The Royal Rake (Royal Romances Book 3)

by Molly Jameson

  Leo looked at the half-eaten sandwich she held roughly an inch from his nose and wondered when the last time was that someone fed him. He didn’t have any particular love for salmon, but he suspected it would hurt her feelings if he turned her down. So he took a bite of her sandwich and she beamed expectantly as he chewed and swallowed. “Ah, good salmon,” he said.

  “See, it’s got shallot crème Fraiche. I read it on the placard. Can you believe?”

  “No. It’s, er, shocking actually,” he said.

  “No idea what I’m talking about?”

  “Not as such. However I’m happy you like your surprise,”

  “I’m beyond happy with it. Do you want the cheddar scone or the currant one?” she said.

  “They’ll neither be as good as your orange tea flavored one. You may have them both.”

  “Really? I mean, am I supposed not to be greedy and just nibble? Because that’s not going to happen. This is a once in a lifetime event. I’m eating everything they set down on that tray.”

  “Preserves?” he offered, pushing the pot toward her.

  She spooned cherry preserves onto the currant scone and bit into it, “These are fantastic. I know my scones are good but these—it has to be heavy cream. I always use buttermilk, which makes them a little tangy, but these are richer. I have to try making these at the shop,” she said.

  “They are quite good, but they’d be better with your lemon curd,” he said.

  “You’re just ridiculously charming; you know that right?” she said, taking a bite and swallowing before she went on, “Here we are in this iconic tea room, and you’re loyally complimenting my humble scones. You take me to my dream place and then flatter me. I can’t take it. I’m American. Guys, where I'm from, are not this thoughtful. They do not pay attention to what I like—they have truck nuts--bags that hang from the trailer hitch of their pickup trucks that look like testicles. And these guys don’t even call me when they get my number. These losers with, like, truck nuts have blown me off, so I’m not exactly mentally prepared for someone like you to be kind to me.”

  Leopold, third prince of England, snorted hot Earl Grey and had to cover his face with his linen napkin as he choked with laughter, “You are, without question, the only person ever to speak of truck nuts in the Pump Room’s afternoon tea. There will be champagne with dessert. Try not to frighten the waiter with talk of his testicles.”

  “You’re the one who snorted in the historic tea room. Don’t try to shame me,” she said, straight-faced, “Really, champagne? Are you trying to kill me? I will faint. I will go into a swoon. I grew up watching those BBC literary adaptations and fantasizing about, like Richard Armitage and Mr. Darcy—“

  “I believe the actor’s name is Colin Firth. He has an Oscar,”

  “Fine, be picky. He will be Mr. Darcy until the day he dies. And when he does we will all put on black mourning bonnets and CNN will show a photo of him playing Mr. Darcy!” she said, “Anyway, my point is that if you’re not trying to seduce me, which obviously you’re not, because you’re a prince, and I run a tea room and also because you look like you, and I look like all the other peasants—but if you’re not trying to seduce me, then knock it off with the charm. Your default setting is too strong. Even if you’re automatically on ‘smolder’, just in the ordinary run of things without any intent whatsoever, I read it as ‘explosive’. I’m, like, hypersensitive to charisma and thoughtfulness and…and British accents. So turn the power down a little for my sake. For both our sakes, really, so I don’t misinterpret manners and good breeding for attraction and make a fool of myself. As if I haven’t done that already,” she said.

  The American concluded this astonishing speech by taking a massive bite of a jam tart. She did say the most appalling things. No one had ever spoken to Leo in so unguarded and overly familiar manner—not even the most presumptuous and tipsiest of social climbers. She was too candid, an absolute etiquette minefield. There was no tactful response to the extremely detailed declaration that she was, in short, his for the taking. He’d be stark raving mad to do anything but leap from his chair and dash out the nearest exit. Still, he sat there, speechless and stared at her.

  “That’s the most extraordinary thing anyone has ever said to me. Now the champers is here, thank the gods, I can save the moment by making a toast. Charge your glass, my lady,” he said.

  Obediently, Evie raised her crystal flute of glittering amber Cuvee, “To unexpected acquaintance and the very best sort of surprise,” he said gallantly, and she tapped the rim of her flute to his.

  This toast didn’t have the hollow sound that Roland's goodbye pint held—the crisp ring of crystal champagne flutes had a lighter tone, more like a beginning. Too much time spent listening to the American romanticize everything, he thought, dismissing the stupid notion about the sound of glasses toasting. Likely it was nothing more than the relative thickness of a gravity pint glass compared with a champagne flute…he’d have to google that later to account for that surge of lightness, the very near happiness he’d felt when she raised her glass to him.

  Leo watched as she ate seed cake with lemon cream after photographing it. She had probably taken a picture of every morsel of food on their table at least twice. According to the alerts on his mobile, she Instagrammed or tweeted every bite. When she excused herself to the loo—likely to take pictures of the smart Pump Room toilets and faucets—he cleared the alerts on his mobile and noted that her ridiculous #TeaGirlsDream tag was garnering a number of retweets and comments. Things might be looking up for Thimble and its proprietor, he thought and felt rather proud that he had something to do with it. Even if she was clearly unfit for decent company, he chuckled to himself.

  Leo met her at the door and walked her back across town while Evie chattered about how amazing and gorgeous the Pump Room had been and how she felt like a complete idiot and how she had been reading about the finest afternoon teas in England since she was a child summering with her great aunt.

  “You’ve made a lifelong dream of mine come true. So even if you made fun of me for talking about testicles and even if you don’t take one single thing I say seriously, I have to thank you for this,” she said.

  Because of course she couldn’t say ‘thank you’ in only two words, he mused. She was damnably cute, though. She tugged on his sleeve to signal for him to stop.

  “Thank you again,” she said.

  “You’re quite welcome,” he replied.

  “May I?” she asked, not meeting his eyes.

  “What?”

  “Kiss you. You’ve been terribly sweet to me, and I know you were just nice. I know I won’t see you again, and I’d like to kiss you goodbye. But I also don’t want to just accost you just because you’re a public figure, and I feel some sense of ownership over you—I hated when that one stupid actor macked on to Halle Berry at the Oscars that time at the podium and totally molested her right there on stage.“

  “What in God’s name are you on about?” he burst out.

  “I’m babbling! I do that when I’m nervous—although that was a total dick move on Halle Berry, I maintain—so what I’m asking is, may I kiss you?” she said.

  “In the short time I’ve known you, you have done and said so many strange things to me. I have had women order me to autograph their cleavage or kiss me for a photo. I’ve been told I wasn’t nearly as dashing as my brother in person. Never once has anyone asked to kiss me.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Like, on behalf of womankind. I’m sorry that people are such pushy assholes. I know it’s true because I’ve seen how people act just trying to catch a fly ball at a Braves game and—you know, I’ll just stop talking for now,” she said with a smile.

  “Yes. You asked nicely, and I expect you’ll behave yourself so, go right ahead.”

  Evie reached up on her tiptoes, touched his cheek and kissed him lightly on the lips. Leo forgot himself just for an instant. His hand fitted into
the curve of her waist, and he claimed the kiss, stroking her upper lip with the tip of his tongue until she parted her lips for him. He was three seconds from sinking into a deep, passionate kiss with an unsuitable girl in a public place. In one swift motion, he backed away, releasing her from his grip, dragging his mouth from hers. Again, that aggravating feeling that she’d seared her fingerprints into his skin marked his mouth with the merest brush of hers. He patted her arm brusquely and took a step back.

  “You’re not, are you? Interested, I mean,” she said in a voice far more robust than he expected. She didn’t whisper or squeak. She asked him straight out, and he felt like a complete wanker.

  “Not as such, no. Forgive me, Evelyn,” he said, “There, now. Best of luck with your tearoom and—just a mo. I have to take this,” he said, irritated by the insistent ring of his mobile which halted his escape. It wasn’t just any ring. It was his sister Lizzy’s ringtone and she only ever called for dire reasons.

  “Hullo?” he muttered into the handset.

  “Leo, hi, listen, tell me you’ve not seen the headlines!”

  “I haven’t, I’ve been at tea. Why?”

  “Don’t look and do not put me on speaker so you can scroll the trending topics because I want to be the one to tell you. It’s Adriana; she’s gone.”

  “Gone? As in dead?” he said, his throat dry.

  Leo put his hand out, palm scraping against the rough brick at the corner of a building. Evie was watching him, hovering nearby, all concern. Why didn’t she bloody go away? Back to her shop and her life and the hell out of his? He couldn’t wrap his mind around this, not in the street, not with some girl he barely knew just staring at him.

  “Leo, are you there?”

  “What?” he said as if he couldn’t possibly have heard her right.

  “Adriana Wellingford, she killed herself this morning, Leo. It’s not down to you, I swear. She’d got out of the mental infirmary a few months ago—I saw her at Nene’s dirty thirty and she was the same as ever. This isn’t your fault, but every news outlet in Britain is going to say it—“

  “Right. Thanks—I have another call,” Leo said and hung up on Lizzy, mind reeling.

  His older brother Edward’s voice boomed through the phone.

  “I assume you’ve heard about the Wellingford girl, such a shame. I just rang off with Smithpeters, Leopold, and we’re in agreement. You have to go to ground for a few days. Stay out of the public eye, out of sight entirely. No more social media, no parties—not even official appearances like the war-wounded dedication. Until the funeral is over, stay away.”

  “I can’t just—“

  “Yes, you can and you will,” Edward said decisively, “don’t make this unfortunate girl’s memorial about you and your on and off romance. Stay out of sight. Father doesn’t need the stress of another scandal,” he finished.

  “Well done, Edward. Finish with the cancer-stricken father card,” he sighed and hung up.

  Leo leaned against the brick wall, hands in his hair. A live wire seemed to zip and jerk inside him, and a roaring filled his ears. He couldn’t shut out the sound, the whisper in his mind that, despite the horror of it, despite the roar—Adriana was gone. A hand was on his arm, insistent. He could hear a voice as if from far away through the rushing sound of his blood pounding in his head.

  “Leo? Leo? I’m here,” Evie said.

  He opened his eyes and saw her there, the girl he’d just turned down. The tea shop girl who stood by while he got the worst news he’d ever had, who was standing here now with her hand on his arm, reassuring him that he wasn’t alone. He had the strangest sense that he’d been falling, and now he’d stopped, caught in midair.

  Chapter Three

  Evie needed to get him inside somehow. The handsome, composed man she’d become acquainted with seemed at once to be flying apart. He kept pulling on his hair, leaning down as if doubling over in pain. For all she’d heard about the British stoicism, his had clearly deserted him, and she wasn’t about to let him have a breakdown in the middle of Bath. They weren’t exactly the only people on the sidewalk. There was traffic. Most people were staring at their phones or talking and took little notice, but, the second someone recognized him, he’d be mobbed.

  “Come on!” she said.

  She dragged on his arm, and Leo stumbled after her. She took his hand. He didn’t resist. In fact, he gripped her fingers almost too tightly, clutching her hand like a lifeline. She dragged him down streets and around corners as quickly as she could until she got to Thimble. She took him around the corner and into the back entrance to avoid the tearoom custom.

  Evie led him into her apartment and shut the door behind them, “There. Now you can fall apart all you want and no one will see. In fact, look, here’s my phone. Keep it in your pocket. I’m not going to take pictures of you or video you or tweet about you.”

  He sank onto her chintz chair, displacing a cat that yowled its disapproval. Leopold looked at the cat, startled.

  “That’s Gandy and the other one’s Toby,” she said, “Toby’s the tabby and Gandy is—Gandalf the gray, obviously.”

  “Right, then. You’re---offering me sanctuary?”

  “If you need a place to calm down and get your head together, you can hang out here for a while; that’s all. I don’t know what’s going on with you, and it’s none of my business, but it seemed like you needed a place to go,” she said.

  “You’re very kind. Especially after I…told you I wasn’t interested in you,” he said abashedly.

  “I didn’t bring you here to seduce you, believe me. You looked like your head was going to explode, and the sidewalk isn’t the place to have that happen. If there’s someplace else you want to go, go ahead,” she said.

  “I find myself without a more convenient bolthole. My brother, Edward, the dependable one? He told me to go to ground. There’s a—there’s been a death, and I need to be out of sight for a few days,” Leo looked and sounded wretched. She wanted to hold him, but she had no right to do so.

  “Do you want some tea?”

  “No, I’d just like to…have a moment,” he said.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said.

  In the kitchen, she took out the heavy cream, the tea and cinnamon, the flour, baking powder and the butter. She whipped up a batch of scones and put them in the oven. When she peeked in on him, he was tapping his phone screen and reading something. He was calmer, less desperate. She washed the mixing bowl, set the scones out to cool. He was talking on the phone in a low voice, so she ducked in to take a shower.

  When she emerged in her bathrobe, toweling her hair off, Leo was taking a pair of bags from a uniformed man at the door and eating a scone. Sheepishly he looked caught out, “Palace had my bags sent round from the hotel. These scones are even better than the ones this morning. Did you try the cream instead of buttermilk?”

  “Yeah. Do you want another one? I think I have some lemon curd…”

  “I’ve had three, but thanks. If you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you,” he said.

  Evie sat down on the chair opposite his and Toby jumped in her lap. She petted him and waited for Leo to begin, “It would be helpful if I could stay here for a couple of days. I’d be prepared to pay you a standard hotel rate for my accommodations, of course. Would four hundred quid a night do?”

  “What? You’re not going to pay me. We’re friends. You can stay here as long as you need to,” she said.

  “I thank you for that. I owe you some explanation as to the reason—a friend of mine, an ex-girlfriend actually, has passed away. Here—“

  Leo handed her his phone, and she read the headline: Bad Boy Leo’s Heartbroken Ex: Driven to Suicide. Flicking down the article, she read that a Lady Adriana, only daughter of the Duke of Wellingford, a stunning brunette pictured beside a younger, happier Leo, had killed herself after a recent stint in rehab. The gossip rag reported that he had ignored her atte
mpts to reconcile. Frankly, the article made it sound like he’d practically slashed the woman’s wrists himself. Evie put down the phone and took his hand.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I could use a drink. And if you’d stay with me a while, have a chat…”

  Evie took the emergency tequila down from the top of the refrigerator and handed it to him, “Do you want a glass?” she asked.

  “I suppose I should,” he said.

  “There is no ‘should’ in this room. My turf, my rules. Whatever you need to do, do it. You’ve had a shock. I’m not going to judge you if you drink out of the bottle, okay?” Leo unscrewed the cap and took a long pull from the bottle. He swallowed and grimaced.

  “Not quite what you’re used to?” she asked with amusement.

  “I’ll consider it an early birthday gift,” he said.

  “It’s your birthday?”

  “Tomorrow. I was meant to be up in London, dedicating a counseling center for the war wounded. Worthy cause, that. I’ll be hiding out instead.”

  “That’s what you do on your birthday? I mean, I guess I thought princes had massive parties on yachts with fireworks and Playboy bunnies dancing in bikinis,” she said.

  “Not quite, no. I was set to go to the dedication and then a charity dinner that night. But the family wants me off the radar for the time being. If I appear in public, it would be seen as disrespectful, as if I were going about life as usual when Adriana has died. Like I was unaffected.”

  “I saw you when you got the news. You’re not heartless, I know. Are you going to the funeral then?”

  “No, certainly not. It would make the whole thing a media frenzy, and it would seem like an admission of guilt.”

  “She overdosed, maybe on purpose and maybe not, but it sounded to me like she had a lot of problems, poor girl. That’s not your doing. Do you—I shouldn’t ask this, but it’s relevant—do you love her?”