“I’ve received quite a mixed bag of welcomes today,” he says with a grin, reaching out to ruffle up my hair. I’m so stunned by the action that I just stand there. Zack narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his broad chest, taking in the prince like he’s not particularly impressed. “Those blokes near the front door,” he continues, gesturing with his thumb in the direction of the courtyard. “They your ex-boyfriends or something?”

“Huh?” I choke, and both Jessie and Miranda crack up. “What? No. No. Ew. No.” But also, maybe, kind of, sort of … Windsor cocks his head to one side and studies me before giving this loose, easy shrug of his shoulders that says he could give two fucks less, and was mostly just curious. “Why?”

“They all look at you with a certain … shall we say, je ne sais quoi.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Usually, I have an uncanny ability to guess when two people have slept together. I was getting mixed messages between you and those guys.” He pauses again and then raises his palms up while he clarifies. “Not all of them though, just the three ring leaders: the gray-eyed one, the lazy one, and the musician.”

“I never slept with them,” I squeak as Zack and Andrew both look at me like they’re trying to figure out if that’s the truth or not. “I’m a virgin.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and then I groan, clamping a hand over my eyes just before Zack’s brows go up in shock. “Why did I just say that?”

“I have a habit of digging the honesty out of people,” Windsor explains, clearly so full of himself that I expect peacock feathers to pop out of his butt at any moment. He thinks very highly of himself, certainly. “It’s a gift.”

Windsor looks around the student lounge—a place I never hang out but which is essential to any student tour—and reaches up to straighten his tie. He’s got epaulettes on his jacket shoulders which I’ve never seen on anyone else’s academy uniform, but okay.

“You’ve met the Bluebloods then?” Zack asks, and Windsor turns his hazel gaze on my new football player friend. He studies him with total disinterest, but not a complete lack of warmth like Creed or Tristan might.

“Bluebloods?” Windsor asks, and then he laughs. It’s such a bright, airy sound that it startles me. “How quaint. Yes, I’ve met them. Instantly disliked them. Can’t wait to knock their worlds upside down. Wankers.” He wrinkles his nose up. “At least I know which girls not to shag. What’s wrong with that psycho one, with the missing chunk of hair?”

I laugh and clamp a hand over my mouth as a group of fourth year girls waltz by and then stop to gape. Windsor checks them all out, winks coquettishly, and then turns back to me, curiosity brimming in his eyes.

“She cut all my hair off last year, and dyed it bright red,” I explain. “Well, her and Harper—the brunette one that tried to hit on you.” Windsor nods, crossing one arm over his chest and resting his chin in the palm of his other hand. He smells like daffodils and shoe polish, and I’m sort of digging it.

“I see, I see. So why does the one still have all of her hair?”

“I haven’t been able to get close enough to her to cut it off,” I blurt, and then I kick myself because I met this guy all of two seconds ago, and I’m spilling all my secrets. Jesus. He’s dangerous as hell; I need to be careful with the prince.

“Makes sense,” he replies, and then Miranda starts to gush again. I let her while we continue the tour, making our way from the lounge to The Mess. The rest of our little group bails when the first class of the day starts, but Windsor and I have free passes to explore the academy’s campus. It’s extensive, and we end up finishing just about the time that The Mess starts serving their dinner menu.

Windsor is charming, handsome, personable … but it’s very clear to me that while some of the others, like Creed, pretend not to give a shit, Windsor York really, really doesn’t.

He smiles at me across the dinner table, and I smile back.

But that’s as far as our relationship will ever go.

Unfortunately, right after that smile, he needles me until I start spilling the truth about what happened last year. Not that it matters: he was bound to find out anyway, so at least he’s getting the story from me first.

“On the bright side,” he starts, playing with his fork in fine, delicate fingers, “when I wreck them later, I won’t have to feel an ounce of remorse.” Windsor smiles at me, winks, and then digs into his dessert.

The next day, I turn the corner in the chapel building, finding Harper and her cronies on one side. Windsor York is on the other, flirting with some third-year girls. As soon as he sees me, he lifts two fingers in a wave, bids goodbye to his giggling fan club, and starts walking my direction. As he passes Harper du Pont, he pulls something from his pocket, walks right up to her, and chops her ponytail off at the base.

Her friends shriek as she reaches up with her hands to touch the back of her head. Her pterodactyl screech echoes through the halls as Windsor saunters up to me and tosses the ponytail my way.

“Token of my friendship,” he says, winking at me as I gape and look between him and the cluster of Inner Circle girls fluttering over their now-weeping Idol. “We have the same homeroom, don’t we? Walk with me?” Windsor offers me his arm, and I decide then that he’s good people. Really fucking good people.

When Friday of that week rolls around, I spend every spare second I have—which isn’t a lot—searching for news stories about him online. The reason he’s here in America and at Burberry isn’t pleasant: Miranda was right when she mentioned him crashing a boat into a harbor and severely injuring several partygoers.

Also, no surprise: he’s a major lothario. He’s slept with dozens of famous people already, and he’s only sixteen. Apparently, he’s a major scandal to the crown. So while he technically has a fortune of his own, his mother is still legally in charge of his person until he turns eighteen. Fascinating.

That weekend, gossip about a party in the woods has spread like wildfire. It’s not a club party, but it is being sponsored by the Idols. Surprisingly, I open my door to a knock on Saturday morning and find Windsor York waiting for me. He’s dressed in a loose blue shirt with a V-neck, jeans, and what look like brown riding boots.

“Good morning, ma chère,” he says, but I’m not impressed. I’ve heard him call, like, six other girls ma chère. Although I have to say, his French is impeccable. “Did you get my texts last night?” I nod, and do my best not to smile. Windsor’s been sending me all sorts of amazing articles with prank ideas that I could use on the Idols. They’re a bit extreme for my tastes—remember: let them hang themselves with their own rope—but I appreciate the effort. The prince seems to have taken this whole revenge thing on with a gusto. “And did you get my voice message this morning? It’s rude to ask a lady out via text, so I’ve improvised and simply texted a recording of my voice.”

“How … debonair of you,” I choke, but I’m smiling anyway. “No, I haven’t checked my texts. Where, exactly, are you inviting me?” His eyes sparkle as he stands up straight and raises an eyebrow at my cracked bedroom door. With a sigh, I step back and let him in. He takes in the room with a single sweep of his eyes before spinning back to me. His red hair is nice and clean, and sticking straight up in the front. I’m not sure how though because I don’t see any gel. Guess it’s just a random quirk of his.

“Whenever I transfer schools—and I transfer schools a lot—I always make sure to hit the first party of the year running. I hear there’s one in the woods? Not quite my usual scene, but I’ll take it.” I smile as I head into the kitchenette area to make some tea. Windsor watches me plop a Lipton tea bag into a cup of lukewarm water and toss it into the microwave.

He looks like he might puke.

“Most of the Bluebloods are banned from going off campus for the remainder of the year,” I explain as I press the buttons on the microwave. Without skipping a beat, Windsor reaches over my shoulder and grabs my hand, gently pulling me back. He then goes about pulling out a kettle from one of the cabinets, filling it with water, and putting it on the single burner stove. “What are you doing?”

“Making you a proper cup of tea.” He crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be a proper English bloke if I allowed that”—he points at the microwave and sneers—“to be consumed in my presence. Don’t you stupid Americans know how to make tea the right way?”

“There’s a right way?” I ask, and he groans, putting his face into his hands. He’s like a caricature of a prince, all over-the-top, sweeping bows, speaking in French. It’s almost too much. And yet, I kinda like it anyway. “Well, excuse me. I grew up in an abandoned Train Car on instant ramen noodles and pb&j sandwiches. My mom abandoned me and my dad when I was a kid, and we did the best we could.” Windsor slowly parts his hands to peer out at me, and I realize I’ve just done it again: showed him all my damn cards.

Crap.

“Welllllll,” he drawls, dragging out the L in that word far past it’s usual point, “even if you’ve committed an atrocity against crown and kingdom with your god-awful tea, you seem to have turned out alright. Most people suck on the dick of money like it’ll come cash in their mouths and make them rich. You seem … beyond despondent, more disgusted. I quite enjoy that.”

“The dick of money?” I ask as the kettle starts to steam and Windsor pulls it off the stove with a pot holder I never use. He looks through my cabinets and finds the loose leaf English breakfast tea that Dad gave me for Christmas. It even came with a metal strainer and a special mug that I haven’t used yet. I watch as Windsor prepares a cup for me. “That’s … a very creative metaphor.”

“Simile: I used the word like.” He grins and waves his hand dismissively. He’s not quite as tall as Zack, but he’s well-built, and he’s got an air of confidence that’s infectious. His hair is almost crimson, but I’m pretty sure it’s natural, and there’s a curve to his upper lip that draws my attention. “Marnye Reed, will you please do me the honor of escorting me to tonight’s party?” He holds up his palms toward me. “Not as a date: you were very clear about your ideas on dating. Besides, I’ve already found three or four girls that I fancy. I was just hoping we could go as friends.” He hands me the mug and our fingers tangle together. My breath catches, but Windsor doesn’t seem to notice, not the way Zayd or Creed or Zack would. Tristan just … screw Tristan.