Ruby
“Ishould have played Chester in the third chukka.” His fingers trail lazily up and down my spine as he sighs. His eyes are closed while he tortures himself by going over every second of the match. “I should have taken her, and Billy kept Messiah, then we would have won instead of draw.”
“I don’t think it would’ve made a difference.”
He shakes his head. “I can get more out of her than other people can. She responds to me.”
I press my hand to his face, effectively cutting him off, and enjoy the feeling of his stubble tickling my palm.
The Foxleigh Flyers drew three all against the French side, and we didn’t get the points Miles desperately wanted to get ahead in the tables. But there’s only one reason we lost, which is why he’s now in his head, and it has nothing to do with the score or the ponies.
And everything to do with Santiago Torres.
“Miles, you can go over and over it, and beat yourself up, but that’s not what made the difference. They were just as good as us. Despite being distracted, you didn’t play badly. You played well. Sometimes the other team just plays well too. It happens.”
“It doesn’t happen to me,” he grumbles.
“Well, excuse me, Mr. Big-Shot Polo Player.”
His grin appears instantly, and his fingers move from my spine to dig into my ribs until I’m shrieking with laughter.
“Stahp stoooop!”
“I quite enjoy discovering you’re ticklish,” he taunts, and I glare. “I think I found your weakness.”
“I have plenty of weaknesses.”
“Oh yeah?” His fingers stop, but his hand stays around my waist, and he tucks me close so he can run his lips along my shoulder. It doesn’t matter that Miles only made me come five minutes ago. My core spasms because she wants more. “This is definitely the best way to do post-match analysis.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, stemming the jealousy ripping through me. “I think you’ve probably done plenty of post-match analysis with girls in your bed.”
He lets out a labored sigh, looking less amused, like he wishes he hadn’t started down this path of conversation. “I can’t deny there’ve been post-match hookups,” he admits, “but there’s never been anyone I could dissect a match with. And I’m telling you now, it’s so much better.”
“Is that why you’ve never met anyone?”
He shrugs, keeping his eyes closed, and I’m grateful. If he’s not looking at me, it’s easier to ask the questions I have no right to ask. “I never wanted to. I’m only twenty-eight.”
I stay quiet, wanting to know more, but not wanting to push.
“I just . . . I’ve never felt the need to get close to someone in that way.” His eyes open now, blue gaze holding mine. “I saw what happened to my mum when my dad died. She had to work so hard to stay strong for us . . . and then there was Lando.”
“Lando? Your brother?” I frown.
“He’s the eldest. It’s his responsibility to carry on the Burlington name and line.
He had so much pressure put on him to marry, find the right person, produce an heir .
. . and I hated it. I was ten, watching everyone pile expectations onto his shoulders at a time when he should have been out having fun like any normal eighteen-year-old.
” He exhales sharply. “Instead, he got handed ten billion quid and told not to fuck up. Oh, and find a wife. So he got engaged to a hideous woman who cheated on him, and it became a huge scandal.”
Having seen Lando with Holiday, I can’t imagine him being with anyone else. They’re one of those nauseating couples who seem made for each other.
“I don’t want to make the same mistake, spend years being miserable with the wrong person.”
I’m practically holding my breath when I ask the next question. “Is that what you’re doing, waiting for the right person?” Adrenaline floods my nervous system. I shouldn’t even care, but at this point, my self-preservation seems to have gone the way of our winning streak.
“I don’t know, Ruby. Honestly, I never thought I’d find the right person.” His fingers move along my rib cage and up my arm. “But I think around six months ago . . . my mind might’ve changed.”
A flutter stirs low in my stomach, full of presumption. Six months ago was around the time we met, and based on the way his thumb strokes the pulse point in my neck, I’d say I wasn’t being presumptuous at all.
“And then we got married. And no one’s questioned it, because being reckless and impulsive is entirely fitting for me.” He lets out a dry, humorless laugh, and I’m suddenly annoyed.
“You’re not impulsive or reckless. You think through everything. You’re meticulous at the yard. Analytical with the ponies. You always know what the play’s going to be before it happens. Why do you let people think you’re someone you’re not?” It comes out harsher than I mean it to.
“I don’t let . . .” His eyes drift shut briefly.
“Besides Hendricks, nobody really sees me. They see whatever version of me they’ve already decided exists.
The guy who rides horses, sleeps around, parties too much.
” His mouth twists faintly. “And while all that might be accurate, there’s more to me but apparently nothing worth noticing. ”
“That’s not true, Miles. I’ve known you seven weeks, and I can see that you’re loyal to a fault, you’re funny, you’re supportive . . . and”—my chest tightens—“you’re the first person who’s ever properly believed in me.”
Miles’s eyes open again, and he watches me. I can see all the questions swirling, waiting to see if I’ll answer them before he asks.
“I’ve been doubted my entire life,” I admit softly. “Ever since I was old enough to understand, my dad made it clear he didn’t think girls were useful for much. According to him, we couldn’t run farms. We were just good for baking cakes and raising kids—”
Miles snorts, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
“I cannot imagine you baking a cake.”
“Hey, I’ll have you know I make a mean vanilla sheet cake.”
“I don’t even know what that is.” He shakes his head, almost horrified at the idea.
“Well, I’ll make you one someday.”
“I look forward to it.”
I smile faintly, both of us pretending that someday exists. “My point is, I never let other people’s doubts stop me from doing what I wanted. But until you came along, I always had to fight for it. And you, this smug, egotistical dickhead—”
“Hey, watch it.”
“—were the first person who gave me a chance.”
It wasn’t my intention to bring the mood down, but I have. Yet something is so incredibly freeing about telling the truth to a stranger. Not that Miles is a stranger, as in many ways, Miles knows me better than anyone else I’ve met.
“Ruby, you gave yourself that chance. Look at yesterday. Look how well you played. It was phenomenal. You’re going to be a ten-goaler one day.”
I scoff. Reaching ten-goal is a pipe dream. There are fewer than a dozen ten-goal players in the world, and they’re mostly Argentinians. Unsurprising, given that they start riding before they can walk.
“Ruby, I genuinely think you have the talent to get there. It might take a few years, but you will. Especially for women’s polo.”
I shake my head. “I want to play mixed matches.”
“You will.”
I shrug. I need to get ranked before I can start thinking about reaching ten, but Miles . . . he’s one of the world’s best. He made ten before his accident, and he should reach it again this year.
“When are you getting there?”
His mouth twists. “The new handicaps come out in a few weeks. Not going to lie, if I don’t make it, I won’t be fun to be around for a while.”
“I think you’ll do it. The horses look good. The team looks strong.”
“Yeah.” He smiles faintly. “Now we just need to figure out what to do about Torres. I still don’t know why he’s here, if it wasn’t to fuck with me.
I checked with Angus, and they’re definitely playing at Guards.
He shouldn’t have time to come over, but I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s had the hose treatment now. ” He laughs.
“Maybe that was the last we’ll see of him.”
“I fucking hope so, unless we meet in the Cup.” Silence settles between us, pensive and heavy. “If we draw again, we’re out. We won’t make it through the tournament. And it’ll jeopardize the points table.”
“You’re going to win the Cup, Miles, have faith.”
Lifting my hand, he presses his lips into my palm. “I’m going to borrow some of your certainty and hold on to it.”
“Miles, you have to feel certain about something.”
“Yeah.” His eyes flick toward the clock on the bedside table. “I’m definitely certain about one thing.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve got forty-five minutes until dinner . . .” Before I have time to react, his body shifts over mine in one smooth movement, pinning me gently into the mattress. “And I know exactly how I’d like to spend them.”
Unsurprisingly, we ended up late.