features while he slowly removed his cape, then his kaftan. My gaze devoured every bit of skin uncovered, and my hand ached to touch him…’ Is it hot in here?” She fanned herself dramatically and Edmund handed her a glass of water.

The game couldn’t compete with the curiosity stirred by the descriptive details of the prince’s physique that followed and after forty-five minutes of uninterrupted dance, some of the players needed a break.

“That lady got dicked down good!” Briar let Hamid read over her shoulder the next paragraphs. “Outdoors pre-marital sex with a hot guy she was not engaged to in 1816: lady was living the life! I stan!”

When she finished reading the parts aloud, Luke, who had plopped in an armchair closer to the windows and observed the rain, asked, “Can we play something else?”

“Why?” Hamid asked. “This is so fun!”

“Only because you don’t suck at it...” Annabelle teased, nudging his side.

“Don’t come at me if you can’t keep up with my moves,” he retorted pulling an intricate combination of steps, she rolled her eyes and they laughed good-naturedly.

“I could use a break...” Elizabeth admitted taking a seat.

“Maybe another round of CoD?” Edmund suggested, and Briar looked puzzled.

“Call of Duty? The combat game?”

“Yes, please,” Briar said, “I don’t know how to play, but I want to kill zombies too!”

“Of course, darling. Hamid can sit this one out, he sucks anyway!”

“Hey,” Hamid protested. “I’m a pacifist. I don’t see the point on blowing anyone’s head off…”

“They’re zombies! Stop making poor excuses,” Annabelle teased.

“Why don’t we play the real zombie game!” Elizabeth said already fumbling inside the box. “Wake the Dead is so good! In the multiplayer we can kill all sorts of zombies.”

While they were preparing for the next game, Annabelle excused herself to go to the lavatory, and Elizabeth heard voices in the corridor.

“Did you hear that?”

“I didn’t hear a thing...” Luke shrugged, while texting.

“It sounded like Theresa’s laugh.”

“Very funny,” Edmund retorted, throwing his stepsister a dirty look.

“I’m not joking.”

“There’s someone outside,” Hamid said, and as if on cue, Theresa’s nasal voice was unmistakable heard through the walls. Instantly, Briar pulled her legs and Edmund bolted upright from his spot on the sofa.

“What’s she doing here?” he asked in a low tone, while rubbing his menthol-scented hands against his trousers, and Elizabeth shrugged.

“Your fiancee, dude... If anybody should know...”

Muttered a string of swearing under his breath, Edmund picked his mobile from a side table and there were seven missed calls from Theresa and an even larger number of messages that he ignored the entire day.

“Bullocks.”

An employee brought a tray with refreshments and announced Theresa’s arrival. The woman could no longer be ignored.

She politely greeted everyone with air kisses.

“Are you happy I came, Edmund?” Theresa asked with a wide smile. Edmund’s eyes squinted when she kissed the corner of his mouth, leaving a lipstick mark that she wiped with her thumb. “Your mother said you would!”

“Did she?”

“Oh! She did! She said: ‘Theresa, go to Edgewater immediately.’” She tried to mimic the countess’ voice, but it was just a lower-pitched version of her own voice. “I asked why and she said ‘because Edmund needs you by his side’ but I said I was busy with Felicity and I was going to do my hair... but she insisted, 'Pack your things now or don’t even bother coming anymore!’ The Countess is funny, I think. But I don’t get her humour sometimes…” She shook her head and grinned at the group. “What are you doing?”

“Playing video-games,” Elizabeth said lifting the controller in her hand. “Do you want to play?”

Clapping her hands, she squealed, “Yes! I do! Edmund never lets me play... Can I?” She looked at him pleadingly and he sighed. Before he could give up his controller, Elizabeth offered hers.

“Here, Theresa. You can play, I'll sit this one out.”

“That’s so kind of you, Elizabeth. Thank you.”

“You’re letting him play with his fiancé and Briar?” Hamid whispered, looking at the women sitting at both of his sides. “You’re devious.”

“I’m not!” She elbowed him. “And I’m not responsible for this situation…”

“It’ll be interesting to watch how it unfolds…”

“Indeed.” Annabelle slung her arms around Hamid and Elizabeth’s shoulders. “And you know what could make it even more interesting?” she asked, but it was simply rhetoric. “Drinking games!”

“I love drinking games!” Theresa and Briar cheered from their places at the sofa, and Annabelle couldn’t be more pleased with herself.

“Correction,” Hamid glanced at her with a sly smile, “you’re the devious one.”

----------------------------------------------

Notes:

[1] canım benim – Turkish expression equivalent to “my dear/my darling” and meaning literally “my soul”.

#desire and decorum fanfic #desire and decorum modern au!#prince hamid #prince hamid x oc #oc: elizabeth foredale #briar daly #edmund marlcaster #edmund marlcaster x briar daly #theresa sutton #annabelle parsons #luke harper #vincent foredale #second chances series #choicesjanuary23 #choicesjanuary2023

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karahalloway · 1 year

Text

Polo!

Fandom: TRR

Series: None (this is a one-shot and can be read independently of the rest of my fics)

Pairing: Drake Walker x Valeria Beauvaisis de Lavallée

Synopsis: Drake gets roped into playing a charity polo match when one of the other team members doesn't show for the game... What can possibly go wrong?

Word Count: 6,900 (this definitely ran away with me… 😅 I was aiming for 4,000 but here we are!)

Rating/Warnings: E (swearing, rough horseplay, BDSM, possible dub con... Drake never has any luck in my fics, does he...? 😅)

Theme song:

A/N1: So, as mentioned before, the idea of this one-shot came out of a conversation with @angelasscribbles, @harleybeaumont and @nestledonthaveone whereby we were discussing Drake's extra-curricular activities that involve tight pants (kind of spinning off of Angela's Homerun fic) and I happened to mention jodpurs... Queue a massive brainwave about Drake getting roped into playing polo (against his will, obviously, because even though I can see him having played this sport, I cannot see him willingly subjecting himself to wearing tight horseriding tights - even if it's part of the uniform 😅) and that is how this fic was born. Hope you have as much fun reading it, as I did writing it (also, I really hope you check out the music video at the end because it did indirectly inspire several aspects of this fic)!

A/N2: In terms of timeline, this fic takes place approx. 1 year after Drake comes back to Cordonia from Texas (i.e. 1 year after the assassination attempt on the royal family that is mentioned in canon), which is approx. 4-5 years before the start of (Un)Common Attraction, so Leo is still the Crown Prince during this period (also, Anton is just a random noble — no covert personality, no secret engagement to Olivia as I’m not following that storyline in my rewrites). This fic will also shed some light on something that Drake mentions in passing in Crazy, because I thought this set-up was the perfect opportunity to explore why he has such an aversion towards aristo women... and riding crops 😏

A/N3: Since polo is probably not a sport that most people are familiar with (I know I wasn't when I decided to write a fic about it!), and rather than take up masses of space in this post, I have prepared a bit of a Polo 101 Guide which will provide you with the basics of the game, as well as some videos about the world of high-society polo if you are interested in exploring further.

A/N4: I admit that the theme song I chose for this fic is a bit left-field, but in the strange land of my HC, if this fic were a movie/TV show, Boom is the song that would be playing during the montage of the polo match. Also I think it’s quite an appropriate underdog song for Drake in this fic 🤟

A/N5: This is my submission for the Choices January Challenge Day 10 (Easy | Hard | Exercise) with a bit of Day 28 (Tight | Loose | Clothes) thrown in.

Polo!

"No. Abso-fuckin'-lutely not."

"But we're short one player!"

I scoff. "It's not my fault Leo's a no-show! Find someone else!"

"There isn't anyone else!" cries Max, grabbing the front of my shirt in desperation. "You're literally our last hope, Drake!"

I slap the Beaumont's hands off me with a derisive snort. "We're at a VIP equestrian event. You seriously tellin' me that none of the aristos out there can ride a horse?"

"None as well as you can..." admits Chris.

I roll my eyes. He had a point.

"...and, as you well know, there is a bit more to it than simple horsemanship."

"Yeah. Like whacking an overpriced softball with a crocket mallet into soccer goal," I mutter. "None of which is hard."

Max pulls a pained face. "I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear you say that..."

"And that's precisely why you are the obvious choice to sub for Leo," insists Chris, clapping me on the shoulder. "Not only can you put each and every noble out there to shame with your riding skills, but you've also got a killer swing. The other team's not going to know what hit them!"

"A well-aimed polo ball to the back of the head," I mutter under my breath.

Max sucks in a sharp breath. "Does that mean you'll do it?"

Lifting my eyes begrudgingly, I take in the sight in front of me.

Chris and Max are looking at me like a pair of lost kittens — wide-eyed and pleading, begging me to be the answer to their first-world problems.

I heave a resigned breath. "Okay, fine..."

"Yey!" squeals Max, literally throwing himself at me as he bounces up and down like a hyperactive pinball. "Drake's playing with us!"

"But," I say firmly, disentangling myself from the unwarranted — and definitely unwanted — PDA, "this is strictly a one time deal. And this cancels out your last IOU, buddy."

"Understood, mate," grins Chris happily. "Welcome to the team!"

"Yeah, yeah..." I grumble with a roll of my eyes. "Whatever..."

The things I do for Chris...

"There you are!" cries Bertrand, bursting into the bathroom of the clubhouse where Chris and Max have cornered me. "Please tell me you've managed to cajole a hapless substitute into filling in for Leo!"

"Sure have, brother!" enthuses Max with a beaming smile.

"Oh, thank the Almighty Lord!"

"Drake has kindly offered to help us out," confirms Chris, dropping an appreciative arm around my shoulders.

Bertrand's face drains of colour. "Oh, good God..."

I suppress a sigh. This... This is the reason I didn’t want to do this.

The aristo bubble — not to mention the high-society polo one — is small and tightly knit. So, as soon as I ride out onto that field, it’ll take precisely four seconds for everyone to figure out that I am an interloper with no credentials for being here.

And I’m not going to be made to forget it...

But, unfortunately for everyone involved, it’s too late to back out now. The match is starting in less than ten minutes and as much as Bertrand might balk at the idea of a commoner — who’s a Western-riding, half-American to boot — taking the spot of the Crown Prince of Cordonia on the royal team at a high-profile charity event, the fact is that unless they want to start one man short (and suffer the associated penalties and ridicule) there is no other option.

Because Chris is right. Despite the fact that I’ve never set foot in any of the fancy equestrian schools that the aristos like to pay an arm and a leg for the 'privilege' of attending, I can probably out ride the whole ritzy lot of them. And am therefore the team's best chance at not only making the match, but maybe even winning it.

As I have something that the rest of those blue-bloods don’t. And that’s the Walker name. Which — in north-east Texas, at least — is synonymous with Quarter Horses and rodeo.

And even though the ranch has fallen on hard times and is struggling to stay afloat, and I ended up choosing a different calling, horses are still in my blood. Because even before Savs and I could walk, Dad — and Paps, while he'd still been alive, God rest his soul — had been sticking us in the saddle to make sure that we knew not just how to ride, but to ride like a Walker... intuitively, effortlessly, at all times in tune with the horse.

And in polo — much like in rodeo — that’s ultimately the most important thing.

"But... but he's not a club member!" splutters Bert.

"It's just some paperwork," Chris reminds him. "We can square that away during half-time."

"Absolutely not!" comes the objectionable response. "That is most inappropriate and highly irregular! We simply cannot—"

"I can ask the umpire for extra time!" chimes in Max. "To make sure everything is above board. Also, Drake still needs to get kitted out and—"

"But he's never played before!" stresses Bert. "We cannot field a novice player against a professional team! We'll look like utter gits!"

"Drake knows the rules," interjects Chris calmly. "He's attended several training sessions with me and—"

"That is no substitute for in-match experience!" expounds Bert. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. But Mr Walker simply is not qualified to take on the Number 3 position, given that—"

"Five minute warning, gents," advises a steward, popping his head into the bathroom. "If you want to make the match, you need to—"

"Tell the umpire we're on our way," instructs Chris. Fixing his emerald gaze back on the elder Beaumont, he adds, "Bertrand, give Drake your shirt."

Bert's jaw drops. "M-my shirt?"

"As you so eloquently pointed out, Drake is probably not the best placed to take over the Number 3 position. But he can play as a Number 2."

"But... that is my position," objects Bert.

"Which is precisely why he requires your shirt," explains Chris with infinite patience.

Bert's shoulders sag as the penny finally drops. "Ah. Yes. I see." He reluctantly pulls his jersey off to hand it to me.

Turning his gaze on Max, Chris adds, "Show Drake where he can find Leo's kit and then tell the grooms to meet us by the field with the horses in five minutes."

"Yes, sir!" affirms Max, snapping to attention.

Bert wheezes in outrage. "Five minutes! But we—"

"We are going to get Drake registered," Chris declares, grabbing the Beaumont by the front of his undershirt to haul him from the bathroom, "Captain."

Four minutes later, I'm sat astride Leo's dark bay Thoroughbred, fidgeting in the saddle like a convict in the confessional.

"How the hell do y'all wear these things?" I grumble, trying — and failing — to find a position that doesn’t compromise the constitution of my cojones.

"You get used to it," Max assures me unconcernedly, stretching in his seat as his palomino mare flicks her ears questioningly back and forth.

"Yeah..." I mutter, shifting my weight uncomfortably while juggling two sets of reins in one hand, and a four-foot mallet in the other. "At the expense of your balls..."

I passed on the optional whip and spurs back at the changing rooms. They’re unnecessary props, and would've just gotten in the way of my riding, given that I’m already going to have my work cut out for me controlling an unfamiliar, high-strung horse, not to mention the equestrian-equivalent of the elusive Snitch.

"Beaumont?" asks the umpire, riding up to us. "Where is the rest of your team? Most importantly, your captain? Are you aware that—?"

"Apologies for running late!" pants Chris, pulling his horse to a stop next to us, Bert on his heel. "Had to make a last-minute adjustment to the team."

"And did this adjustment result in a complete disregard for the uniform...?" queries the umpire with a raised brow.

"No, sir," replies Bert, quickly pulling on Leo's Number 3 jersey that Max had tossed over to him.

"Hmph..." harrumphs the umpire. "You are lucky you are not receiving a yellow card for tardiness. This is an important match, after all..."

"Yes, understood," nods Bert. "Our sincerest apologies once again, sir."

"This your substitute player, then?" he asks, turning to inspect me critically.

"Unfortunately..." mutters Bert under his breath.

I roll my eyes.

"Is he qualified?"

"Yes, sir," the Beaumont affirms. "All fees duly paid prior to the start of the match."

"And his handicap?"

"Not rated," grits Bert with clenched teeth.

The umpire's eyes widen. "A rookie? Is that who you're substituting for the Number 2 position?"

"Believe me, if it had been up to m—" Bert hisses as Chris' mallet smacks into his ankle. "Ehm... What I meant to say, is that we had no other option. Mr Walker was the only available candidate who was able and willing to sub for the sadly indisposed Crown Prince on such short notice."

"I see..." muses the ref. "Well, you are lucky that this is a charity open match. Otherwise, your team would not qualify."

"Yes, sir," grumbles Bert. "I am exceedingly aware..."

The ref purses his lips. "Alright, then. Let's get to it. We don't want to keep everyone waiting any longer. Good luck, gentlemen."

"Thank you, sir," acknowledges Bert with a nod as the ref turns his horse away, before declaring, "We're doomed..."

"Oh, cheer up, brother!" grins Max with unshakable enthusiasm as he gathers his reins. "It's just a charity match — not the Cartier Queen's Cup. We're here to have fun!"

"That is exactly the attitude that cost us the last tournament!" snaps Bert, kicking his mount into a canter. "These horses don't pay for themselves, you know!"

Max shrugs unconcernedly as he rides after his brother. "There's always next year."

"Ready for your big debut?" asks Chris with a smirk as we follow the Beaumonts onto the field.

I throw him a sidelong glance. "You know this ain't my first rodeo."

Like Chris had pointed out earlier, I’m no stranger to polo. Both the Beaumonts and the Rys are avid players, so I've attended my fair share of matches and training sessions over the years, even hopping into the saddle on a few occasions, if circumstances — or friendly competition — called for it.

But I've never played a formal game. I’m not part of a polo club and don’t have a handicap. Much less ever subjected myself to a pair of nut-strangling jodhpurs...

Until today, that is.

Because I’m not — and never have been — able to say 'no' to Chris.

Even against my better judgement... and the sanctity of my manhood.

"Official debut, then," he concedes with a wink as we arrive in the middle of the field.

"Call it what you will," I mutter as I turn my horse to line myself up next to Chris, feeling the predatory glares of the opposing team burning into me. "Cause this is gonna be a shitshow."

Swinging my mount around, I bring us to a stop, facing the crowd, Bert and Max having already taken their positions for the national anthem.

The Thoroughbred tosses his head, chewing on the bit, his racehorse instincts battling with his polo pony training. I tighten my grip on the reins to keep the antsy gelding still as the familiar symphony of the Cordonian anthem blares out of the speakers... and crowd's eyes bore into me.

I feel my jaw tighten as I force myself to keep my gaze fixed straight ahead, the chords of the chorus swelling around us.

If these bastards think they can intimidate me, they have another thing coming...

The music crests, before cutting out as the recording comes to an end.

"Showtime," winks Chris as he canters his horse past me.

I shake my head as I follow suit, looping my mount around in a wide circle to help him — and me — blow off some steam before the first throw in.

Here we go...

"My, my... Look what the cat dragged onto the field," sneers Neville from across the line as the teams face off over the centre line. "The Palace trying to rig the match in our favour?"

"Do you even know which end of the stick to hold, Walker?" queries Anton with a smirk.

"Sod the stick," scoffs Tariq from next to him. "He's not going to last thirty seconds into the first chukkah before he ends up face-first in the dirt... where he belongs."

"Famous last words, Besnard," I grin, hefting my mallet as the ref raises the ball. "Careful they don't come back and bite you on the ass."

Tariq's eyes narrow...

...but before he has a chance to formulate whatever pathetic comeback he’s going to fling at me, the umpire's tossed the ball between us and all hell breaks loose.

Everyone surges forward, looking for the speck of white. The ball pings off the hoof of Bert's horse, careening towards the other team. Neville's mallet comes down to try and claim custody, but I barrel my horse into his, bumping him off as I lean over and smack the ball down the field to Chris.

Quick as a scalded cat, Chris spurs his pony forward, using his own mallet to drive the ball in front of him towards the goal, the other team on his heels like a pack of rabid wolves. But before they can intercept him, Chris has whacked the ball through the posts, scoring our first point of the match.

Cheers erupt from the stands as Chris turns his horse to canter triumphantly back up the field, a massive grin on his face.

"Great shot, buddy," I say as we line up for the second throw-in.

"Got you to thank for the pass, mate," he replies breathlessly, thanks to the adrenaline kicking in in earnest. "Few more of those and we'll be taking home the trophy!"

"Don't count your blessings yet, Chris," I warn. "We managed to catch them off guard, but they're on the warpath now. They're not gonna make it easy for us."

"Then we'd better return the favour, hadn't we?"

The ball whizzes through the air again. Bert makes a dive for it, but he's not quite quick enough. Tariq leans over his horse's neck to scoot it out of the Beaumont's reach. Max rides in to try and defend, but Tariq's already passed the ball up-field.

Spurring my horse into a gallop, I rush towards the goal posts to shore up our defence — seeing as Max, who’s playing the Number 4 position — won’t make it in time.

Sensing my approach, Tariq passes the ball just before I can hook my mallet around his stick to stop the shot. I whirl the bay around, but even with Bert going hell for leather in an attempt to ride off the other player, and Chris trying to intercept, the ball passes through our goal posts.

"Dammit," I hiss under my breath.

"You didn't seriously think we'd go easy on you, Walker?" smirks Tariq as he turns his horse to ride back to the starting line. "You may have a Prince on your team, but on this field, we are the kings of the sport."

"Then you'd better be prepared to fight for your crown," I growl as I canter back to the middle of the field.

The rest of the first half passes by in a blur of rough riding and several fouls — mostly in our favour. But that isn't quite enough for us to regain our initial lead, and by the time the whistle blows, we're still sitting neck-and-neck with the other team.

"I'm gonna murder that bastard..." I seethe as I jump off my wheezing horse — my third of as many chukkahs. Thoroughbreds may have grit and stamina, but seven minutes of hardcore polo’s guaranteed to wind even the sturdiest mount, so frequent subbing of horses is a must.

"Which one?" asks Chris, unclipping his helmet to wipe the sweat off his face.

"All of them," I grit, launching a well-aimed strike at the fence-post in front of me... and snapping the mallet I’m holding in half.

"Mr Walker!" cries Bert, grabbing my shoulder in horror. "That is most unbecoming behaviour! We are at a high-society charity match! Representing the royal team! You will not—"

"To be fair to him, I'd want to break something too after that shocking umpiring."

My head whips around. "No fuckin' way..."

"Leo!" cries Chris, rushing up to his brother with an ecstatic smile to wrap him in a bear-hug. "You made it!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa...!" protests the elder Rys with a pained grimace. "Easy on the enthusiasm! Some of us are still rat-arsed from last night..."

"No surprise there..." I mutter under my breath.

Wouldn't be the first time Leo rolled up to a royal event late and nursing a hangover.

"...and in need of a shower," observes Chris, wrinkling his nose. "Did you sleep in the stables, brother?"

"Pfft! No!" snorts Leo derisively. "Who do you take me for? A complete and utter pleb? I slept in a horse trailer, thank you very much!"

"And that's better...?" queries Chris sceptically.

"It is when it's a top-of-the-line rig owned by a pair of sisters who are both very accomplished riders," comes the eyebrow-waggling response.

"I should expect so!" harrumphs Bert. "If they managed to qualify for this weekend's event then at the very least they would need to be—"

"I'm pretty sure he means, sex," stage whispers Max into his brother's ear.

"Oh." Bert's eyes widen. "Oh!"

"Un-fuckin'-real..." I groan, raking a hand down my face.

"I admit that it may seem hard to believe, Walker," replies Leo, laying a somber hand on my shoulder, "but it is possible to bang two birds with one pecker."

Chris frowns. "It is...?"

"I know what a fuckin' threesome is, Rys!" I snap, knocking his hand away. "What I don't get is why you thought it'd be a good idea to lose yourself in booze and pussy when you should've been in the saddle for the royal match that you were supposed to captain!"

"Mr Walker!" gasps Bert. "That is no way t—"

"Because then we would've missed out on the sight of you in those white jodhpurs, Walker!" grins Leo without skipping a beat. "And what a shame that would have been!"

"Screw you, Rys!" I grit. "I'm not wearing these fuckin' things by choice!"

"All the more reason to appreciate it, then!" he winks, reaching 'round to try and lay on one my ass.

I jerk instinctively out of the way. "Fuck off, you perv!"

"I have to agree," muses Max prosaically. "The tightness of the fit really helps emphasise the shapeliness of your—"

"For the love of Christ!" I explode. "Will y'all just lay off my ass!"

"I was going to say thighs..." objects Max.

"One minute warning, gents," interrupts the ref.

"Thank fuck!" I heave relievedly under my breath.

Never thought I'll actually be jumping at the opportunity to get back on that field. Especially after ending up in the hedge thanks to Tariq barrelling his pony into me, and Neville gut-shotting me with the head of his mallet... both on the pretence of not having seen me coming.

Fuckin' assholes...

Luckily, the umpires had seen through their thinly-veiled BS and had awarded penalties in our team's favour. Not that that lessened how much pain I’m in. But I’m not gonna give those blue-blooded dick-weeds the satisfaction of thinking they can brute force me out of the match...

I'll just have to deal with the inevitable physical fallout later tonight... in the company of a bottle of whiskey and a half-a-dozen ice packs.

Plus, the chance of potential further injury is a small price to pay to get away from the fucked-up turn this conversation has taken...

But as I turn on my heel to head back to my horse, I feel the undeniable force of a flat-handed whiplash reverberate over my rear.

"Hate to see you go, Walker!" hoots Leo. "But love to watch you leave!"

A growl of aggravation hurtles out of me...

...but before I can round on the jerk-face of a Rys, I feel Chris' arm drop around my shoulders.

"He means it all in good fun," he reminds me, steering me away. "No need to get worked up about it."

"Easy for you to say," I grunt abrasively. "Your ass ain't the one in the line of fire."

"True," he concedes. "But then I don't cut quite the same figure as you do in jodhpurs."

A dry scoff escapes me. "Your loss, buddy. I keep telling' you to come to the gym. You could've been on the receiving end of all this attention today."

"And steal your limelight?" laughs Chris, swinging into the saddle. "That wouldn't have been very sporting of me now, would it?”

I roll my eyes as I mount my own horse. "Steal it all you want. You know I prefer it on the sidelines."

"I think the ladies might disagree..." He flicks his head meaningfully towards the stands behind me as he clips his helmet back into place.

Glancing over my shoulder as I grab a replacement mallet, I spot the no less than thirty females with binoculars trained on our position, their accompanying hand-crafted silk fans going at full-tilt.

I turn back to Chris. "They're just eyeing you up, buddy. No doubt as a potential marriage prospect."

"And you," he winks, hefting his mallet onto his shoulder as he rides back out onto the field. "You have managed to capture their attention quite decisively as well."

I shake my head with a scoff as I follow after Chris. "Yeah. Right."

Hell'd have to freeze over first...

In all the years that I've lived at the Palace, I can’t remember a single time when a girl — any girl, much less a social-climbing aristo — has ever given me a time of day when I've been stood next to Chris. And even if I did manage to strike up some semblance of a conversation, the moment they found out that I’m a nobody — with no rank, title, or prospect of a massive inheritance, I was as good as dead to them.

Because who'd want to waste time on a commoner when there was a bone fide prince on offer? Not anyone sane.

Not that I really care.

I have about as much in common with aristo women as shit does with Chanel — fuck all. So, I kept my distance, and they kept theirs, save for the occasional forced interaction mandated by basic decency at public events.

And that's why I know — for a fact — that it isn’t me those high-society females are checking out. Not when both the Rys and the Beaumont brothers are eligible and available.

So, I waste no more time thinking about it, and focus, instead, on the task at hand. Which is paying the other team back for the hell they gave us earlier.

But Neville and Co. clearly have the same idea, because the second half of the match unfolds just as brutally as the first. Neither side is willing to give any quarter as we battle each other like vandals for possession and goals.

I bear the brunt of the attacks, but I’m rewarded with some perverse retribution towards the end of the fifth chukkah when in their haste to intercept me, Tariq and Anton collide into each other, and Tariq gets thrown from the saddle.

Yet against all the odds, our perseverance pays off. In the last thirty seconds, we manage to steal the ball away from the posh pricks in a clever bit of defence curtesy of the Beaumonts, turning the play around to score in their goal instead, and ending the match 10-9 in our favour.

"Whoo!" exults Max, jabbing his mallet into the air as we ride jubilantly off the field. "What a game!"

"Couldn't have done it without Drake," adds Chris, waving to the cheering crowd as we canter past the stands.

"Yeah. Definitely wouldn't've gotten so many penalties," I mutter, wincing from the latest set of bruises... while trying to shrug off the attention I suddenly find myself the focus of again.

"Yes," agrees Bert. "I have to admit I was sceptical, but young Mr Walker here has certainly proven himself to be a capable substitute."

"Bloody capable, I'd say!" interjects Max. "Did you see that goal he scored with that tidy cut shot? Or when he managed to steal the ball from Neville and ride it all the way back up the field with three players chasing him? Or—"

"Yes, yes," accedes Bert with a sigh. "We may make a semi-decent polo player out of Mr Walker yet."

"Semi-decent?" I snort caustically.

"High praise from Bertrand if ever I heard it," winks Chris at me.

"Bravo!" claps Leo as we reach the staging area at end of the field. "The royal team rides to victory!"

"No thanks to you," I point out, throwing my leg over my horse's neck to slide out of the saddle. After the beating I've taken today, I don’t have it in me to try and dismount the traditional way. And even my modified solution causes me to grunt in pain as I hit the ground.

"A great leader knows when to delegate," he responds unabashedly, reaching for my rear again.

I slap his hand away. "Last warning, Rys. You try that shit again and you'll be delegating everything for the next six to eight weeks..."

"You think I don't do that already, Walker?" he grins, completely unfazed by the seriousness of my threat.

"Putain de merde..." I huff under my breath as Leo ambles off to personally congratulate the rest of our team.

It isn’t exactly a secret that the heir to the throne is less than reliable when it comes to fulfilling his royal duties. But he can at least try to be less blasé about it. Especially considering the fact that everyone around him’s left constantly scrambling to cover for his increasingly frequent absences.

Sensing movement behind me, I turn to step in front of the groom that’s appeared next to my horse.

"Je m'en occupe," I declare, taking the reins back decisively.

The lanky teen opens his mouth to protest, but I've already turned away to lead the chestnut mare towards the stable block.

I know it’s common practice for polo players to dump the care of their mounts on the fleet of grooms that accompany each team — partly so they don’t get their expensive white jodhpurs soiled, and partly because they no doubt feel that grunt work’s beneath them. But I'm already covered in everything from sweat to blood to dust, so getting a few extra horse hairs on me isn’t gonna make a lick of difference to how I look... or smell.

Plus, after all the crap that I've had to put up with today, the last thing I want to do was pose for photos, gag on fancy pisswater, and pretend to socialise with flunkies, flakes and fat cats.

That’a Chris' world. Not mine.

Especially since I can have a more intelligent conversation with my horse than with half the tossers out there... and I definitely don’t want to interact any further with the assholes who tried to land me in the ER today. As otherwise things are bound to get ugly off the field as well.

Best that I just remove myself from the spotlight, and let the Beaumonts and the Rys take the credit and the congratulations.

Entering the coolness of the stables, I make my way down the row of stalls, scanning the engraved name plates as I go.

Locating the right stall — based on the name stamped on the mare's bridle — I lead the horse in after me.

Unclipping the bridle, I sling it over my shoulder and let the chestnut drink while I pull the saddle off. Dropping the tack over the stall door, I slip quickly into the familiar motions of my past life as I set about removing the bandages from her legs and unbraiding her tail, the tension in my shoulders starting to unravel as I worked.

As life-or-death as the match may have been, it had been a nice change of pace to be back in the saddle again, working with horses...

Humming Garth Brooks’ Rodeo softly under my breath, I stuff the bandages into my back pocket and pick up the saddle and bridle again to return it to the tack room.

...which makes me think of the young gelding that I left back in Texas.

I heave a breath. Need to figure out what to do with him...

In the midst of my abrupt departure from the ranch last year, and the fraught months that followed trying to steer Chris through the psychological minefield of his PTSD, the last thing I've been thinking about is Lone Star, or my future plans. But now that things aren’t so touch and go – Chris' performance at today's match a testament to how far he's come thanks to his counselling sessions – I have some overdue soul searching of my own to do.

Stowing the mare's tack away, I'm reaching for a grooming kit when I feel the tell-tale pressure of fingertips digging into my backside.

I whip around with a growl. "Touch my ass one more time, Rys, and I swear to God, I'll—"

"Hmm... Testy on and off the field..."

Whatever I’m going to say gets forgotten as I find myself staring into the grey-green eyes of a truly stunning blonde.

"But then I always preferred my males to be hot blooded," she purrs, her blood-red lips curving into a seductive smile as she steps closer.

"Umm... I... Ah..."

She's somehow managed to put a stranglehold on my vocal cords as well...

...probably because she’s wearing nothing except stilettos and a black lace bustier.

"Not very articulate, though..." she muses, flicking her gaze over me... like a cat trying to decide whether she should eat her prey, or toy with it first.

I swallow hard. "I—"

"Not that it matters, I suppose," she declares, slapping the business-end of a riding crop over my mouth, cutting me off. "Because I'm not looking for platitudes..."

A strangled noise escapes me as she grabs me through the front of my pants. Holy fuck!

"...I'm looking for a savage ride."

Before I can choke out some kind of puerile response, she's shoved me backwards...

...and despite about a million warning bells going off in my head, I feel my dick twitch in response.

It could've been her uncompromising voracity, or the thrill of the unexpected. But one thing’s for sure — no girl’s jumped me out of the blue like that before and her take-control attitude’s hot as hell.

Maybe I've been wrong about aristo girls...

Because there is no mistaking that that's what she is — the polished accent, the perfectly styled hair, the pearls at her neck. But apparently that’s all just a carefully constructed façade to hide the low-down-and-dirty nympho that lurks underneath.

Stumbling, I land unceremoniously on the top of the wooden storage chest behind me. "Whoa... Easy there, missy—"

A loud crack rends the air.

"My name is Valeria Beauvaisis de Lavallée, Viscountess of Roussillon, you boor," she pronounces imperiously, sticking her heeled foot into my chest to push me back against the wall.

Lifting my hand to my stinging cheek, I feel a wetness beneath my fingertips. She managed to draw blood.

"And you will call me mistress." Wedging the leather keeper beneath my chin, she forces my gaze up to meet hers, demanding compliance. "Understood?"

The sharpness of the pain colliding with a sudden flash of animosity spikes my arousal into completely uncharted territory.

Domination? Rough play? Bit of bondage? Sure. I’m down for all that. But normally I’m the one running that particular show. So, finding myself on the receiving end of my own kinks is disorienting, to say the least...

...but not enough for me to want to tap out.

So, I give her the barest of nods.

"Good boy," she purrs approvingly, taking her foot off me to trail the end of the crop down my neck like a caress. "Now disrobe yourself."

My eyes narrow. It’s gonna be like that, huh?

Grabbing the bottom of my jersey, I start to pull it up slowly, holding her gaze the entire time.

Because while she may have managed to temporarily leash me, that doesn’t mean that I was suddenly her poodle, doing tricks on command.

So, while I’m willing to play along, it’s gonna be on my terms.

And I’m determined to make her sweat.

The bottom of the shirt clears my ribs, and I don't miss the sharp intake of breath as she rakes me with her gaze.

Plus, it’a satisfying to test her prepotence. No matter how marginally. Because she isn’t the only one here who can power-play.

I fling the shirt off.

"Now your bottoms," she commands hoarsely, alabaster cheeks flushed pink with arousal — and I haven’t even touched her yet.

I comply, reaching for the clasps at the front.

Her tongue darts out to moisten her bottom lip in anticipation.

I pop the top fastening.

Her pulse visibly quickens.

Finding the zipper, I start to inch it down lazily, my brazen gaze not leaving hers as I push myself back up to my feet.

Her breath catches in her throat as I shove the jodhpurs down. "Nom de Dieu..."

A lupine smile curves at my lips as I take a step closer. "You like what y—?"

I grunt as another blow lands on me.

"I did not tell to speak, rake," she bristles indignantly. "You will—"

The sudden jolt of pain unleashes something feral inside of me.

"Fuck this," I growl.

Grabbing her roughly around the waist, I snap her to me.

Her eyes widen in shock.

But before she can protest further — or whip me again — I've crushed my mouth to hers.

She may like playing the ruthless domina, but there is only one way this is gonna end — with her bent over, getting fucked.

Because I’m nobody's bitch, and refuse to be treated like one.

Her palm connects with my face. "How dare you!"

I jerk back in confusion. "Wha—?"

"I didn't give you permission to touch me, you presumptuous oaf!" she snaps, laying into me with her crop again. "Much less kiss me in such a disgusting fashion! I have a husband for that!"

My eyes widen. "Wait! You're marr—?"

"To a degenerate old todger who can't even do his business in the john, let alone with his wife," she pronounces, shoving me backwards. "So, I want your cock. And you're going to give it to me."

I crash tailbone-first onto the storage chest again. But I don't even have a chance to try and catch my breath because Valeria's already clambering onto my lap.

Grabbing my jaw roughly between her nails, she hisses, "Now shag me like the wild beast that you are!"

I slap her hand away. "Like he—"

"No excuses!" she screams, smashing the riding crop down against my thigh.

I jerk at the harsh impact...

...and she takes advantage of my momentary distraction to impale herself onto me.

"Jesus fuck!" I cuss as the hard downward momentum nearly snaps my dick in half.

"Mmm! That's it!" she exults maniacally, grabbing onto my shoulders with her manicured nails. "Service me with your functional tool!"

"Find a fuckin' mechanic, then," I hiss, trying to wrest her off me... because while I’m many things, homewrecker is not one of them. And I’m not gonna allow myself to be complicit in adultery. Under any circumstances.

A choked wheeze flies out of me as she grabs my balls in a vice-like hold without warning.

“Service me, you insolent cur," she hisses into my face, "or I'll geld you like one of my unruly colts."

Looking into her flashing eyes, it's clear that she ain’t bluffing neither.

Yup... I'd been definitely wrong about aristo women. They don’t just have a superiority complex. They’re batshit fuckin' insane.

And I should've trusted my gut when ittried to warn me that this beguiling siren was exactly that — a cold-blooded predator out on the prowl.

But — like the literal dickhead that I am — I'd let the promise of a hot fuck hijack my better judgement. Which is exactly what she'd been counting on when she set her sights on me.

I yank her against me with gritted teeth.

Because now that she's sunk her claws into me — quite literally — she isn’t gonna let me go until she got what she came for.

So, the faster we get this done, the better.

And I may as well try to get something out of this runaway train wreck besides the cuts and bruises of the repeated flagellations... and the black mark on my conscience...

...even if it’s just her talons off my junk.

"Yes! Yes!" she cries. "Ride me like a rabid animal!"

But despite that fact that I’m wedged balls-deep up a tight and very willing cunt, the moral weight of the sin I’m committing is apparently stronger than whatever physical gratification I’m managing to eek out of the situation...

Which — all things considered — is the square root of fuck all, as her death-grip on my stones, plus the beating I already received out on the field are conspiring to make each upwards thrust feel like a literal act of torture.

So, I start to deflate.

"I said harder!" she cries, momentarily releasing the hold she’s got on me to slap me remorselessly with that accursed crop.

"Nope," I say, taking advantage of the unintended opening to buck her off me into the cold stone floor. "We're done."

"You vile cretin!" she shrieks, spitting her blonde hair from her face as she pushes herself up from the undignified, ass-in-the-air position she landed in. "How dare you treat me in such an abominable fashion!"

I snort sardonically as I quickly stand to yank up jodhpurs that had pooled ‘round the tops of my boots. "What? Never been thrown off your high horse before?"

"Why you contemptuous little—!" she seethes. "I should have you whipped!"

"Pretty sure you've done that already," I grunt, fastening my pants with record speed. "And if this is any indication of how you treat your horses, then I hope they dump you in the fuckin' dirt as well."

"Oh, please," she laughs. "My horses are much too well-trained for such tasteless displays of disobedience. They know who their master is." She flicks her eyes over me disdainfully. "Something which cannot be said for you, you pretentious churl."

I feel my hands fist by my side. "You are not—"

"And while you may cavort with royalty, do not make the mistake of thinking that you are — or will ever be — anything more than a flea-ridden lapdog, doing tricks for scraps. So, if you know what's good for you, commoner," she decrees, spreading her legs imperiously, "you better finish what you started."

"You're right," I concede, taking a step towards her. "I stepped out of line..."

Her eyes glint in victory. "Easy to do if you weren't born into this world..."

"...by giving you the mistaken impression that I give a fuck about what you think of me." Picking up the dropped riding crop, I toss it at her. "So, you can finish yourself off, mistress."

She splutters in disbelief as the crop hits her on the chest. "But... You... How dare—?"

"Hope that riding crop's hard enough for you," I throw over my shoulder as I turn my back on her to scoop my jersey off the floor.

"You insolent, mouthy dog!" she screams. "You will not—!"

But I've already marched out of the tack room, leaving her shrieks of rage to echo emptily behind me.

I heave a relieved breath as I pull the sweaty shirt over my head...

Sweet fuckin' Jesus...! Talk about assault with a (less than) friendly weapon! That girl gave a whole new meaning t—

...and nearly crash into Chris as I round the corner.

"There you are!" he cries happily. "We were wondering where you had disappeared off to!"

"Just...umm... sorting the horses," I mutter, quickly yanking the rest of the shirt down.

"Can't stay away from the pretty fillies, huh, mate?" he grins, clapping me on the shoulder.

I wince under the impact. "You can say that..."

"Well, there should be plenty of those where we're going — the boys want to head out to celebrate our win!"

"Sure," I reply congenially. "As long as there's whiskey and lots of ice..."

Christ knows I need a drink... or ten, after today.

"I'm sure we can manage that."

"And I can burn these fuckin' jodhpurs."

As promised, this is the music video (and song) that helped inspire this fic (obviously doesn't help that one of the polo players looks like Drake 😇). Also, the video is 100% accurate in the fact that a major reason why women watch polo is so they can oogle the polo players under the pretense of being absorbed in the game 🤣

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Picture credits:

Fall- Drake - Polo - Valeria

#polo!#drake walker #the royal romance #prince liam #maxwell beaumont #bertrand beaumont #leo rys #drake's tight pants anthology #choicesjanuary2023 #drakes ass appreciation #cfwc fics of the week #Spotify

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