Royal Bastard

by Avery Flynn

  “What’s your favorite color?” he asked.

  “I’m not telling you,” she shot back, sounding like her usual tart self—or maybe it was just her accent.

  “Why?”

  “You’ll just make fun of me.”

  “I’d never do that.” He would so totally do that. He couldn’t help it. He loved seeing that cool veneer of hers warm up. She was a woman who needed to be ruffled every once in a while. “Okay, I do do that, but only because I like you.”

  For a few moments, the only sound was of him breathing, and he was just about to call out to her when she answered.

  “Yellow.”

  “How fitting for you, Lady Lemons.” Bright. Hopeful. Bold. Determined. That color totally fit her. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Good night, Mr. Vane.”

  He settled back in bed and finally closed his eyes. Of course, all he could see was a certain snarky Englishwoman in yellow. It was going to be another long night.

  …

  Sleep had become something of a tease for Brooke. She’d close her eyes and somehow she’d always end up picturing a certain heir to an earldom in only his pants. It was most unsettling. And inappropriate. And ill-advised. And utterly unavoidable.

  This meant she had not been getting her usual six and a half hours a night and, therefore, the next morning had gotten talked into taking a walk with Nick into the village using the shortcut path between the estate and Bowhaven. The innocuous conversation they’d been having about the who’s who of the British peerage had unexpectedly turned to dancing.

  “You do not need dance lessons,” she said with a shake of her head as they walked along the narrow path near the old church.

  “Really?” Nick stopped in the middle of the path and looked at her as if she was the one asking inane questions. “What if there’s a dance emergency that can only be fixed by an earl dancing?”

  That was Shaun of the Dead–level ridiculous—and just as funny. She didn’t bother to try to stop the laughter from bubbling out. “That’s highly improbable.”

  “But not impossible.” He grinned at her. “Come on, loosen up a little and show me your moves.”

  She looked around. The only living creature within sight was a trio of sheep. Her gaze landed back on Nick. Her heart fluttered. This was bad. This was unsettling. This was enough to make a tingling buzz vibrate through her. Oh, she was in so much trouble.

  Nick stood there with his arms out in classic dance position, giving her an expectant look. “Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud.”

  There was no way she could ever say yes. “Fine.”

  Before she could take it back, he was holding her in his arms. His hand was on the small of her back, gently leading her as they swayed and twirled to the sound of absolutely nothing—not that she would have heard music anyway, considering how loud her pulse was thundering in her ears. And yet even with that, she couldn’t help but take in everything about him at that moment. The way her head fit tucked under his chin. The feel of his cotton T-shirt against her cheek. The way every nerve ending in her body seemed to stretch toward him. It was nearly overwhelming. Then she opened her eyes and looked up to find him staring down at her. Her breath caught. His gaze went to her mouth. The urge to raise herself up on her tiptoes and kiss him ran through her like a runaway train. It was bone-deep and so very needy. And that’s what jerked her back to reality.

  He was the earl’s heir. She was the earl’s secretary. This couldn’t be. Ever.

  Nerves jangly, she stepped back, breaking the connection and feeling as if she’d just gotten done running a marathon without ever doing more than dancing without music. Hands tingly, she smoothed her palms down her sensible skirt and dug deep for her usual icy restraint.

  She cleared her throat and looked at a spot a few centimeters to the left of Nick’s face. “I do believe Bowhaven will be safe if there is a dance emergency.”

  “That’s almost a compliment,” he said, his own voice a little rougher than normal.

  Good Lord. Someone had to keep their head straight here and it looked to be her. “I like to keep you on your toes.” There, that sounded almost normal.

  “That you do.” He fell into step beside her as they continued on the path toward Bowhaven. “So tell me again about this pigeon race you want to have here.”

  “It would bring in tourism dollars to Bowhaven and the surrounding area—at least for a few days as a temporary economic boost.”

  “And no one is going for it?”

  She let out a sigh as they turned the corner around the old stone church. “It’s a case of being too pushy—the same reason why Brian Kemp wants me to be a member of the flower committee not the village council.” Well, one of them.

  “The flower committee?” Nick asked, picking a yellow wildflower from among those dotting the side of the path and handing it to her.

  Their fingers brushed as she accepted it, setting off her pulse again. At this rate, she was starting to get all her cardio just by being near him. Ridiculous. “The flower committee puts up the baskets of flowers on the lampposts on the high street, when what I want is to be on the village council.”

  Too bad she could never really shake the stink of scandal in the small village. Everyone in Bowhaven may have closed ranks when the reporters had shown up, but no one had forgotten. That it wasn’t her fault didn’t matter. She was tainted and pushy and that meant she wasn’t the right kind of person for the council. Her shoulders sank with the reminder that unless she could prove herself with something big, she’d never win them over.

  Nick stopped, reaching out and tugging her to a halt beside him. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her so they were face-to-face. “They’re fools.”

  The fierceness with which he said those two words was enough to put the steel back in her spine. “You think so, do you?”

  “As would anyone with half a brain.” He squeezed her shoulders, intensity burning in his eyes. “If you got me to fly across the ocean, I believe you can do just about anything you set your mind to.”

  He wasn’t wrong. She had done that. Maybe Bowhaven just hadn’t been ready for her pigeon racing idea. Maybe she needed to find a new idea, something they wouldn’t be able to miss out on. Pint-half-full optimism returned to normal, she smiled up at Nick. It was a weird feeling, this sense that she wasn’t the only one who had out-of-the-box ideas that seemed a little bit odd at first but would eventually work out. They definitely had that in common, if nothing other than an attraction that buzzed in the background of every conversation and encounter. There it was right now, an almost tactile vibration in the air that danced between them.

  Oh, that was not going to do. Pull it together, Brooke.

  Jittery all of the sudden, she pulled away from his touch and started at a fast clip back on the path that was now in the old church’s shadow. “So this church has been here longer than Dallinger Park and some say longer than Bowhaven itself, but that’s in dispute.”

  Thanks to those muscular legs of his, Nick didn’t have any trouble catching up with her. “Are you changing the subject on me?”

  “Absolutely.” She nodded, keeping her attention focused on the gray stone church—at least as much as that was possible with him beside her. “And it’s not polite to remark upon it.”

  “You’re determined to turn me into an earl, aren’t you?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  It was the best thing for Bowhaven, even if that meant these little jaunts would come to an end sooner rather than later—something she hadn’t realized until that moment that she’d miss.

  …

  Dancing with Brooke yesterday was supposed to have been a joke, a way to lighten the mood. Too bad the joke was on him, because here he was again lying in his bed alone, staring at the canopy as the sun came up and thinking about a certain tempting blonde w
ho had fit perfectly in his arms. Resisting the urge to call out to Lady Lemons was the last thing he wanted, but he’d be a total asshole to wake her up this early in the morning. But if she was awake already… He held his breath and strained his ears, trying to listen through the walls and the shut connecting door.

  At first, he couldn’t hear anything, and then he picked up on something—a quiet buzzing. What in the hell? He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to figure out what the noise was. The pitch of the buzzing changed, almost as if whatever it was was being moved around like she was—

  His eyes snapped open. Was Lady Lemons using a vibrator? He let out a slow breath from his burning lungs and then held it again, willing the thoughts in his head to shut the fuck up so he could listen. There it was.

  Fuck. He was a total perv to listen, but he couldn’t stop. He was a bad human being. At the moment, he could live with that.

  Closing his eyes, he pictured the scene on the other side of that closed door. She’d be in that tank top and shorts set she’d worn the other night. Her nipples would be hard and pressing against the material as she lay back on her bed, her legs spread. First she’d just lightly tease her fingers across the damp spot at the center of her shorts. Then she’d slip her fingers in the elastic waistband and slide them down her smooth legs. That’s when she’d take her vibrator out and move it down her soft, hot core, getting it nice and wet so she could slip it inside her slit.

  Damn, the idea of it all had him harder than stone.

  He shucked off his own boxers and gripped his hard cock, running his hand up and down the shaft, tight and fast. Going easy to make it a fantasy about her getting him off was the last thing he wanted right now. All he could think about was how hot it would be to watch Brooke make herself come undone. As his balls tightened, he tried to stay quiet, but her name slipped out anyway as he came on his stomach.

  “Yes, I’m here,” Brooke said, the words sounding odd but not in a breathy, sexy way. “Hold on, I was just brushing my teeth. Let me run to the toilet to spit real quick.”

  His hand stilled on his cock. Brushing her teeth? He was a moron. She wasn’t getting off; she was using an electric toothbrush. He wasn’t just an eavesdropping perv; he was an assuming eavesdropping perv.

  A few seconds later, Brooke asked through the door, “What can I do for you?”

  Now, that was a loaded question, considering all the things he could say to answer that—not that he’d tell her any of it. Lady Lemons was off-limits for obvious reasons that his mutinous body didn’t give a shit about. Still, he had to tell her something other than “I was just jerking off to you brushing your teeth.”

  “I need to find some dog owners I can talk to about this dog collar invention I’m working on,” he said, the words coming out in a rush. “Any recommendations?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure I can set up some introductions,” she said. “I’ll see you down at breakfast and will give you a list.”

  “Great,” he managed to get out. “Thanks.”

  He was officially an idiot. One who now was going to have to meet with God knew how many people about their pooches to cover up the fact that he couldn’t stop jerking off to the last woman in the world who should be turning him on. That was it. England had it out for him and the sooner he left, the better it would be for his sanity.

  Chapter Eleven

  Back from London and alone in the east wing, Charles watched from his bedroom window as the sun set, turning the sky soft shades of pink and orange. His right hand was trembling again. It was always the first sign. In fact, it’s what had forced him to go to his doctor in the first place. They’d thought it might be Parkinson’s and had done a brain scan. What they’d found was Alzheimer’s instead. It was still early, his doctor had reported a day ago, as if that meant anything other than that he had longer to watch the world fall away from him.

  Angry? Oh, he was furious. Not that he’d let it show. The Vanes did not get emotional. That had been a lesson his parents had taught him even before he’d left the nursery.

  Emotions, his father always said, were like a tea bag that had steeped too long, ruining what would otherwise be an excellent drink.

  The estate’s Land Rover pulled into the driveway, drawing Charles’s attention. Nicholas and Ms. Chapman-Powell got out. They weren’t touching, but there was laughter, lingering looks, and an obvious intimacy about them—the kind that was troubling. William—no, not William. He curled his quaking hand into a fist. Nicholas. Nicholas should know better.

  A quick tap on the door to his sitting room pulled his attention away from the window. Katie stood there with his evening tea and pills—the ones that helped him sleep through the night. There had been incidents lately where Katie had arrived in the morning to find him half dressed and asleep in another part of the house, which was why he’d declared the east wing off-limits to all but himself.

  The last thing he wanted was a repeat of that, especially with William—no, he squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, not William, he corrected himself again—Nicholas at Dallinger Park. His grandson was home.

  “And they’ve been like this all week?” he asked the housekeeper, his tone sharp to cover the fear of discovery and the whispers of uncertainty in his ears.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, setting down the tray on the side table by his reading chair.

  He gestured toward the window with his hand, frantically searching for the right word and not being able to come up with anything other than, “Together.”

  Katie nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t like it.” William should know better after what had happened with that woman in America.

  She made a tsk-tsk sound. “I’m sure Brooke is just trying to do as you asked.”

  Brooke? He froze, staring out the window, fear gripping his lungs tight at how quickly the confusion returned each time he shoved it away. Anxiety pinched and poked at him as he fought to keep his mind clear of the memories that seemed more real as his sense of mental control ceded. He was a man of a certain stature—a peer—and he knew the difference between past and present. Still, life became a little more frightening as his grip on that fact loosened a little each day.

  He iced the fear, cooling his tone to better remind himself of the value of control. “Yours is an opinion I don’t require.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Katie said, escaping through the door at a fast clip.

  Alone again, he strode over to the tea set and picked up one of the melatonin tablets. Maybe tonight he wouldn’t have the dream again, wouldn’t relive that last fight he’d had with William before the car accident, wouldn’t hear those words coming from his son.

  “I’m going back.”

  The lorry had slammed into his car while William had been on his way to the airport and the plane that would take him back to America. He’d decided that being separated from his wife and child until he was thirty and had access to his trust fund wasn’t worth it.

  “I don’t care about the thirty million,” William said, his volume rising with each word. “I’ll wash dishes. I’ll empty the bins. I can’t do this.”

  “Stop this foolishness. They aren’t your duty. The estate and the title is.”

  “This place can go rot. I never should have listened to you. I never should have left.”

  A woman’s laugh, carried on the early-evening breeze, came in through the open window. Looking out, he spotted a blonde laughing with someone he couldn’t see from his vantage point, not that he needed visual confirmation.

  Tomorrow, he’d go out and deal with William’s inappropriate behavior. Tonight, he just had to stay sequestered in his wing of Dallinger Park.

  Chapter Twelve

  After almost a week in London, the earl had returned to Dallinger Park, where he now stood behind his messy mahogany desk staring at Brooke as if she were the most inc
ompetent personal secretary he’d ever had the misfortune to hire. Yeah, it was going lovely—sort of like being sent to the headmaster’s office and being told you had to take A-level exams again because the score was so atrocious that you’d be lucky to find a job.

  “So you’ve spent the past week fannying about on the moors instead of turning my grandson into a proper earl?”

  She still hadn’t worked out exactly how she—a pub landlord’s daughter—was supposed to be teaching an American how to become an earl, but that wasn’t the response the earl wanted to hear, so she went with the facts. “We’ve been going over etiquette, the history of Dallinger Park, and your family history as well as Bowhaven’s current status and what could be done to improve it. Such as—”

  The earl waved a hand in the air, dismissing her response. “Yes, I am aware of your obsession with bringing in tourism dollars by making us a destination for pigeon fanciers and celebrity gawkers.”

  Her cheeks flamed. Why was it that no one would just listen to her ideas? “There is more to it than just that,” she said, her voice more strident than was smart, but damn it, this was important. The earl raised an eyebrow at her tone and she added more softly, “My lord.”

  “No, there’s not,” he said, his tone icy as he returned his attention to the stack of bills on his desk. “This is my ancestral home, and I won’t be turning it into a tour stop like so many others.”

  Yeah, so many others who’d realized that running a household the size of Dallinger Park took money that many aristocrats—including the Earl of Englefield—no longer had in the bank.

  “Yes, sir.” She might be surrendering the battle but not the war. She’d find a way to change his mind.