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He’s Becca’s double. It’s uncanny. Large curious eyes stare back at me through a pair of dark-framed oval glasses. His black hair is fluffy on top and he blinks at me from a long, too-innocent face. He uncrosses his legs and reaches a hand out for me to take.
“I amsosorry,” he says, emphatically apologetic. All I can do is stare dumbly at his soft, full lips. He’sgorgeous. “I cannot believe that just happened. How dreadfully embarrassing.” He stands, his hands on my shoulders, surveying me. “Are you hurt in any way?”
At the desk he was sitting at, Rory can barely contain the grin around the thumb he’s biting.
“Luke?” I say, testing it out and watching as he straightens my blazer for me. This is too weird. “Luke Milton, as in…”
“The son of Sophia Milton, Duchess of Westbury and Countess of Strathvale, first in line to the British throne? The very same.”
I nearly swallow my tongue. I’d been meaning to sayLuke Milton, Becca’s brother, but this is… this istoo much.
I take an automatic step back from him.
“Jessa,” Arabella hisses. I’m getting used to her ordering me around and hissing my name like an unimpressed snake, as though the quieter she can hiss, the less attention she’ll attract. But of course everyone turns to look at her.
“Oh look, it’s the headmistress’s pet.”
“Jessaaaaa,” Rory mimics, and my stomach cartwheels at the slow whispered sound of my name on his tongue. “Jessa, Jessa, Jessaaaaaaa.” It takes effort for me to walk in a straight line and sit myself down beside Arabella.
Luke snorts and then grabs his satchel. “Good luck, brother. Thankfully I am not in this absurd class. Finlay will be here soon, though, yah?” Like Rory, Luke also sounds a lot less Scottish than everyone else. He’s so English that it sounds almost artificial, as though he’s learned it from a century ago.
Before I came to Lochkelvin, I’d naively assumed everyone in the UK had a similar kind of accent, but comparing someone like Freya to Luke is like night and day.
“What are you playing at?” Arabella murmurs as she pulls out a notebook and an array of colorful pens. “Don’tattract their attention.”
But part of me — low and hidden and private and repressed —wantstheir attention. As I watch Rory roll his eyes at the mention of Finlay — whoever this Finlay guy is — I can’t help but notice how damn attractive he is. I get the feeling he knows it too, from the careful way he flicks the hair out of his eyes, but I can’t help but admire. I’ve never met a boy who looked like he’d been sculpted before — weirdly delicate with his high cheekbones and angled jawline, but possessing some kind of inner strength and inherent leadership quality.
Arabella nudges my side, looking indignant. “Jessa. He’s a prick. His dad’s a prick. Get a grip of yourself.”
She’s right. She’ssoright. What the hell is wrong with me? He isn’t attractive, he’s entitled. His stunt this morning has already cost me my personal record and a detention, and now my palms are skinned and lightly bleeding from falling in front of a prince.
Sticks and stones may break my bones.
I curl my palm, hiding the redness and softening the sting. At least this is a physical reminder of what this school has done to me so far.
It’s day one, and already I’m wondering how much more I can take.
